#and it really does feel like watching it for the first time again

[woollypoison]

Comeback of a lifetime: Fromiscuity

Fromis_9 Lee Chaeyoung x m reader x Lee Nagyung

a/n: this is a continuation of the very first fic I ever wrote alone, Comeback of a lifetime. I learned a lot about writing since then lmao.

Word count: 12k words

Let’s recap. You didn’t stop going to the PC bang.

You said you would, and you had all of the intention to. Swore up and down that night was your last. Just one final send off before quitting cold turkey. But then Nagyung crawled in your lap, moaned sweet nothings in your ear, and sucked your dick under the desk while you wiped the floor with a silver ADC—which isn’t even your main role, mind you—and all of sudden, the withdrawal plan didn’t seem like it was all that urgent.

That was two weeks ago. Nowadays, you’re a regular again. Or at least, sort of? You’re not spending your entire day there anymore. You’re also not there for the ranked grind.

No, you show up, because you know the hours Nagyung can show up and you’re there, for those three hours every single day, hoping to get some time with her again.

And sometimes, you do.

She’ll sit down in her usual, secluded spot, wearing a variety of oversized hoodies, a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. No one notices her. No one ever does. You can’t help but spot her instantly every time.

You don’t make a big deal out of it. You’re just glad to see her. She always gives you this little nod, and slides into the seat next to you—oh, right, yeah, you also changed your favorite seat so you’re always next to her now—like she never left.

It’s not even a question anymore of whether you’ll play together. You just do. She boots up her client, you log into your smurf, and it’s off for another night of carrying and coaching her.

You lane with her. Peel for her. Shotcall for her. You ping retreat, and she ignores it. Every. Single. Time. Rages a little bit and then looks at you all guilty and cute and impossible to hold a grudge against. Sometimes, she turns around in her chair and beams at you like she just won Worlds. The only readable piece of her face is still her eyes, but you’ve learned to tell.

It’s fun. Still is. But it’s different from that first time.

You never asked her about it, either. About what she said—about next time, and blankets, and letting you fuck her on your lap. You figured if she wanted to follow up, she would.

She hasn’t.

It’s all toned down since then. You carry her, and she squeezes your thigh, rests her head against your shoulder during queue times or gives you a kiss on your cheek if she’s feeling generous after a win. It’s really not a bad deal, just different.

You even got her into Gold because of all that.

She squealed when she hit it. Climbed into your lap again, bounced in your chair, kissed your cheek twice and was going to brag about it for weeks. The closest you got to that original feeling.

That was three days ago. She hasn’t been back since.

She’s not here today, either. No disguise that you can see through in an instant. No oversized americano sitting dangerously close to her keyboard. No kisses on your cheek.

You play a couple of games on your main account. It’s miserable. Not because your teammates are tilting you (not for lack of trying, mind you), but because you’re just bored. The games don’t hit the same without her ignoring your pings and tanking tower shots chasing kills. So you head out.

You grab your shit, walk out the door, and that’s when you see her.

Leaning against the wall, just outside the PC bang entrance, scrolling through her phone. Face mask, cap, sunglasses. A crop top black hoodie. An interesting take on Nagyung’s incognito mode, but it’s not her. You can tell immediately.

This girl’s taller. Shoulders squarer, posture straighter. Her frame’s more athletic—less cute and bubbly smiles, more charismatic. Not petite, but not imposing either. Alluring. Almost your height. Almost.

And she’s switched to watching you.

She tilts her head at you. It’s not coy like Nagyung does. There’s no flirty cheerfulness, no expressive energy hiding under her hoodie. This isn’t a girl acting shy and rocking your world when she isn't.

This is a woman waiting for you to notice her—and being so damn sure you would.

She pushes off the wall, approaches you with too much confidence that you won’t run away. One hand pulls her mask down, the other lowers her mask just enough to reveal her eyes.

Almond-shaped, like a cat. Heavy-lidded. Confident. Sultry in a way that feels inherent, not something that can be taught.

You know those eyes. You know that beauty mark. You know that whole face.

How could you not, after everything you love and have been through?

Chaeyoung.

Oh. 

Fromis_9’s Chaeyoung. So first Nagyung shows up inside your PC bang, and now Chaeyoung outside of it? How the fuck are you supposed to lampshade that?

“You know what’s crazy?” she says, way too confident again that you’re not in shock just from the fact that she’s talking to you. “Our dorm’s five minutes from here.”

You blink. “I’m not sure that’s the craziest thing happening here.”

She slips her phone into the pocket of her hoodie and steps a little closer, letting her face mask snap back into place but putting the sunglasses in her other pocket.

“We can agree on that, but it’s still weird, right?” she says, turning and glancing toward the PC bang entrance. “We’ve both got these big personal setups at our dorm. With the custom gaming chairs and everything.”

She smirks at you like that detail’s supposed to mean something. “That sounds comfortable.”

“I know. So I couldn’t figure out why she’d keep coming back here,” she continues. “I know she used to come here occasionally when she just wanted some me time. But now she’s here all the time. It’s like, obsessive. Right after a rant about quitting League for Overwatch.”

You shrug, pull your best confused face. “Maybe she just likes the snacks they have here?”

“I’d believe you if you didn’t exist,” Chaeyoung shoots back, but there’s no bite to it. She points a finger at you, not accusatory, just stating a fact. “I know you’re why she’s been ranking up rapidly.”

Okay, yeah. Busted. There’s no way to know what she knows, but there’s no point in denying any accusations she makes that hit the nail on the head.

“Was I not supposed to?” you question back, a bit more coy than you would have a month ago.

“Nah, relax,” she says. “I’m not here to criticize you or anything.”

You look at her, intrigued.

“I just figured it was time we met. I want your help to get my rank above Nakko back.”

You’re about to try and turn her down, some sort of loyalty to Nagyung shining through, but she doesn’t wait for you to catch up. “You free now?”

You nod, unsure why. Maybe because you’re not used to saying no to beautiful women, or maybe because Chaeyoung’s presence is more gravitational than conversational.

“Wait, no,” you interject before you even figure out anything further. “I don’t think I should be doing that. I think it might hurt my chances with Nagyung.” It seems your spine hasn’t left you fully just yet, or maybe this is the effect of being a spineless being. Who can tell?

“Look,” she says, stepping in just a little closer, physically looking up at you, just slightly, but really, looking down at you a little bit. “I know she hasn’t been here since she hit gold. Has to not feel great for you either, huh?”

You blink at her, all of her words causing your brain to lag behind. “You’re tracking her now?”

She just shrugs, and the difference in social skills and fluidity is just painful. “I live with her. Not that hard to figure out when she is or isn’t sneaking out in a disguise to go to a PC bang literally 5 minutes away.”

You try to come up with something clever, but nothing lands, not with those eyes piercing you. She keeps going.

“And I’m just saying,” she adds, tone dropping into a more persuasive and smooth version, “I have a reputation to uphold if I still want to get brand deals with HLE. What you get out of it, is a hyper competitive Nakko, one who gets so obsessed with beating my rank, that she won’t leave your side until she does.”

You cross your arms, trying to regain some footing. “So your plan is to get some random dude from a PC bang to coach you up to a meaningless rank in a videogame? Why not get someone with actual qualifications?”

“My plan,” she says, pointing at you again, “is to use you specifically to get a higher rank so I can get under her skin a bit because I fucking love teasing her.”

“Does it have to be me?“

“Yeah, kind of.“ Chaeyoung’s answer is so quick and so direct it makes you feel silly for asking, which is probably the point. “You’ve already proven you can get Nakko up there, and you’ve managed this entire conversation without turning into the worst fanboy. If it’s not you, it won’t work as well. Also, you’re easy on the eyes.“ She says it all with such calculated ease, the last part tacked on like an indulgence added on to a grocery list. The worst is that she doesn’t even look like she’s even remotely kidding.

You’re trying to hide your fluster. “You do realize we just met, right?“

“Yeah, but Nakko trusts you, so it’s probably fine.“

You actually laugh at that.

“So,” she says, tilting her head again, “you game?”

”Fine.” You sigh, then nod. “I’ll do it.”

There’s a lot to be said for all the horrible timelines this could create in where you fuck it all up. But you also know, deep down, this is the only way to move forward. No game-winning play was ever made without risk.

Chaeyoung’s smile is satisfied, like she was just waiting for you to catch up on how great of an idea this is. “Smart. Come on.“

Your instinct is to turn around, back into the colosseum of computers, but instead she starts walking briskly down the street, not even checking if you’re following. You have to jog a few steps just to catch up with her and her impossibly long legs.

“Where are we going?” you ask. Can’t assume anything with these idols after all.

She glances at you, then forward again. “Dorm. I wasn’t lying about the setups.”

You balk at that. “You’re just gonna let a random guy into your dorm?”

“Not a random guy,” she retorts. “My new coach. Try to keep up.“

“And I can’t be your new coach in a public setting? I’m not complaining, mind you.“

“Nope. Nakko might like it, but I hate PC bangs. Constant fear of people approaching me, having to wear this stupid disguise the entire team. I need to be in a good headspace to perform well, y’know?“

“If you were a prodigy, you wouldn’t be talking to me,” you shoot back.

“That’s… a surprisingly good instinct,“ you concede, matching her stride.

“See, I knew that deep down I’m a prodigy,“ Chaeyoung says, and you swear it’s accompanied with a smirk even with the mask in place.

“And if Nakko was gaming with you, you wouldn’t be talking to me.“

You wonder if this is normal for her—if she always is this comfortable and easy to banter with when meeting strangers.

She only lets a beat of silence linger. “Was that mean?“

“It wasn’t wrong.“

“Damn. At least you’re honest,” she says. “I can see how you’d be able to coach Nakko.“

“So.“ She glances over at you, “what’s your main?“

“Ahri,“ you say, and then regret it immediately, her stride stopping and looking at you like you just told her you’re actually three Teemo’s in a coat.

“Oh my god.“

“I take it you’re not the biggest fan of Ahri,” you question, and she’s quick to respond.

“No, I love Ahri. It’s the Ahri mains. They all either are perverts or think they’re hot shit,” she says, turning back on her heels and walking further. “I’m just trying to figure out which one you are.“

“What if I’m both?“ You raise an eyebrow.

She chuckles, and it’s a sound you could get used to. “Then you’re at least self-aware, and your coaching might work.“

“What about you then?“ you question back, seeing if hers is any better.

She strides further, and speaks filled with pride when she answers your question. “I main support. Seraphine.“

“Seriously?“

“Yeah, what about it?“

“That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?“ You take a beat. “Tall and pretty idol plays tall and pretty popstar champion.“

“Aw, you think I’m pretty?“ she taunts back, clearly unaffected by you trying to make fun of her.

“Isn’t that, like, a requirement for your job?” you volley back, but it’s mostly a stall for time, because this is… something. It’s barely been three minutes and you’re already having more fun than you ever had in solo queue.

“Just like it’s a requirement for my job to tell you that from now on,“ you continue, “you’re not a support main anymore. You main mid now, because otherwise this climb is going to take years.“

“You’re the boss,” she says, matter-of-fact.

The dorm building is exactly five minutes away, like advertised. It’s a newer building, the kind with a digital keylock outside and a tidy little lobby that smells like pine cleaner.

Chaeyoung ushers you in like it’s nothing, and leads you up through the world’s quietest elevator.

You brace yourself, not sure what to expect from a girlgroup dorm; glitter, maybe. Plushies and pastel everything. But the living room is minimalist, almost monastic and monochromatic save from some plants introducing color. Dark gray couches, a glass coffee table with a magazine on it, and a kitchen visible through a wide pass-through. There’s a bowl of instant noodles and a half finished fruit smoothie.

It feels unmistakably normal.

Chaeyoung’s stride doesn’t diminish as she steps out of her shoes and keeps moving. She beelines for the far end of the hallway, and you follow like she has an invisible leash tied to you.

Multiple doors line the walls, and she grabs the handle to the last one on the left. Chaeyoung makes a sharp turn towards you, blocking the frame with her body.

“Wait here,“ she says, holding her hand up to your chest to stop you from following. “I wanna put on something a little more comfortable. Don’t touch anything, don’t go snooping around any of the rooms, just…yeah. Stand there. Wait for me. Try to blend in.“

You nod, she smiles, and she’s disappeared into her room.

You hear a storm of movement inside; drawers, a closet door, some fabric rustling, all at a speed you couldn’t possibly keep up with. Images of her changing pop into your head, and you try to stop yourself from visualising it lest you make it obvious, but that’s a losing battle.

The lock on the door clicks—after barely any time passing—and the door cracks open just the slightest amount. “You can come in now.“

You step inside—and your brain lags.

She’s done away with anything that could hide her identity, but didn’t stop there. She’s swapped the hoodie and joggers for a sleeveless HLE merch top, no doubt customized herself. The whole look is finished with a dark pleated skirt, and black thigh-high socks that stop barely underneath her skirt.

“Is this, like, some kind of power move?“ you ask, because you can’t not. Who has this in mind when they mean something more comfortable?

She clocks you staring, and makes a big show of stretching her arms overhead with a level of comfortable confidence you thought would be reserved for being on stage. “Do you like it? I figured you’d be more motivated if I gave you something good to look at.“

You swallow like an idiot, then try to regain some control. “You’re missing the cliche cat ears.“

She bursts out into laughter, and takes a seat in the only chair available at her desk. Her computer boots up in a matter of seconds, and she’s already logging in to League of Legends.

She smirks, opens a drawer—which had a small plushie of Ahri on a keyring hanging from the handle, the hypocrite—in her white desk where she houses her entire gaming rig, which is all aggressively pink and white, and pulls a pair of headphones with cat ears attached to them. She jams them on her head and strikes a pose, curling her fingers like a cat at you. “Better?“

“Oh my god.“

“So, coach, how do you want to do this?“ The way she says it is so casual, and so full of trust. Nagyung would have thrown a wink in, or added some dirty undertone, but Chaeyoung is all business.

“You comfortable playing mid? I can coach you for support, but if you want to climb fast—“

“Are you sure you don’t want to duo with me? Show me how good you really are?“ she asks, and it feels like a test.

You don’t even consider it for a second. “Well, if you want to drop to silver the second I step out of your room again, we can. But if you want to actually have a shot at staying above Nagyung, I’ll just watch and tell you what you can improve on.“

“You know,” she says as she nods, and looks actually kind of impressed, “most guys like you would jump on the chance to impress me.“

“Yeah, well, most guys like me haven’t been through what I’ve been through with Nagyung. I think.“

Chaeyoung furrows her brow at that, but it quickly disappears as her queue pops. She gets mid, and hovers over Seraphine for a second, then turns to you. “So should I also play Ahri, or…?“

“Play what you’re comfortable with. Seraphine is fine mid.“

She sighs from relief, then locks in Seraphine. The loading screen reveals the harsh truth: she’s Silver III. Better than what Nagyung was two weeks ago, but not a starting point you can get to Gold in a couple of hours. Probably.

The next fifteen minutes are a crash course in how not to play mid. She eats a full Syndra combo when she steps up for a cannon minion, causing her to miss it. But you call her out on it, and it only happened one more time. She tries to roam bot with no prio, while her jungle is top side. Obviously, she dies as she gets collapsed on by the enemy jungle. You explain to her why that was a bad play.

To her credit, she never tilts. She just keeps talking through her thought process, narrating the inner machinations of a Silver.

You even get her far enough ahead to, somehow, win that first game. Her mechanics are sufficient enough for Gold, it’s just game knowledge that’s holding her back.

She clicks past the victory screen, points to her damage stat (highest in the team, thanks to some great coaching), and smugly turns towards you. “See? I told you. Prodigy.“

“Yeah, you only inted like two times—“

“Thank you! I knew you recognized real talent.“

“—per minute.“ You finish, after her premature gloating.

She looks at you for a second, standing next to her, then at her bed. “Are you planning on coaching me while standing the entire time? You’re allowed to sit, you know. The bed is right there.“

You don’t argue with her about it. Plop down on her bed, carefully, and the perfectly made sheets barely crumble under you.

Chaeyoung looks at you as if to check if you’re fine there, and you nod. She’s in a new game already, again mid, again Seraphine, and you settle back into a growingly familiar rhythm of watching her play and you pointing out every single mistake she makes.

You even develop your own little micro-language. You say “risky cannon“ and she knows to back the fuck off; she says “trust me“ and you already know she’s about to int.

It isn’t even all game talk. Well, that still happens (“Chaeyoung, don’t chase, you have no vision.” “That’s a bad trade, you’re sitting on 1.2k unspent gold.“) and she’ll grumble, but she listens. But between deaths, between queues, there’s time and space for you to get to know each other.

She’s just farming, and doesn’t even bother to look at you when she speaks half the time. “You know, you’re not really what I expected from you. You don’t fit the vibe of like, the awkward gamer crowd, I mean.“

“Should I take that as a compliment?“ you ask, skeptical.

She shrugs. “Sure, why not? Most of them are, like, the moment they figure out you’re an idol, they get either weirdly awkward or weirdly… reverent? Like my identity suddenly demanded for them to change. You didn’t blink.“

“Well, yeah, you were disguised,“ you point out.

“Please, don’t bullshit me. You totally recognized me.“ You can see her look at you from the corner of her eye, a smirk to go with it. “I saw the double take you did.“

“A benefit from hanging out with Nagyung, I guess?“

“Probably. Doesn’t make it less refreshing for me.“

She locks in for a moment, you give her the quiet she needs to focus—and much to your surprise, she actually makes a really good play all by herself. Solo kills the enemy laner. This time, she doesn’t gloat, but just picks up where you left off.

“So, you and Nakko,“ she says, while recalling under her turret. “How’d that even start?“

You give a noncommittal shrug, she doesn’t catch it because her eyes are glued to the monitor. “I honestly thought you already knew.“

She chuckles. “She hasn’t told me a single thing. All I know is what I saw with my own eyes while out gathering intel on why she was climbing so fast.“

“Oh. So what did you see?“

“I saw her plant a kiss on your cheek. Like, in public.“

“I mean, it’s not a big deal,“ you say, hoping the casual will stick.

“Not a big deal?“ She spins her chair, casual having the opposite effect. “That’s a fucking big deal for an idol, and that makes you clearly one step above a regular coach helping her score some elo. You know, any guy in your position would have been bragging about how big of a deal that is.“

“I’m sorry?“

“So that can only mean one thing. You’re already desensitized to it.“

She’s so fucking sharp. No wonder coaching her is this easy, she catches anything you say and don’t say.

“Oh, I don’t—“

“So what’s the story?“ she interrupts your pussyfooting around it. “You don’t strike me as the type to hit on random girls. No offense.“

You can’t help but think she’s not wrong about that. “She kind of… chose me. I was just there. Some random in her game was getting on her nerves, and I helped her shit stomp him.“

“Ah, that makes sense,“ Chaeyoung says, but her tone is a gentle breeze. “Did she tell you about her bucket list?“

You shake your head, but she doesn’t catch it again. You kind of feel like an idiot for it, and use your words to say the same.

“She made one when we were in between companies,“ Chaeyoung explains, as if this is her secret to reveal, somehow. “All the stuff she wants to do but couldn’t because of strict company rules and tight schedules. Like hitting diamond in League.“

“That’s… actually kind of adorable,“ you chuckle.

“She is, annoyingly so,“ Chaeyoung says, and there’s this fond tone that carries her voice. “She obsesses over these little goals she gives herself. I guess it’s her style of coping with… life, I guess. She’ll tunnel vision, and then, the second it’s done, she forgets all about it.“

You realize you felt that last bit firsthand. “I just thought she got bored. Or maybe I was getting boring.“

“Wow, you really are dense,“ Chaeyoung says, but not mean. Same fond tone. This time a little more pity carried with it, like she’s teasing a puppy for not knowing how mirrors work. “She probably likes you. Otherwise she would have never played with you a second time. Trust me.“

You want to protest, but the conviction in Chaeyoung’s voice makes you second guess your entire history with Nakko.

Her game ends—already on a three game win streak—and she doesn’t queue, instead, swivels in her chair to turn towards you. “So. What really happened? What got you so desensitized?“

You can’t look at her face. “It’s not a big deal.“

“You saying that makes it sound like a big deal,“ she says. “Which makes me want to figure out what exactly happened.“

“She has me on a proverbial leash, keeping me satisfied with occasional affection.“

She doesn’t look impressed. “That’s not it. I promise I’m not going to use it against you. Besides, Nakko told you to keep this all quiet, didn’t she? Who else do you have to brag to about all this?“

You hesitate, she just waits.

Then finally, because it’s been sitting in your chest for weeks and she’s right and she asked nicely which is a stupid fucking reason but still—

“She sucked my dick.”

She blinks.

You dig a deeper hole.

“First night we met. I think I caught her at a weird time. Helped her put some guy that was flaming her in his place. She sat in my lap, and said I deserved a reward. Under the desk. Mid-game. Even said that next time, she’d let me fuck her. Same place. Blanket over us, wanted me inside her while she played.“

Her lips part just slightly. Not from disgust. Not even shock. Just pure, stunned intrigue.

“Holy shit. Nakko really is running her bucket list at top speed.“ She tilts her head, considering you for all this. “And you didn’t even question it?“

“Have you taken a good look at Nagyung? There’s no universe where I say no to her,“ you admit. “And she’s good at it too. But it’s not like—“

“Man, she's been obsessed with wanting to try public stuff for, like, ever. Used to show me all these fucked up twitter threads and say, ‘Can you imagine?’ like it was a normal thing for girls like us to want.“

“Right. That helps explain it somewhat.“

“So like, you two have fucked already? Why the fuck are you still here?“ she questions, like you’re making a big mistake just being here.

“Oh. No, eh, no we haven’t. That part never came to be. After that first night, she just stuck to giving me kisses on my cheek and other innocent stuff.“

Chaeyoung squints at you like you’ve just missed eight skillshots in a row.

“She promised to let you fuck her while playing videogames, and then just downgraded to cheek kisses?“

“Yeah. I guess.”

“And you didn’t say anything?“

“What the hell was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, remember when you offered to fuck a stranger in a public setting? I was just wondering where that fits into your schedule’?“

Chaeyoung turns back toward her screen, but doesn’t click anything. You can see her thinking—eyebrows slightly pulled, a little too amused to be concerned, a little too concerned to be just amused.

Then she says, like it just occurred to her, “Okay, but like… what if it’s your dick?”

You look at her. “What?”

“I’m just saying.” She holds up both hands like she’s presenting a neutral hypothesis. “Maybe you’ve got a weird one, and it scared her off.”

You look at her, stunned. “What?“

“I’m just saying.“ She holds up both hands like she’s presenting a neutral hypothesis. “Maybe you’ve got a weird weiner, and it scared her off.“

“My dick’s not weird.“

“Pretty defensive for a dude with a normal dick.“

You cross your arms, retreating. “Because it’s a weird thing to say.“

“Is it though? Maybe it’s like, aggressively curved. Like a candy cane.“

“What?” You can’t believe what you’re hearing. “No.“

“That’s not a thing.“

“It might be,“ she responds, way too excited. “I’m just trying to help you out here dude, damn. Unbiased third party. I could take a look and confirm, if you want.“

“Just kidding!“ she says immediately. Then pauses with a confused look on her face. “Wait, what? You don’t want me to?“

“Absolutely not.“

She frowns. “Why not?“

“Because that’s insane.“

“I mean, yeah, but like, most guys would kill to show their dick to an idol.“

You’re a little flabbergasted. “Still, I don’t—“

“C’mon, I’m literally doing you a favor. For science. To clear your name.“

You stare at her. She stares at you.

“…I’m not showing you my dick.“

She leans forward, her sharp eyes wide now. “Come on. Just a peek. Just enough to say it’s not cursed. I won’t touch. Swear.“

You shake your head.

She pouts, lower lip out, voice pitch rising into her best aegyo whine. “But oppa, how will I sleep without having seen the world's weirdest dick?“

“That works for Nagyung. It doesn’t work for you.“

“Wow, rude?“ she says. “You’ll have to show me your dick now to make it up to me.“

You stand your ground. She crosses her arms.

“Fine,“ she huffs. “Then I guess I have to take a look myself.“

“Wait, what—“

She lunges. Releases an infinite duress upon you.

You try to resist, but it’s hard. She’s agile, quick and stronger than she looks. And you’re trying your best not to hurt her or grab anything inappropriate. She’s already halfway in your lap, having way too much fun, hands fumbling and grasping at your waistband.

“Stop—hey—Chaeyoung—“

“Just a peek! I need to know!“

You try to twist away, but you’re laughing now too, trying and failing to hold her off without elbowing her in the face. She’s relentless.

She gets her hand in your waistband and then the rest is a blur. You’re not fully hard, but she’s got you in a grip, and the effect is changing that quickly. Her face reads, at first, like she’s just won a claw machine prize—a flash of triumph, then a drop into fascination as she pushes the elastic down and your cock springs free, thick and long and heavy against her wrist.

She doesn’t even move for a full second, just—stares at it. Then her eyes flick up at you, then back down. She lets go and pokes at it experimentally, like she’s afraid it might lunge at her. “Oh my god,” she says, under her breath, but there’s no punchline this time.

“You were right,” she says, reverent, voice low. “It’s not weird at all. It’s just—” She cuts herself off, wrapping her fingers around the base like she’s limit testing what fits. “Jesus. It’s like, stupid big. I get it now.” She gives it a single, slow pump across the entire length, followed by two shallow and fast pumps. “I don’t know why you’d even try to hide this thing.“

You start to stammer out an apology, but she lets go, sits back, and watches as your cock slaps against your stomach, fully erect now and leaking at the tip. “Okay, so maybe,” she concedes, “Nagyung wasn’t running away from you, she was just… intimidated. Or maybe she didn’t want to die. Or she just wanted to properly seduce you so she could have you all to herself forever.”

You reach to pull your pants back up, but her hand swats yours away with cat-like reflexes. Her eyes flick up for just a second, before drifting back towards your tower. “What are you doing?“ she says, as if you’re the one acting crazy.

You try to muster a defensive laugh. “I figured you’d seen enough. Not a cursed cock, point proven, right?“

“Not cursed. Unbelievable,“ she mutters. “I had a phase, you know? Like, a legit size difference kink. Masturbating to any videos I could find online almost daily. Thought I got over it, but—“ She gives you another look, more hungry this time, one hand snaking around the base of your cock. “You might have just reactivated it.“

You cough, try to play it off, but your cock twitches in her grip and ruins any pretense that you’re unmoved by this.

She kneels between your legs, and looks up at you with her chin on your thigh. “Do you want me to stop?” she says, but the drip of her voice makes it obvious she doesn’t want you to. “Unless you only let Nakko touch you. There’s something respectable about that.” Her hand doesn’t move away, though.

“I mean—“ you begin, but she cuts you off. “Would be a shame though. I can stop, but you’re so hard right it feels a little rude to just put it away. It’s my fault after all.“

She leans in closer, studying the way your cock twitches under her gaze. “I mean… what if it’s bad for your health?“ she adds, deadpan, fully aware of her own bullshit with her face breaking into a smile luminous enough to bring you to your knees. So to speak.

She pumps you again, then lets her palm rest at the base, fingers splayed so she can appreciate the girth. “You’re not even trying to stop me,” she observes, voice dropping a half octave, which is more than enough to make any loyalty you had vaporize out of your body.

“Let it be known I actually did try. You’re just very convincing,“ you say.

You look down, and it’s a fucking beautiful sight. Her face is flushed, lips parted, pink tongue flicking at the corner of her mouth as she surveys your cock like a luxury item she’s been saving up for. You shake your head, just once.

Then, completely unselfconscious, she leans in and lays her cheek against your shaft, nuzzling it like it’s a plush toy. “It’s so warm.”

She rubs her cheek up and down your length, like the world’s most expensive back massager, sighing happily as she does it. Her palm doesn’t even move, just holds you, cradles you with all the care of an appraiser who just found a masterwork.

She’s not just teasing anymore; she’s shifted to full on stroking your cock up and down, two hands working in tandem.

“God, I can’t believe this,“ she murmurs, delighted. “I was gonna treat you to fried chicken as a thank you for coaching me, you know.“

“Right,“ you grunt out. “That would have been so generous of you.“

Her hand gives you a particularly firm tug. “Shut up! It’s not my fault. I saw your dick and what you did with Nakko and I just… lost the plot.“

She shifts her angle, one hand taking control over your base, and slaps your shaft playfully against her cheek. Once at first, then twice, maybe three times—each making a soft sound against her skin. Your cock is making a reverberating sound against the cheek of a famous idol.

She giggles with each one. “So like, Nakko only gives you kisses on your cheek now, right?“ she muses, eyes sparkling as she taps the tip against her cheekbone again. “How’s it feel letting your dick do the kissing for once?“

It’s obscene.

“Tell me… did she kiss you like this?“ she asks, and leans in, lips pursed against your tip, sloppy and wet and perfect as she presses one, two, three kisses onto you. “Hmm?“

Her tongue flattens out against you as she keeps pressing kisses, and soon it’s a flood—dozens, hundreds, affectionate and endless. She smears her lip gloss across your skin with every press of her mouth.

“C’mon,” she whispers, breath hot against you between kisses. “Whose kisses do you like better?”

This is bait, but you have no vision and you just need to know what happens if you step into it. You try to answer but she doesn’t give you the space. Her lips are everywhere, dotting kisses around the crown, along the shaft, over your slit like she’s worshiping it one kiss at a time.

She’s totally absorbed, the kind of focus you recognize from locking the fuck in to carry a teamfight. That’s not all you notice. She giggles, wipes her chin, and gives a couple more pumps before showering you with open-mouthed kisses again. Then she sits up onto her knees, wipes her palms on the hem of her skirt and inches beneath it.

Chaeyoung’s hand is moving inside, fingers clearly working herself as she looks at you with animal intent.

“Do you know how long it’s been since I had anyone touch me?” she asks, but it’s rhetorical, because her eyes are lustful, her free hand alternating between jerking you off and bracing herself against your thigh.

“You know, technically, you’re doing all the touching,“ you moan back, eyes only half open with a forced smirk.

She pulls her hand out of her cunt, glistening, and brings it up to your mouth, presses her fingers to your lips. “Lick. Please.“

You happily oblige. Her taste is tangy, sticky, unmistakably real—the kind of real you can’t even try to reproduce with the highest end computer builds. Chaeyoung smiles with a constricting satisfaction that doesn’t need to be spoken.

“Good boy,“ she says, velvet and equally sticky as her taste. “Nakko’s been blueballing you, hasn’t she?“

You try to protest—something, anything—but the words don’t come out. Your mouth is still full of her fingers, and she only slowly, teasingly withdraws them, watching your lips chase after the taste as she does.

“I bet you’ve been hoping to get another taste of her every single day you played with her, didn’t you?“

She stands up just enough to trail her fingers along your inner thighs, a line of slick being painted across them. “You’ve been walking around with this for weeks, and Nagyung never even gave you another handjob or anything? Your poor cock must feel so neglected.“

You’re about to answer when she lifts her shirt, exposing her tits and the absence of a bra. This must have been a part of changing into something more comfortable. Your jaw nearly hits the floor at the sight of her peaky nipples, and she gives you a look that tells you she knows you can’t look away.

“Are you just going to stare at them?” she says, fingers clutching the hem of her shirt so the fabric stays barely underneath her neck, as if she’s worried they’ll leap out and attack you. “I thought you Ahri players were supposed to be aggressive.”

You reach, not even pretending otherwise, and cup one in your hand. It’s firm, impossibly soft, the weight of it perfect in your palm. Her nipple is already hard. You run your thumb over it experimentally, and she sighs, eyelids fluttering as if you’d cast Exhaust on her brain.

You play like that for a few seconds, mentally comparing them to Nagyung’s but taking that thought to the grave, and then ask, “Can I suck on them?“

She looks down, one eye closed, the other hooded looking at you but struggling to stay open, before nodding.

The sight and permission hits you like a Rift Herald charge.

You get maybe a second with your mouth on her nipple—just long enough for your tongue to flick over the peak, for your lips to draw a soft gasp from her—before she laughs, pushes you back by the forehead, and pinches your cheek.

“Down, boy,” Chaeyoung says, smirk back in full effect. “You can have more later. Maybe. If you’re a good coach and don’t blow your load in the first minute.”

You’re dick twitches. “First minute?“

“I mean, look at you,” she says. “You’re aching. You’ve been hard since I laid eyes on it. Don’t you want to know how tight I feel with you inside of me? Not your imagination. Not what Nakko said she’d give you. Me. For real.”

“Are you being serious right now?“ you ask.

“You want to, don’t you?“ she whispers. “Because I fucking need to. The size, the stretch—fuck, I want it.“

“Of course I fucking want to. I’m pretty sure every guy ever has wanted to know how tight someone like you feels.“

“Someone like me?“ she asks, raised eyebrow and all. And now you have to be careful.

“Yeah I mean. You know. An idol. Body honed to perfection and all that,“ you blurt out, failing at your one single objective.

“God,“ she chuckles wryly. “You are so lucky you activated my kink like a fucking sleeper agent. You need a coach for flirting.“

You swallow. Your cock twitches again, visible and obvious.

“Say something,” she murmurs. “Tell me you want it too.”

“I do,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “God, I do.”

She smiles—messy and relieved and impossibly turned on.

“I still haven’t hit Gold,” she says. “You promised to help. And I take promises very seriously. So I guess I just have to take responsibility for Nakko’s promise, don’t I?”

You’re thinking of what your next move should be, you know, to prove you’re not completely hopeless at flirting, and she has the audacity to let her tits bounce right in your face as she drops her ass back in her chair. She spreads her legs slowly, her skirt riding up, her underwear already gone (when the fuck did she take them off?), and you realize, with a sudden, sharp clarity, that she’s going to make good on Nagyung’s promise before her. Raw, right here, right now, in front of her computer, and you’re powerless to stop any of it.

Your next move should be to take charge, maybe get up and throw her onto the bed, or at least fuck her standing up so you can pretend you’re in control. Instead, you just look at her, hunched over her desk, skirt flipped up, ass pointed straight at you and a sopping wet slit practically begging for your attention.

She beckons you closer without a word, one hand resting at the top of her thigh, the other adjusting her headphones with cat ears like it’s part of the uniform. You step forward, but she’s already standing, stepping out of her chair, motioning for you to take it. You do, because what else would you do, and the warm indent of her body lingers in the cushion.

She reaches under the desk—no, wait, she’s grabbing something from the side—and with a practiced flourish, she pulls out a thick, fleece blanket and drapes it over both of your laps. “Have to give you the full experience, don’t I?” she says, as if this is all strictly professional.

She doesn’t ride you right away. Instead, she sits on your lap, back to you, skirt flipped up and her bare ass settled right against your cock. She’s warm, absurdly so, and the contact is enough to make you forget all common sense. She shimmies, grinding against you as she clicks back into League, the game humming to life and projecting doom.

“Don’t get comfortable just yet,” she says, and she leans forward, arms extended over to the keyboard and mouse, the whole pose pretentious and theatrical to draw your attention to the perfect arch of her back, the way her ass keeps her skirt nice and rumpled above her hips.

She lifts herself up, glances over her shoulder at you, one eyebrow raised, braces her hands on the armrests of her chair, and then—as fast as she can take it, which is excruciatingly slow—starts lowering herself gently onto your cock. The friction isn’t the issue, she’s so wet it was barely a thought. It’s the tightness.

The first inch is easy, and then there’s resistance, and then she’s shuddering with a full-body tremor as she takes another two. She pauses, breathing hard, eyes shut tight beneath the cat-eared headphones and the smirk that lets you know she still loves it.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, and it’s not performative, not for your benefit. She opens her eyes, gives you a look that’s half smug and half pleading, and then keeps going, lowering herself inch by inch, using her thighs to steady herself on you. You want to help her, but she’s got it handled. She’s so tight you’re worried you might actually break her, but it feels so fucking good you don’t care if you do.

She bottoms out with a gasp, her ass planted firmly against your hips, your cock buried so deep in her you can feel her heartbeat at the tip. She doesn’t move at first, her leg muscles spasming slightly against your thighs and breathing through her nose like she’s trying not to pass out.

“Are you good?“ you ask, hoping the answer is yeah because you can’t wait to start pounding up into her.

“I’m amazing,” she says, “you’re a perfect fit.“ She glances back at you again, lips curled up in a feline smile. “Don’t move. I need to get used to being your cockwarmer first.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just nod, jaw clenched as you try not to explode instantly. The blanket is doing its job, covering you both from the waist down, but the sight of her back, the motion of her hands as she readies the mouse and keyboard, is almost too much.

She logs back into League, queueing up for another game. You think you’re going to get a second to recover, but as soon as she’s loaded in, she starts to grind, subtle at first—tiny, controlled movements, her cunt massaging your cock in slow, deliberate pulses.

“Chaeyoung—” you manage, but she hushes you.

“I need to focus if I’m going to climb,” she says, but her hand reaches back and grabs your wrist, placing it on her thigh. “You can touch, just don’t distract me too much. And definitely don’t stop coaching me.”

You’re going to int. So is she. That’s just part of the deal now. You let your hand drift to the bare skin of her thigh, fingers slipping just under the edge of her sock and squeezing to hold on. She flexes her leg against your palm, then keeps playing, her body still rocking on your cock in the slow, torturous rhythm that’s going to kill you before the game even starts.

You try to watch the screen, see what she’s doing. She’s locked in Seraphine mid again, and you can actually tell she’s improved—her laning is cleaner, she’s dodging more skillshots, but every time she takes a trade, she clenches around you, and you have to bite back a groan.

That’s all you needed to hear. You begin slow, hands firmly gripping her hips, lifting her only slightly and slowly pushing into her, shallowly, just enough to make her know what she signed up for. She keeps playing, but her focus starts to drift, movements growing less precise, skillshots occasionally way off target. You don’t stay that nice though.

You’re not doing a great job of coaching. You’re just grunting, hands squeezing her thighs, occasionally daring to sneak under her skirt, ghosting her abs but no higher. She’s just grinding on you in sync with the action on her screen. It doesn’t really matter. Anytime you try to give her advice now, she doesn’t listen. She’s just enjoying the feeling of you inside her, molding around you, using your cock as a reward system for every good play she makes.

Laning phase ends, she doesn’t have to constantly focus on last hitting minions and wave control, so she leans back, rests her head on your shoulder as her eyes go skyward looking for you, and whispers into your ear, “You can start moving now if you want, Coach.“

You fuck her through a teamfight, already pounding half of your cocks worth in and out of her each thrust, the wet heat of her cunt milking you for all you’re worth, and when she misses a perfect ult opportunity, you lose control and slam into her with a force that nearly knocks her off the chair.

She squeals, high-pitched and utterly un-idol-like, then clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she looks at you. “You’re going to make me lose,” she protests, but she’s smiling, her cheeks flushed and her whole body vibrating with pleasure.

Another victory screen pops up. This one, less deserved. She doesn’t queue for another one, just hangs her head and finds your rhythm.

Chaeyoung’s head is thrown back onto your shoulder now, her breathing coming fast and uneven, and she’s not even pretending to care about the computer anymore. Her thighs are flexing with every bounce, her hands bracing on your knees as she fucks herself down onto you, greedy and desperate and still so tight you can barely move without seeing stars.

She’s moaning in sync with the rhythm of your hips, biting her lower lip to keep it from being audible beyond the walls. Your hands have abandoned all pretense and are everywhere: on her hips, on her tits, on her throat, and back to her thighs, where you squeeze so hard you’re sure to leave marks. She’s loving every second, and the closer you get, the more she grinds back onto you, desperate, greedy, relentless.

You’re so close. She is too—her voice has gone all high and shaky, little moans slipping out after every thrust, and you can feel her cunt start to flutter around you, the beginning of something huge.

You’re about to say something, anything, when the apartment’s outer door thunders open. There’s a thud, the jangle of keys, and then—Nagyung’s voice, bright and echoey from the foyer:

“Chaeng! Are you home? I brought the chicken you asked for!” A rustle, and again, “Chaeng?”

You freeze, but Chaeyoung doesn’t. She rides you harder, her ass clapping down on your lap with new urgency, and she doesn’t even look back as she hisses, “Just be quiet. It’s fine.”

You panic like you’ve been caught in a spotlight, but Chaeyoung just grinds down harder, one hand reaching back to clamp over your mouth. “Don’t stop,” she whispers “I’m so fucking close. ”

You’re not sure you could if you wanted to. The blanket, thank god, is still perfectly in place. Your cock is buried to the hilt in her, and your collective shame is the only thing keeping you both from screaming.

Chaeyoung is breathing so shallow you can see her ribs move. She slumps down into the chair, planting herself even deeper on your cock, grinding her ass in tiny circles to make it look like she’s just sitting, not impaled.

You want to believe it’ll work. You really do.

The door to Chaeyoung’s room swings open. Nagyung stands in the doorway, holding a convenience store bag in one hand and an iced coffee in the other, her hair tied up in a ponytail, a grey hoodie with a white fitted tank, matching grey gym shorts and thigh highs in the same hue to tie it all together..

All three of you freeze. Time stops, or maybe just slows down to the frame rate of a lagging game.

Nagyung blinks at you. Then at Chaeyoung. Then at the space between you. Her mouth forms a small, perfect circle.

“Oh,” she says. “You’re here.”

You open your mouth, but words don’t come.

She takes in the scene: Chaeyoung in your lap, her hands holding the desk, the two of you covered in a blanket even though it’s twenty-six degrees in the apartment. Her eyes narrow, the gears clicking into place.

“Why are you here?”

Chaeyoung sheepishly chimes in. “Nakko, you’re back earlier than I expected.”

“No, Chaeyoung,” she says, crossing her arms, “I’m actually later than I said I would be.”

Chaeyoung’s face twists into an expression you’ve never seen, not even mid-death streak—something between panic and orgasm, which, given the circumstances, might not be all that different. The wince is a full-body thing, and she inadvertently clamps down on you, squeezing so tight it’s like a heartbeat in reverse. Your hips jerk upward just as you try to freeze, and she grinds herself down to bury the evidence, but the blanket bunches and shifts awkwardly.

Nagyung’s gaze tracks the movement. First your face, then Chaeyoung’s, then the blanket, and finally to your lap—where the blanket has failed to hide the shuddering motion of your hips or the way Chaeyoung’s thighs are flush to yours, the tiniest flash of bare skin peeking out as the blanket rides up.

You try to say something, anything, but your entire vocabulary is being squeezed out of you by the girl in your lap.

Nagyung’s gaze slides down, zeroes in, and her nostrils flare. She takes a step closer, tosses the convenience bag on the bed, and points directly at the blanket like she just called a ward in the brush. “What’s under there?”

You start to answer, but Chaeyoung, who hasn’t let you go for a second, turns in your lap and tries to play it off, “I got cold.” She says it so flatly, so unconvincingly, that it lands like a failed flash.

“Take it off,” Nagyung says, tone flat, the kind of command that makes you wonder if you should salute. She’s not speaking to Chaeyoung. She’s speaking to you.

“Excuse me?” Chaeyoung tries to play dumb, ducking her chin into her own shoulder, which only makes her look more caught.

Nagyung drops her grocery bag on the bed. Iced coffee gets put down on the desk. She steps forward, all five feet nothing of her, and yanks the blanket away without warning.

The moment has a physics to it. The blanket peels off, and the tableau is revealed: Chaeyoung’s skirt bunched up, your cock visibly splitting her in half, every inch of you glistening and wet and so deep you can see the outline of your tip against her stomach. Your hands white-knuckled on her hips, her own fingers digging into the armrests for leverage. You’re both so red-faced you look like you’ve just run suicides.

Nagyung’s mouth doesn’t move. Her mask of a face doesn’t even twitch. She just stares.

Neither of you know what to do. Chaeyoung goes to stand, to get off your lap, but Nagyung steps forward and pins her in place with a single, tiny palm on her shoulder.

“Don’t move,” she says, and the command is so final, Chaeyoung shudders and obeys.

Nagyung circles you both, walks around the chair like she’s examining a new champion in the loading screen. Her eyes never leave the place where you’re joined with Chaeyoung. She’s breathing hard, her lips parted, tongue flicking out to wet them, and you realize she’s not mad. Not even a little. She’s jealous. Insanely, violently jealous.

“Are you mad?” Chaeyoung asks, still impaled, already inching up and down with tiny, slutty movements.

“I’m not mad! I’m just—” She looks down at the blanket, then at your face, then at Chaeyoung’s, like she’s running a system diagnostic and the results are inconclusive.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to coach me again tonight,” she says, voice trembling, “but you’re already inside Chae.”

The air in the room is thick with confusion and new possibilities. You try to apologize, but Nagyung just shushes you with a wave. “You were supposed to wait for me, you know. I was finally almost ready.”

You can’t even process that. “Ready for what?”

She ignores the question, instead focusing her attention on Chaeyoung. “And you, Kkwaeng, you couldn’t wait until I hit Platinum before stealing my coach? You’re unbelievable.”

She walks over, kneels in front of the chair, and looks up at the two of you. She reaches out, puts her hand on your thigh, right next to where you’re joined with Chaeyoung, and gives you a look that is pure confusion mixed with a kind of desperate curiosity.

“Does it feel good?” she asks Chaeyoung, her voice a whisper now.

Chaeyoung, mid-orgasmic crisis, manages a shaky nod. “It’s… a lot.”

She leans in, and in her snarkiest voice, says, “That’s my spot, you know.” 

You can’t help yourself. “What were you almost ready for?” you blurt, cutting through the tension, because all your blood is below your brain and you need to know.

Nagyung looks up at you, eyes wide and then immediately rolling like she’s never been so offended by a question in her life. “God, you’re so—” She huffs, reaches up, and flicks your forehead, hard enough to sting. “What do you think I meant, genius?”

You stare at her, mouth open, and she shakes her head, exasperated. “You really are dense. I was getting ready, dumbass.” And then, as if this is more humiliating than anything else in the room, she mumbles, “I literally spent the last week stretching myself out with toys, every night, so I could take you for real this time.”

You blink. Then blink again. “You’ve been training for this?”

Chaeyoung, who’s been half-impaled and quietly losing her mind the whole time, bursts out laughing. “Holy shit, it was your cock! Nakko, You’re such a tryhard. I love it.”

Nagyung scowls at her, then at you. “And I had to time my period, too! I’m already taking enough risk sneaking into a PC bang, I’m sure as fuck not getting busted smuggling a condom into one.” She flicks your forehead again, softer this time, but the point lands.

You try to recalibrate your entire understanding of the last two weeks. “You just… didn’t want to say any of that?”

“I didn’t want to sound like a pervert,” Nagyung mutters, cheeks hot pink now, “even if I am one.” She glances at Chaeyoung, who is still fighting not to break character and cackle again. It’s clearly landing a lot more serious than Chaeyoung thought.

“I also wanted to be first,” Nagyung says. She looks down now, lower lip quivering in a way that is both adorable and heartbreaking at the same time. Chaeyoung’s demeanor instantly switches.

“We can stop,” she says, halting all movements.

“It’s too late for that now.” Nagyung looks back, and she crafts this devilish little smile in an instant. “But you are making it up to me.”

Chaeyoung and you share a look, then both look down at Nagyung, who is now on her knees, her face inches from where you’re joined.

“Can I…?” she asks, and you have no idea what she’s about to do, but you nod, because frankly, she could ask you for anything and you’d say yes.

Nagyung leans forward, and, with a delicacy you did not know she possessed, presses her lips to the spot where your cock meets Chaeyoung’s pussy. She kisses the place where you’re joined, then lets her tongue flick out, just a little, tasting the mix of her rival and you.

She licks again, slower this time, savoring it, never breaking eye contact with Chaeyoung, who looks like she might either faint or melt off your lap entirely. Then, with a gentleness that makes your toes curl, Nagyung runs her tongue the length of your shaft where you’re buried in Chaeyoung, tracing along the seam, lapping up the mixture of slick and sweat, never flinching at the taste of her rival.

Chaeyoung shudders, her head thrown back in shock, but she doesn't move—a statue, trembling with effort, as if moving would break the spell and send her body into a thousand pieces.

Nagyung looks up at Chaeyoung, her eyes glassy and wild. “This isn’t what I expected when you told me you’d be stuffing yourself right now.“

Chaeyoung clutches the armrests, barely able to keep her eyes open as she looks at Nagyung. “I’d share, but I’m just too full to move right now,“ she somehow manages to breathe out with her last bits of smugness, her head lolling back against your shoulder.

Nagyung’s tongue darts out, stronger this time, bold and demanding. She works the clit in tight little circles, her thumb pressing in counterpoint to her tongue, then moves up to Chaeyoung’s stomach, trailing slick fingerprints up her abs while her lips never leave the pressure point. She holds Chaeyoung’s gaze for a second, then leans in and, with a soft click, bites Chaeyoung’s clit, just barely, just enough to send a shockwave through her.

You look down and see her there, on her knees, worshipping the place where you and Chaeyoung are connected, her own thighs squeezed together so tight you’re not sure if she’ll break or combust.

“Holy fuck, Nakko, you’re going to kill me,” Chaeyoung whimpers, voice almost feather-light, eyelids fluttering in disbelief.

Nagyung hums as if to say, “You deserve it, you slut,” and you feel the vibration run through both of you.

She shifts her position, brings her hand between her own legs, and you realize, with an embarrassing thrill, that she’s been touching herself the whole time. Not lazily, not distractedly—she’s two knuckles deep in her own cunt, rubbing herself raw while she devours the sight of Chaeyoung writhing in your lap.

Nagyung pulls back, just for a second, and looks up at you. “Don’t you dare finish before her,” she says, voice low and serious. Then she returns to her work, attacking the vulnerable, trembling bundle of nerves between Chaeyoung’s legs with a new level of focus.

You do your best to help. You steady Chaeyoung’s hips, thrusting up into her with controlled, shallow movements, making sure you don’t go too hard and ruin the moment. You want to cum—you need to—but you want to see how this plays out even more. Mostly you just want to survive. So you try not to black out from the pressure building in your balls. Every time Nagyung’s tongue flicks just right, Chaeyoung’s cunt clamps down on you so tight you see stars, real stars, not the kind working your dick right now.

Chaeyoung’s moaning now, high and whiny and desperate, her hands no longer on the desk but in your hair, pulling you closer, her whole body arched back and trembling. She tries to keep her composure, but Nagyung’s mouth is too much. Her fingers leave deep grooves in your thigh, her head locked back, and she starts cursing profanities that would get her chat banned for life.

Nagyung redoubles her efforts, sucking hard at her clit while her other hand finds Chaeyoung’s breast, pinching the nipple between slick fingers and twisting it, hard, just as she gives her clit another bite.

And that’s it. Chaeyoung explodes, her cunt clamping down on your cock like a vice, her whole body shuddering as she sobs out a laugh-cry into the air. You’re not even sure if the tears in her eyes are from pain or pleasure, but she’s definitely not faking it. She has to physically push herself off your cock before she passes out from the aftershocks. Nagyung sits back on her heels, panting, eyes shining, her mouth and chin a fucking mess.

Chaeyoung collapses forward, forehead thumping against the desk, her body still twitching with aftershocks, and you’re left bleeding precum down your shaft and desperate for release.

Nagyung stands up, wipes her mouth, and looks at you, triumphant. “Don’t disappoint me now, oppa,” she whispers, then gently pushes Chaeyoung off your cock. Chaeyoung slides to the floor, legs splayed, skirt bunched up around her waist, and stares up at the two of you with a dazed, fucked-dumb look that is equal parts awe and admiration.

She doesn’t waste a single second. She peels off her shorts in one smooth motion, crumples her white top above her tits, and straddles you—facing you, because there’s no way in hell she’s not going to look you in the eye while she takes what’s hers.

“Don’t cum,” she says, grabbing your cock and stroking it, getting it slick and shiny with the mix of all three of you. “Not until I say.”

You nod, but you’re not sure you can even speak.

She lines you up, then sinks down in one smooth, practiced motion—fucking herself onto you, slow and soft, like she’s scared to break but eager to find out. She gasps as the head pops inside her, then pushes down, taking more and more with each bounce, until her ass is flush against your thighs and your cock is buried to the hilt.

She doesn’t move at first. She just sits there, shivering, adjusting to the stretch, her hands braced on your shoulders. Then she starts to rock, slow at first, then faster, using her legs and core to ride you with perfect control.

She’s even tighter than Chaeyoung, her walls fluttering and spasming around your cock like she’s cumming a little bit with every thrust. The tip of your cock brushes her cervix and she whimpers, clutching at your shirt with both hands.

You look down and see Chaeyoung on the floor, watching the two of you with glazed eyes, one hand in between her legs and the other propping her up. She’s already fingering herself again, never taking her eyes off the place where you’re spearing Nagyung like she’s built to take it. She catches your gaze, gives you a lazy wink, and mouths, “Don’t let her win.”

Nagyung hears, and looks at you like you’ve made a huge mistake looking at anything but her right now. “Don’t hold back,” she commands, and you don’t. You bounce her in your lap, meeting her thrust for thrust, your hands gripping her ass hard enough to leave marks. Her hair is wild, her eyes wild, her whole body going taut with every slam.

You lose all sense of self. You fuck her, a lethal tempo, and she takes it, meeting every thrust with a hunger that’s been unfulfilled for weeks. She leans in, kisses you—full on the mouth for the first time, her tongue invading, desperate and sloppy. She tastes like coffee, like oxygen, like your new favorite flavor. She’s not giving you an inch, chasing after every sensation you have to offer, trying to catch up to you, and only then do you realize.

She wants to cum exactly when you do.

“I’m gonna cum,” you warn, and both girls react instantly. Chaeyoung reaches over and slides her fingers over Nagyung’s clit, rubbing it in hard, fast circles; Nagyung digs her nails into your shoulders at the sudden added sensations, leans in, and bites your neck, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to mark you.

You don’t even try to last. The tension, the jealousy, the weeks of being edged by Nagyung’s games—you grip her hips, slam her down, and explode, filling her with everything you’ve been holding back for weeks. She cums the moment you do, her cunt spasming around your cock, her body pressed tight to yours as she shakes and cries out, voice muffled by your shoulder.

The release is blinding. You can feel yourself pumping, her pussy milking it out of you, her whole body turned to jelly in your arms. When it’s over, she goes limp, collapsing against your chest, breathing so hard you think she might hyperventilate.

You hold her, stroking her back, and look down at Chaeyoung, who’s now on her knees sitting next to you both. She brings her face up to where Nagyung’s pussy is still stuffed full of your cock, and without hesitation, licks at the place where you’re joined, catching every glob of your cum that leaks out.

Nagyung groans, and you realize she’s still trembling, her body refusing to come down from the high. She lifts her head, looks at you, and for the first time, she doesn’t look like she’s about to bite your head off. She looks happy. Then she looks at Chaeyoung, leans in, cups her chin and pulls her up, and shares a kiss, cum and all, right in front of you.

It’s not a competition anymore. It’s a fucking alliance. And you’re just the coach who got lucky enough to make the playoffs.

You and Nagyung both feel yourself shrinking inside of her, and she stands up—albeit wobbly—and shuffles herself over to the bed, with you in tow, and collapses as soon as she’s in reach. You lie down next to her, and she tucks herself under your arm, head on your chest, and Chaeyoung flops down on your other side and does the same, all three of you wrapped up together like it’s the only arrangement that makes sense. You don’t talk about what just happened. You don’t need to.

Nagyung falls asleep first, out cold in seconds, arm slung across your stomach and her leg tangled with yours. You stare at the ceiling, and after a while, you feel Chaeyoung’s fingers tracing lazy shapes on your bare chest.

“You know,” she says, voice low and serious for once, “Nakko’s going to want to do this again.”

You turn to look at her. “Do what? This?” You gesture at the disaster zone you’ve collectively made of her sheets, the aftermath worse than a teamfight resulting in a double ace.

She grins. “All of it. Competition, games, whatever this is.” She runs her hand up to your face, brushing hair off your forehead. “You’re the first person who’s been more than a one-time-only type of deal. She’s never going to let you go now.”

“For the record, I don’t plan on running,” you say.

“Good,” she says, and kisses you, slow and warm and final. “Because I kind of like having you around, too.”

It’s strange, but you smile, fingers ghosting Nagyung’s back in soft circles as you kiss Chaeyoung back, and give in, letting yourself drift to sleep, the warmth of their bodies melting away any worries.

—

You wake up and it’s still night. No surprise with how early you all dozed off for a nap. You’re alone in the bed, but you can hear the giggling from the kitchen, the beeping of a microwave, and the unmistakable absence of a bag filled with fried chicken.

You stumble out, but not before getting dressed, and see both girls at the table, Chaeyoung filling her plate with food, both already changed into their pajamas but traces of your adventure still etched in places that you can find if you know where to search for them.

Nagyung looks up at you, mouth full, and points her chopsticks at the empty chair. “Come eat,” she says, as if that’s all you ever needed to do.

But before you even take a seat, Nagyung holds a finger to her lips and points over her shoulder at the hallway. “Shh,” she says, voice all soft and deadly serious, “everyone else is home.” You freeze, heart plummeting. She rolls her eyes at your panic, then breaks into a grin. “Jiwon, Hayoung, and Jiheon all came back while you were sleeping. They’re in their rooms. You have to be quiet. Like, actually quiet. Or you die.”

You look at Chaeyoung for any hints of sincerity, a subtle but desperate shift of your eyes. She just shrugs and devours another chicken wing. “Don’t freak out, dude,” she says, wholly unconcerned as she licks hot sauce from her fingers. “They know you’re here. If you want to stay the night, just do it.“ She grins, and offers you an iced americano with all the ice melted.

“Yeah. It’s not like they’ll care,” Nagyung adds, almost—almost—rolling her eyes. “Unless you wake them up. Then they care a lot.”

You’re not sure how to respond to this new paradigm where spending the night in a K-pop girl group’s dorm is less scandalous than laughing at the absurdity of being in this place, so you just do what you’re told and sit down.

The conversation stays light, almost mundane: which role is hardest to climb with (they’re both convinced it’s theirs), taking bets on whether or not you’re also good at Overwatch, which guy from HEARTSTEEL is the hottest. At some point, Nagyung leans over and picks a stray crumb from your cheek, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and you realize you’ve crossed a line you didn’t know existed. You feel less like a one-night stand and more like a regular, an accepted variable in their dissonant, beautiful balance.

“So, coach,” Chaeyoung says, smirking as Nagyung curls into your other side, “when’s our next practice?”

[pucksandpower]

Empires and Emperors

Toto Wolff x Cadillac team principal!Reader

Summary: the old adage says “don’t mix business with pleasure,” but Formula 1 requires pushing boundaries … both on the track and off of it

Warnings: mentions of a career-ending crash

The Bahrain sun is merciless, already scorching the tarmac at ten in the morning. Camera crews buzz like flies, microphones aimed at anyone in team gear, but the paddock doesn’t truly snap to attention until the Cadillac garage doors roll up and you step out — aviators low, Americano in hand, ponytail like a loaded weapon.

You don’t flinch when the press crush starts.

You barely blink.

Toto watches from the Mercedes garage with the faint smirk of a man who’s seen every variety of hype crash and burn. But this … this is different.

“Christ,” mutters a race engineer, watching the growing commotion. “She’s not even driving.”

Toto hums. “That’s the point.”

You stride past Sky Sports, nod at a reporter who tries to corral you into an impromptu hit. You say, “Sorry, I’m not caffeinated enough to be charming yet,” without breaking pace. They laugh. You don’t.

Your white Cadillac team shirt is immaculately crisp, tucked into tailored black trousers that mean business. Your name is embroidered over your heart like a signature. There's something terrifying about how calm you look. You pass McLaren, Ferrari, Red Bull. Eyes track you like hawks. You’re not even trying to cause a scene, you're just unapologetically here.

By the time you reach the team principals’ press conference, the seats are mostly filled. Toto’s already on stage, seated with Christian, Fred, and Andrea. You take the last chair, perfectly on time, and thank the moderator like you're doing him a favor.

“Welcome, Y/N,” the moderator says, clearly over-eager. “Exciting moment for Cadillac today. First day of testing. First American-led team since Haas. How does it feel?”

You lean into the mic, flick your gaze across the room — sizing it up.

“It feels like everyone wants to see if we crash or combust. I plan on disappointing them.”

A ripple of laughter. Christian chuckles like he’s amused, but Toto watches your fingers tap idly on the desk, left ring to index, again and again. A tic? A tell?

Fred leans forward. “A lot of buzz around your car. You think it’s ready?”

You arch a brow. “I think our car’s been ready since before you all started noticing it.”

Toto finally speaks. “Strong words for a car that hasn’t run a lap.”

You look at him. Really look. The moment hangs.

“I’ve seen plenty of cars run laps and still not show up when it counts.”

Christian makes a low, “Oof.”

Toto tilts his head, amused. “Hopefully your strategy is better than your temper.”

“My strategy,” you say sweetly, “is to keep everyone guessing. Starting with you.”

Laughter, again. Louder this time. Cameras flash.

Your phone buzzes in your lap. A text from your PR Officer.

Calm down. You’re going to give the FIA a stroke.

You ignore it.

The questions move on. Andrea is saying something about wind tunnel data. Christian’s lobbing vague insults at the cost cap. But you’re still aware of Toto. He doesn’t look at you anymore, but you can feel his attention like static.

The press conference ends. Everyone stands. There's the shuffle of paper, the awkward murmurs of media trying to corner principals before they vanish. You take your time. You’re about to walk off when-

“I take it you’re not planning to make many friends in here,” Toto says, low enough that only you hear.

You don’t smile. “I’ve got a team. That’s enough.”

He nods once. “Mm. Must be nice.”

You blink. The look in his eyes is fleeting, but something sharp lives behind it. You know it when you see it — resignation, maybe. Or regret.

“I don’t do politics,” you say. “Not anymore.”

“Then you’re in the wrong sport.”

You smirk. “I’m not here to fit in, Toto.”

He doesn’t flinch at the name. Most people don’t say it like that — like a challenge.

“Clearly,” he says, dry as sand. Then, with a glance at your lanyard, “You ever think about going back?”

The flashback hits like a punch.

A wall of flame. A split-second decision to pit. Your engineer shouting too late. The impact sharp enough to rattle your soul. The sound of carbon shattering. The way silence follows trauma like an old friend.

And after: the meetings where they called you difficult, aggressive, uncooperative. When you pushed back, you were “a liability.” Not marketable enough. Not compliant enough.

You left IndyCar with trophies and screws in your shoulder. You left knowing you’d never crawl back.

“Not even if it paid double,” you say.

He nods. “Fair.”

You pause. “You actually care?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been watching motorsport long enough to know when someone gets chewed up.”

You look at him differently, then. Not soft, not grateful. Just ... seeing him, maybe for the first time.

“You think I’ll get chewed up here?” You ask.

“No,” he says, turning. “I think you’ll bite back.”

You watch him walk off, all precise posture and tailored black. An engineer falls into step beside him, murmuring something. He answers without looking back.

“She’s going to be trouble,” Toto says. His voice is just loud enough for the words to carry.

The engineer frowns. “What, like — media trouble?”

Toto’s mouth curves. “No.” Then, quieter, with a smile that’s almost fond, “The interesting kind.”

***

The FIA meeting room smells like stale coffee, over-conditioned air, and the permanent tension of eleven egos shoved into one overlit box. There’s a bowl of untouched almonds in the center of the table. You wonder if they were here yesterday. Or last season.

You’re seated between Andrea and Christian, who are both smiling like diplomats but vibrating with the low-level condescension of men who are used to being the most interesting person in the room.

“Let’s talk about your diffuser,” Christian starts, as if the word diffuser is a veiled insult. “Interesting interpretation of the regulations.”

You don’t look at him. “Everything we’ve done is legal.”

“Legal’s not the same as sporting,” Andrea chimes in. “There’s a spirit to these things.”

“Oh, please.” You finally turn. “The spirit of the sport died the day you all decided performance was negotiable and politics were a KPI.”

That earns a few raised brows. You glance at Fred, who just shrugs like he’s too old to pretend any of this isn’t performative.

“The FIA cleared our design. If you have an issue with it, file a protest,” you add, sipping from the coffee you brought in yourself because the FIA’s is undrinkable. “Or better yet, copy it like you usually do.”

Christian lets out a short laugh, more amused than offended. “You’re not interested in playing nice, are you?”

“I’m interested in winning. I don’t know what you all are doing here.”

Andrea leans back. “You’re new. That’s fine. But you’ll learn — this isn’t just about the car. It’s about relationships.”

You glance around the room. “Funny. I thought it was about racing.”

Toto hasn’t said a word. He’s across from you, fingers interlaced, watching with the infuriating patience of someone who’s not here to win the argument, he’s here to win the war. You meet his gaze once. It’s unreadable. Then he looks away.

The meeting drones on. Brake ducts. Tire allocations. Something-something sustainability. Everyone has opinions, none of them productive. You say less as the hour drags. You’re learning the rhythm of this room — the pauses, the fake outrages, the knowing glances exchanged over your head.

At the end, as everyone rises and starts gathering notes they won’t read again, Toto approaches.

“Coffee?” He says, tone almost offhand. “Neutral ground.”

You raise a brow. “Why? You bored of watching me set fires in here?”

He doesn’t smile. “Just curious what you’re actually trying to burn down.”

You should say no. You don’t.

***

The paddock lounge is quiet when you arrive twenty minutes later. Cool-toned, clean lines, suspiciously good espresso. There’s an understated confidence in the way everything is exactly where it should be. Nothing flashy. Just efficient.

Toto’s already seated at a small table in the back, a steaming cup in front of him. No assistants. No PR. Just him, white shirt rolled at the forearms, reading something on his phone with that same unsettling stillness.

You slide into the seat across from him.

“Still neutral?” You ask.

He sets the phone down. “That depends on how you define neutral.”

“I define it as: no offers, no threats, no press leaks.”

He nods. “Then yes.”

A pause.

You take in the lounge. The screens showing pit lane footage, the muted international voices from a side room, the slow drip of espresso behind the bar. Controlled. Precise. Familiar, if you squint.

“You remind me of Penske,” you say, almost to yourself.

Toto lifts a brow. “In what way?”

“Quiet until it matters. Never without a plan. Likes to watch before you strike.”

He folds his hands. “You’ve studied me?”

You shrug. “I study everyone. Occupational hazard.”

“I’ve studied you, too.”

You lean back. “That sounds ominous.”

“I don’t mean it to be.” He pauses. “You were fast. In Indy. Efficient. Cut through the noise.”

You laugh once. “They said I was difficult. That I didn’t smile enough.”

“They say that about anyone who doesn’t need approval.”

You don’t say anything to that. Not yet.

The coffee arrives, and you both thank the lounge staff at the same time — reflexive, polite. You clock it. He does, too.

“So,” he says, resting one arm on the table. “What’s the endgame, really? Visibility? Disruption? A Netflix arc?”

You blink once, slowly. “You think I came here to be an influencer?”

“I think you came here knowing exactly how much attention your appointment would cause.”

“Of course I did,” you say. “But that’s not the end game. That’s just the noise.”

“Then what’s the signal?”

You study him. His eyes are sharp, sure. Not cruel, but relentless. There’s no wasted motion in the way he speaks, listens. You don’t hate it. You recognize it.

“The signal is innovation,” you say finally. “The car, the structure, the tech we’re developing — Cadillac didn’t join to sell more SUVs. We came because the sport needs a hard reset.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And you think you’re the one to do it.”

“No,” you say. “I know I’m the one who’s not afraid to try.”

Silence, but not heavy. Just considered.

Then he leans forward a little. “You don’t recognize tradition.”

You tilt your head. “And you don’t recognize innovation unless it’s wearing silver.”

He smiles, just barely. “That’s not true.”

“Oh? You didn’t try to bury the DAS system in regs the second someone else used it?”

“It wasn’t safe.”

“It wasn’t only yours anymore,” you say, sipping your coffee. “There’s a difference.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re not wrong.”

“Of course I’m not.”

Another pause. You watch people come and go behind the glass — engineers, interns, drivers. Nobody interrupts you. They all know better. This is what you came for. The real meetings never happen in FIA rooms. They happen like this — two people sitting across a table, pretending not to size each other up.

Toto finally speaks. “You could’ve joined any team. Taken an advisory role. Sat back. Why Cadillac? Why a full team principal position with a rookie team and a target the size of a billboard?”

You stir your coffee. “Because I’m tired of fixing other people’s broken systems. I want to build something from scratch. Something that doesn’t need politics to survive.”

“You think that’s possible here?”

You meet his gaze. “Not yet. But it will be. Eventually. Maybe not this season. Maybe not for a few. But it’s coming.”

“You’re going to get hit hard.”

You nod. “I’ve been hit harder.”

A flicker of something moves across his face — approval? Curiosity? You’re not sure.

“You were right about one thing,” you add. “I don’t care about fitting in. But I do care about impact.”

He nods slowly. “Then I suggest you learn how to play the long game.”

“Oh, I’m playing it. But not with the same pieces as you.”

He stands. Not abruptly. Not coldly. Just … finished.

You rise, too.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say.

He inclines his head. “Thanks for not flipping the table.”

“Yet.”

That earns a real laugh, short and clean.

You pause at the door, glance back. “By the way — your wind tunnel data’s off by 0.2 percent. Rear aero.”

He raises a brow. “How do you know that?”

You wink. “I read.”

Then you’re gone.

***

Back in the Cadillac garage, your lead engineer looks up from the pit wall.

“How was your playdate?”

You throw your headset down gently. “Exactly what I expected.”

He grins. “And?”

You shake your head. “He’s testing me.”

“Did you pass?”

“No idea,” you say. “But I think he did.”

The sun is lower now, but still sharp. You can feel the paddock humming again, whispers curling around your name, your car, your meetings. You let them talk.

Toto watches from across the way as you rejoin your team.

“She’s good,” says Shov, standing beside him now.

Toto doesn’t answer immediately. He watches as you lean in to talk with a mechanic, one hand on the front wing, completely in control of the chaos you’ve created.

“She’s dangerous,” Toto says.

He doesn’t sound worried. Not even a little.

He sounds … intrigued.

***

The Melbourne circuit is a festival of chaos and sunscreen. Fans draped in American flags chant CA-DIL-LAC like they’re tailgating a college football game, not watching a brand-new F1 team fumble its way through its first real Sunday.

You knew this race would be hard. You planned for it, trained for it, told everyone — including yourself — that the only goal was to finish clean.

But watching both your drivers sink like stones after Lap 15 is a different kind of pain.

The car looks fast on Fridays. Hell, it is fast in qualifying. Top ten for both drivers. You’d been calm on the pit wall then, headset snug against your ears, fingers steady on the tablet. You even let yourself believe it might hold.

But now, with ten laps to go, you’re crouched low beside the wall, headset slung around your neck like dead weight, watching the times drop sector by sector. The Caddy’s chewing through tires like they’re made of tissue paper. The balance is off. There’s understeer in the mid-speed corners. One driver is already radioing in frustration, the other’s silent. You hate the silence more.

“Y/N?” Your lead strategist calls, voice tinny in your earpiece. “We could try offsetting the stint, pit now and pray for a safety car-”

“No,” you say.

“It could-”

“No.”

He goes quiet. Everyone always goes quiet when you use that voice. The one you used in IndyCar when you were flying at 220 mph and someone told you to back off. The one that means: I’ll take the blame, but I’m not gambling just to gamble.

You don't speak for the rest of the race.

The checkered flag drops. P13 and P15. No points. You don’t move.

Eventually, the garage begins to wind down, packing gear, muttering half-hearted debriefs. You remove your headset. Stand. Leave the garage without a word.

You walk until you’re behind the pit wall again, away from the paddock, from the PR handlers and tech directors and sponsor-friendly excuses. You crouch low, same as during the race, elbows on knees, eyes on the empty straight like it might still hold some kind of answer.

It doesn’t.

Footsteps crunch softly behind you. You don’t look up.

Toto doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking out at the track beside you like he owns the whole place. Maybe he does.

Finally, his voice cuts through the still air.

“You don’t trust your engineers.”

You exhale through your nose. Not laughter, not quite. “That’s the problem, huh?”

He nods once. “One of them.”

You stand, slowly. Turn toward him. Your face is unreadable, but your eyes … your eyes are flint.

“I don’t trust anyone yet.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just studies you. Like a problem worth solving.

You cross your arms, lean your shoulder against the pit wall. “You think I don’t want to trust them? You think I enjoy second-guessing every call from the box, every predictive model that tells me what I should do while I watch my drivers skid through corners like amateurs?”

“No,” Toto says. “I think you were trained not to.”

That silences you. Just for a moment.

Then, voice low, “I was trained to win. In a world that didn’t expect me to survive, let alone lead.”

Toto nods. “And now?”

“Now I’m trying to lead a team that still thinks leadership means shouting louder than the telemetry.”

“You hired them.”

“I hired who was willing to jump off a cliff with me. Some of them are good. Some are bluffing. And I don’t have time to wait and see which is which when every second on track costs us ten in the media.”

Toto studies your face. You hate that he can see through you. Even more than that, you hate that you don’t want to hide.

“You miss being in the car,” he says.

The admission sits heavy in your chest, like a truth you didn’t mean to bring to the surface. You don’t answer.

“You think if you were driving, you’d have made up the time.”

Now you look at him. “I know I would’ve.”

“You would’ve overdriven it,” he says. “Tried to outmuscle the problem. It’s not the same up here.”

“I know it’s not the same.” The words come out sharp, bitter. “You think I haven’t figured that out every day since I handed my race suit to a kid half my age and told him to go make headlines?”

Toto doesn’t push. He just waits. You hate that, too.

You pace a few steps, then stop. The paddock is quieter now. The race over, the noise receding. Just the hum of logistics and engines cooling down. You’re too wired to sit, too angry to leave.

“You know what it is?” You say finally. “It’s not just the car. Or the engineers. It’s that I still see everything. Every line, every brake point, every corner entry. And I see where it’s going wrong in real time, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“You can do something about it,” Toto says. “But not everything.”

You glance at him. “That sounds suspiciously like advice.”

He smirks. “Just an observation.”

“You like doing that. Observing.”

“People reveal themselves when they’re losing.”

“And what have I revealed?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

“That you care more than you let on.”

You scoff. “That’s not a revelation.”

Toto shrugs. “Maybe not to you.”

A long silence stretches between you. Then you ask, almost idly, “Do you remember your first real loss as a team principal?”

He nods. “Nürburgring. 2013. We lost a front wing in Turn 2. Strategy failed. P9 and DNF.”

“And what did you do after?”

“I rebuilt the strategy department from the ground up. And hired someone who knew how to say no to me.”

You nod slowly. “Smart.”

“Painful,” he corrects. “But necessary.”

You glance down at your hands. They’re steady. They weren’t earlier, mid-race. You’d clenched the tablet so hard you left marks on the casing.

“Everyone told me to hire safe,” you say. “Experienced. People who’d been in the paddock for a decade.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because those people helped build the system I want to break.”

Toto’s expression shifts — something between surprise and admiration.

“And yet,” he says, “you still chose to play in the system.”

“I’m not here to burn it down. I’m here to prove it can be better.”

“And if it can’t?”

You hesitate.

“Then at least I’ll go out knowing I tried.”

There’s something raw in your voice now. Not broken. Just exposed. Toto sees it. That unrelenting belief in what this could be if you just had enough time, enough patience, enough people who gave a damn. But beneath it is the fear you don’t say aloud.

The fear that they won’t follow you.

Or worse, that they will and it still won’t be enough.

“You’re not going to get many more races like this,” Toto says, voice low. “Where no one expects anything. Where you can fail quietly.”

You nod. “I know.”

“So use them.”

You glance at him, a flicker of something like gratitude in your eyes, but it’s gone in an instant.

“Thanks for the unsolicited coaching.”

He smirks. “You’re welcome.”

You both linger in the quiet a moment longer.

Then he turns to go, footsteps slow and deliberate. Just before he disappears back toward the Mercedes motorhome, he calls over his shoulder — 

“Get some sleep. You’ll need it before Jeddah.”

You don’t answer. Just stare out at the track a moment longer.

The silence feels like failure. But beneath it, if you listen closely, there’s something else.

Resolve.

Because the difference between a broken team and a building one is just time.

And you’re not done yet.

***

The invitation arrives sealed in creamy card stock, embossed with the gold FIA crest as if that somehow softens the blow. You stare at it for a full minute before tossing it onto your desk like it’s radioactive.

“Absolutely not,” you tell your assistant without looking up.

“They said attendance is strongly encouraged.”

“So is hydration. Doesn’t mean I go to Dasani’s Christmas party.”

But hours later, after three different calls, two sponsor nudges, and one not-so-subtle email from an FIA board member about “team visibility,” you find yourself pulling on a sleek navy dress and walking into a dimly lit ballroom in London filled with too much money and too little sincerity.

The lighting is designed to make executives look interesting. It fails.

Waiters drift by with expensive wine and tiny hors d’oeuvres no one knows how to eat. Conversations bloom and die in corners. You scan the room. Everyone is here. Christian, already holding court like he’s emceeing his own eulogy. Andrea, pretending not to look bored. Zak, laughing too loudly.

You steel yourself. You can do this. Smile. Shake hands. Laugh politely at someone’s joke about American engineering.

Then you see the place card at your assigned seat and feel your stomach drop.

Y/N Y/L/N … right next to Toto Wolff.

“Of course,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into the chair just as he arrives, tall and too composed, dressed in black like he’s attending a private funeral for the concept of relaxation.

He sits with the grace of someone who’s done this too many times. “Evening.”

You nod. “They ran out of neutral corners?”

“I requested the seat.”

You blink. “Did you.”

“I was curious if you’d still try to escape halfway through the salad course.”

“That depends. Is the salad course edible?”

The corners of his mouth twitch, and just like that, the chill between you begins to thaw.

The dinner begins with toasts from people you don’t care about, celebrating values they don’t uphold. “Innovation.” “Excellence.” “Legacy.” You sip wine through the speeches and feel your spine calcify.

Toto leans in, voice low. “Do you think they rehearse those?”

“Oh, for sure,” you whisper. “Some poor intern had to time that speech to match the fireworks on the highlight reel.”

He chuckles softly, and you hate that it warms something in you.

By the second course, the wine is flowing freely and the table’s conversations splinter off. You swirl your glass, lean back, and eye him.

“So what made you request the seat, really? Curiosity? Strategy? Morbid fascination?”

He shrugs. “You interest me.”

“That’s vague.”

“So are you.”

You look away. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like you think we’re similar.”

“We are.”

You snort. “You think you’re like me?”

“I think we both don’t sleep,” he says, without missing a beat. “I think we both control more than we show. And I think we’ve both lost something that changed the shape of everything after.”

You go still.

He doesn’t push. Just sips his wine and looks out over the room.

You let the silence linger before asking, carefully, “What did you lose?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, finally, “Control. In 2021. The final race.” A pause. “I thought we were prepared for every scenario. We weren’t.”

Your voice is quieter now. “How long did it take to come back from that?”

He thinks. “I’m not sure we have.”

You nod, slowly. “I remember watching it. I was halfway through rehab. Crutches, ice machine, full of pain meds. Screamed at the TV like it was a horror movie.”

His brow lifts. “Rehab?”

You glance down. This part you don’t talk about often.

“There was a crash. IndyCar. Mid-season. Rear suspension failure at speed. Hit the wall at 220. Didn’t wake up for three minutes.”

He says nothing. Doesn’t pity. Doesn’t interrupt.

You keep going.

“Broke my femur. Collapsed lung. Grade three concussion. They told me I’d walk with a limp. I told them I had a sponsor dinner in three weeks.” You smile faintly. “The sponsor was Cadillac.”

He’s watching you now with a different kind of intensity. Not evaluative. Something softer. Earnest.

“They brought me on after,” you say. “Not just as a driver, but as part of the R&D think tank. I couldn’t race, so I built. Helped design simulator feedback loops, performance modeling.” You pause. “Three months later, they offered me a job that didn’t involve a steering wheel.”

Toto is quiet for a long moment.

“And you said yes.”

“I said I’d think about it. Then my former team tried to pin the crash on me to cover the parts failure.” You laugh once, dry. “Suddenly, I didn’t feel so sentimental about staying a driver.”

He studies you. “So this wasn’t your dream.”

“No,” you say. “This was my decision.”

That lands between you like a stone in water. Heavy, slow, true.

You glance around. The dinner’s winding down. Someone’s giving a speech that no one is listening to. Laughter bubbles at another table. Glasses clink.

Toto leans in again. “Do you miss it?”

You nod. “Every day.”

“And would you go back?”

You take a breath. “If I thought it would change anything? No. I gave everything I had to a system that didn’t protect me. Now I want to build something that does.”

His gaze softens. “And you don’t trust anyone to help.”

You meet his eyes. “Would you?”

“No.”

You laugh. This time it’s real.

Something shifts in the space between you. The air feels quieter. The noise of the room fades. It’s not romantic — not yet — but it’s intimate. Honest.

You realize you’re still looking at him. And he’s still looking at you.

That’s your cue.

You stand, smooth your dress.

“Leaving already?” He asks.

“I hate long goodbyes.”

You don’t say goodbye.

You leave through the side entrance, past the press, into the cold London night. Your car’s parked by the curb, driver waiting.

You open the door, slide in, close it-

A knock on the window.

You blink. Lower it.

Toto.

“I’m walking,” he says. “But I figured I’d see you off.”

You look at him, uncertain.

“I meant what I said,” he adds.

“About what?”

“You don’t trust anyone-”

You open your mouth to argue.

“But I’d like to change that,” he finishes.

You stare at the hum for a second too long.

He doesn’t smile. Just waits.

And for once, you don’t know what to say.

The driver asks, “Shall we go, ma’am?”

You nod.

But you look back at Toto once more before the car pulls away.

And he’s still there. Still watching.

Like maybe, just maybe, you’re worth believing in.

***

The news breaks on a Tuesday. Always a Tuesday.

You’re mid-strategy call, marker pen in hand, sketching out a race-weekend plan across three whiteboards when someone clears their throat behind you.

“Y/N,” your assistant says, hesitant. “You might want to see this.”

You glance back, ready to wave it off. You hate interruptions. But then you see her expression — careful, cautious, like she’s delivering news about a death in the family.

“What is it?”

She hands you a tablet. You don’t recognize the site at first. Not motorsport. Not serious. But the headline is loud enough to punch through:

PADDOCK POWER COUPLE? F1 INSIDERS WHISPER ABOUT CADILLAC’S Y/L/N AND MERCEDES BOSS WOLFF

You scroll. The article is trash — pure speculation, stitched together with blurry photos from the FIA dinner in London and a conveniently timed sighting of you both walking near the paddock in Jeddah. But the tone drips with implication. Power imbalance. Bedroom politics. A sidebar wonders aloud if your rapid climb in F1 might have “benefitted” from “strategic alliances.”

You feel your stomach clench.

“Who leaked this?” You demand, voice cold.

“We’re still checking. But it’s … making rounds.”

The article’s already been picked up by a dozen smaller outlets. Social media’s chewing on it like raw meat. You know how fast this kind of thing spreads. Especially when you’re the only woman in the paddock running a team. Especially when the man in question happens to run Mercedes.

You head straight for the Mercedes hospitality.

Toto’s in a meeting when you arrive. You don’t wait. You walk straight in.

The room goes silent.

“Toto,” you say, curt. “Now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Everyone out,” he says calmly.

The engineers file out quickly, eyes flicking between the two of you like they’re fleeing an earthquake.

Once the door shuts, you round on him.

“You leaked it.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Excuse me?”

“You think I wouldn’t notice the timing? The angle? It frames you like some kind of generous kingmaker and me like a fame-hungry idiot with good hair.”

“I don’t write gossip columns.”

“No, but you have people. And you like to control the story.”

He stands, slow and deliberate. He’s taller than you, but you don’t back down. Not even a millimeter.

“I don’t use people like that,” he says, voice low, tight. “Not even you.”

You blink. The sharpness of it cuts through your anger. But you don’t let it go yet.

“I’ve been here three races and already someone’s trying to rewrite my career into a tabloid plotline.”

“Yes,” he says. “Welcome to F1.”

That sets you off again. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m telling you that if I wanted to manipulate you, you wouldn’t know until you were already dancing to my music. And you’re not.”

You narrow your eyes. “Flattering. So you admit there’s a game being played.”

“There’s always a game being played.”

“And what’s yours?”

He meets your gaze, unwavering. “I don’t like what they’re saying about you. Not because of me. Because you’ve earned better.”

That stops you.

You step back, slightly. Your heartbeat’s too fast, your jaw tight. You hate how much the article got to you. How much it still matters what people think, even after everything you’ve survived.

He doesn’t press.

You leave without another word.

***

It’s nearly 9 p.m. when the truth comes out.

Your head of comms calls, voice tight.

“We traced the leak. It was your junior driver’s agent. The oldest one. He tipped off a reporter. Was trying to get him a reserve driver slot with Mercedes. Thought the buzz would make him more marketable.”

You stare at the floor of your office, fury blooming again — but now it’s cleaner, more directed. And shame colors the edges. You’d aimed at the wrong target.

“Did Mercedes bite?”

“No,” she says. “Toto shut it down personally.”

You hang up. Let the phone sit heavy in your lap.

Then you stand.

***

The paddock is quiet at night. Crews have mostly gone home. The media’s packed up. The motorhomes hum softly under security lights, like sleeping giants.

You find him in the Mercedes motorhome. Lights dim, one lamp glowing in the corner. He’s alone, reading something on his phone. A glass of wine at his elbow.

He looks up as you enter. Says nothing.

You cross the room and stop beside his table.

“You were right,” you say softly.

He tilts his head. “About which thing?”

You hesitate. “Not using people.”

He gestures to the empty seat. You sit.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a long pause. “I was angry. And humiliated. And I thought-”

“You thought I was like everyone else.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He takes a slow sip of wine, then sets the glass down.

“You said it yourself,” he murmurs. “You don’t trust anyone yet.”

You glance at him. There’s no judgment in his voice. Just fact. Like he’s holding it up, not to shame you, but to understand you better.

“Why did you shut it down?” You ask.

“Because I wouldn’t want someone like that on my team. And because … I care what they say about you. Even if you don’t care what they say about me.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

A long silence stretches between you. The kind that used to feel awkward, but now feels full — weighted, not empty.

You reach for the bottle between you and pour a second glass. He slides it toward you, fingertips brushing lightly against yours.

You don’t pull away.

Another beat passes.

You take a sip. Then ask, quietly, “Do you miss when it was simple?”

He chuckles. “It was never simple.”

“When you were still just … managing people and not empires.”

Toto leans back in his chair. “The first time I sat on the pit wall, I thought, this is it. This is the dream. Then I realized the dream was mostly budgeting spreadsheets and answering questions about tire strategy on live TV.”

You smile faintly. “Still. You’ve built something.”

“So have you.”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You look down, quiet again. The warmth of the wine lingers in your chest. So does his voice.

After a long stretch, you whisper, “Sometimes I feel like if I stop moving for one second, it’ll all fall apart.”

His voice softens. “And what if it doesn’t?”

You shake your head. “I can’t afford that kind of hope.”

A silence falls, but it’s not empty.

It’s full of everything unsaid.

You glance at his hand — resting on the table, fingers splayed. His other cradles the wine glass, but he isn’t drinking anymore. Just watching you.

He reaches out — lightly, deliberately — and his fingers brush yours. Just a whisper of contact.

You don’t pull away.

Not tonight.

There’s no kiss. No dramatic gesture. Just quiet. Contact. A kind of peace neither of you are used to.

He doesn’t say anything more.

And for once, neither do you.

***

The skies over Imola threaten rain all weekend, but never follow through. It’s worse than an actual storm — this looming, suspended tension that makes everyone twitchy, including you. Your engineers bicker over tire strategies, your drivers don’t trust the brake upgrades, and the data simulator is doing its best impression of a brick wall.

By the time Sunday arrives, you’ve slept four hours total in three nights and consumed more espresso than should legally be allowed.

But something clicks.

Maybe it’s the revised pit strategy. Maybe it’s the aggressive tire call on Lap 32. Maybe it’s just sheer, stubborn Cadillac will. Whatever it is, the car flies.

You don’t dare breathe during the final ten laps.

P3 is right there. Right in front of you.

When your lead driver crosses the line in fourth — just half a second off the podium — you swear the collective scream from your garage could level the surrounding trees.

It isn’t a trophy. But it’s proof.

Cadillac belongs.

You belong.

The moment feels … huge. Humbling. Everyone’s hugging. Someone pops a bottle of something probably not FIA-legal. Your driver tackles you in a sweaty embrace and you laugh for the first time in what feels like a month.

You stay late, long after the broadcast ends, surrounded by the people who have been pulling miracles from underfunded wings and sleepless nights. Mechanics. Data analysts. Your aero guy who hasn’t taken a full weekend off since Bahrain.

You’re still in the garage when the paddock starts emptying out. Your hair’s in a messy bun, race suit tied around your waist, black Cadillac t-shirt soaked with beer and effort.

You don’t notice Toto standing across the way, outside the Mercedes garage, arms folded, watching you.

He doesn’t interrupt. Just smiles to himself. Quiet. Almost proud.

You’re not his, he thinks. You belong to yourself.

And that’s so much better.

***

You stare at the hotel ceiling for thirty minutes before giving in.

You don’t want to be alone. Not tonight. Not with this weird ache in your chest that’s part adrenaline, part exhaustion, part something you can’t name.

You don’t even think about it. You just throw on a hoodie over your sleep shirt and walk down the hotel corridor barefoot, still slightly buzzed on the ghost of the race.

His door is ajar.

He opens it before you knock.

You blink. “Were you expecting someone?”

He leans on the doorframe, not smiling. Not serious. “Not exactly.”

You exhale. “Can I come in?”

He steps back. “Always.”

His suite is quiet. Low lighting. A decanter on the table, half-full. A few race notes open on a tablet, abandoned. He closes it as you walk in.

“Sorry. I should’ve — this was probably stupid.”

“You want to be alone but not alone,” he says, like he’s read this chapter before.

You nod. “Is that allowed?”

He tilts his head. “With me? Yes.”

You sit on the edge of the couch. He offers you a drink. You decline. He pours you water instead.

Silence stretches.

“So,” he says eventually. “P4.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I didn’t think we’d make it out of Q2 this weekend. Then the car just … worked.”

“It was aggressive,” he says. “Risky strategy.”

“I had to trust the numbers. And my gut.”

“Did it feel like being back in the car?”

You glance at him. “Exactly like that. Except worse. Because now I’m responsible for six hundred people and not just me.”

“Do you regret it?” He asks. “This life?”

You think about it.

“No,” you say. “But it’s lonelier than I thought it’d be.”

He doesn’t answer. Just sits next to you on the couch, not close enough to touch, but not far either.

You lean your head back.

“I used to think even the little wins would feel more final. Like they’d fix something. Or earn back everything I lost.”

“And now?”

“Now I think they’re just proof you survived long enough to try again.”

He nods. “That’s all this sport is. Trying again.”

You’re quiet.

And then, because it’s late and you’re exhausted and this version of the world feels gentler than the one outside, you ask, “What were you like before all this?”

He smiles faintly. “Angrier. Less patient. I thought I could control everything.”

“Bet that worked out well.”

“I crashed a GT3 car into a wall at Red Bull Ring once because I didn’t want to lose to a guy half my age. Broke three ribs. Didn’t tell anyone.”

You laugh. “Seriously?”

He nods. “Pain is a better teacher than pride.”

You watch him for a moment.

“There’s something I haven’t told anyone,” you say. “Not even my team.”

He looks at you, waiting.

“I still hear the crash sometimes. In my dreams. It’s never loud. Just … this sharp silence before everything shatters. I wake up before the impact.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just sits still.

“It’s not that I want to drive again,” you continue. “I just want to stop remembering.”

Toto’s voice is quiet. “That doesn’t go away. But it stops owning you.”

You look down at your hands.

“You know,” you say softly, “for someone so famously calculating, you’re weirdly good at this.”

“At what?”

“This. Being … human.”

He shrugs. “Takes practice.”

You don’t realize how close he’s sitting until your shoulders brush.

But he doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t touch you. Just sits with you.

You fall asleep like that. On the couch, legs tucked under you, head tilted back, listening to the sound of his quiet breathing beside you.

***

When you wake, it’s still dark.

You’re not on the couch anymore.

You’re in his bed. Still fully clothed. The covers pulled gently around you.

Toto’s on the couch now, asleep, arms folded, as if he’s been guarding something.

The ache in your chest is different this morning. Deeper.

You slide out of bed quietly. Pad over to him.

He stirs.

“You should’ve let me stay on the couch,” you whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d sleep like that.”

You hesitate.

“Thank you,” you say.

He nods. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t ask for anything.

And that’s somehow what unravels you most.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone wanted nothing from you except to let you rest.

And you have no idea what to do with that kind of kindness.

So you just stand there, caught in the early morning light and everything unsaid between you.

Not lovers. Not yet.

But something real.

And quietly — terrifyingly — you realize you don’t want to lose it.

***

Toto pulls away the next weekend.

No message. No follow-up. Nothing.

He nods at you in the paddock like you’re just another team principal. His smile is neutral, professional, precise. Mercedes posts their usual press photos — clean, sterile, branded to hell. Your name doesn’t pass his lips.

And you know what this is.

He’s building a wall.

You see it in the stiff set of his shoulders at the team principals' meeting in Spain. The clipped tone he uses when you pass him in the paddock in Montreal. You say “morning.” He says “yep.”

You want to punch something. Preferably him.

But instead, you bury yourself in upgrades. Your tech director calls it obsessive. Your engineers call it inspiring. You call it survival.

The new front wing design works in the wind tunnel. You burn through simulations like caffeine, throw out half the aero plan and rebuild it from scratch. Every sleepless night, every ignored text, every time you walk past Toto and feel nothing from him fuels you like gasoline.

You tell your team: Silverstone is ours. They believe you.

It starts raining during FP2.

You grin at the sky like it’s personal.

***

You don’t speak to Toto all weekend.

Not during track walks. Not during press conferences. Not even when your drivers both qualify in the top six and the entire paddock starts whispering that Cadillac might actually do it.

And then race day comes.

And you finally snap.

He’s in the pit lane before the race, talking to someone from Pirelli. You see him out of the corner of your eye as you’re checking tire pressures with your race engineer.

You don’t even think about it.

You march across the line.

“Hey.”

He turns. Sees you. Hesitates. “Y/N.”

You’re already furious. His voice — his face — ignites something in your chest that feels suspiciously like heartbreak but tastes like gasoline.

“I get it,” you say. “You pulled back. You’re scared. Fine. But at least have the spine to say it to my face.”

He glances around. The pit lane’s crowded, noisy, full of mechanics and techs and photographers. It doesn’t matter. You’re locked in.

“I’m not scared,” he says.

You step closer. “Then what is it? You changed overnight. One minute I wake up in your hotel room, and the next you’re acting like I’m a PR liability.”

“You’re not.”

“Then stop treating me like one.”

“I’m treating you like someone who terrifies me.”

That halts you.

You blink. “What?”

Toto runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You terrify me. Because you make me forget how much this job costs. How many knives are out. How easy it is to lose everything.”

“And?”

“And I like it. I like you. Too much.”

You stare at him.

“Then say it,” you demand.

“I just did.”

“No. Say the part where you let yourself want something. Say the part where you’re not a control freak running scared because someone finally sees you.”

“You don’t get it,” he says, voice low. “I can’t afford the distraction.”

“You think I can?” You snap. “You think I can afford to feel anything and still wake up every morning knowing the sport I bled for will never respect me the way it respects you?”

Toto’s jaw tightens.

“I see you,” you say, softer now. “Even when you hide. I still see you.”

He doesn’t answer.

Then the call comes over the loudspeaker. “Formation lap in thirty.”

You walk away first. No dramatic exit. Just one last glance.

His eyes are still on you.

***

The rain starts on Lap 23.

It’s light at first — enough to make the track glisten, not enough for inters. Half the grid hesitates. The other half spins.

Your radio explodes with chatter.

“Front’s going — too slick — should we box?”

Your lead driver’s voice is ragged with tension.

Your race engineer is mid-debate when you pull the headset off him and grab the mic yourself.

“Box now,” you say. “Full inters. Don’t argue.”

The pit crew isn’t ready. You scream at them through the rain.

“Get the tires! Now! Get the goddamn tires!”

It’s chaos. But somehow, your driver’s in and out faster than the Red Bull next to him. Two laps later, half the grid is pitting. The other half is aquaplaning off the track.

You take a deep breath.

“Tell him to defend like hell. We are not giving this away.”

***

Cadillac wins its first Grand Prix on Lap 52 of a rain-soaked Silverstone.

Your driver screams across the radio. Your garage erupts. Mechanics cry. Engineers kiss. Your comms chief sprints into your arms like a lunatic and you let her because right now you’ve done it.

You did it.

You lift the headset off, rain slicking down your arms.

The trophy is heavy and ridiculous. Champagne stings your eyes. The Star-Spangled Banner plays, and for a moment, the sound of thousands of people screaming drowns out everything else.

You scan the crowd from the podium.

Toto isn’t there.

You search for him anyway.

He’s already gone.

***

Back at the garage, they replay the race on the screens while your team takes selfies with the trophy. Someone made an edit out of your pit wall scream. You’re soaked and exhausted and still vibrating with adrenaline, but all you can think is he wasn’t even there.

Your assistant hands you a towel. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you lie.

“You sure?”

You look up at the sky. Rain’s easing now. The world smells like wet tarmac and victory.

“I’m not sure of anything,” you say. “But we won.”

She smiles. “That’s something.”

You nod.

But it’s not everything.

Not tonight.

***

It’s Friday. Spa. The garage smells like rubber and heat and stress, like it always does when qualifying’s creeping up and the sensors keep glitching. You’re elbow-deep in a conversation about tire deg curves when someone taps your shoulder.

You turn, expecting your race engineer or maybe a PR rep with bad news.

Instead, it’s Toto Wolff.

You blink.

He’s standing there in black Mercedes team kit, sunglasses hooked in his collar, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only person in the damn paddock.

You say, sharp as ever, “Lost, Wolff?”

“No.”

“You’re in enemy territory.”

“I’m aware.”

Your crew is watching from the corners of their eyes, pretending not to. Someone coughs awkwardly.

You nod toward the back. “Office.”

He follows you through the garage, past spare parts and laptops and the low hum of tension. Inside your office, you shut the door. The silence is sudden and thick.

You cross your arms. “What?”

Toto doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands in front of your desk like he’s about to confess to corporate espionage.

“I watched Silverstone,” he says.

You arch a brow. “Congratulations. You and seventy-five million others.”

“I watched you.”

Something in your stomach tenses.

He swallows. “I left because I was afraid. Of the distraction. Of what this could cost me. Of how easily you could undo me without even trying.”

You stay still.

He takes a step closer.

“But I’m tired of safety,” he says. “I’m tired of guarding everything I’ve built like it’s sacred when it’s already broken. You make me want to risk things I’ve spent over a decade protecting.”

You feel the breath leave your body.

“Toto,” you start.

“No,” he interrupts, voice low and serious and unmistakably yours. “Let me finish.”

You let him.

“I haven’t slept right since Imola. I think about you when I watch your pit wall react to strategy calls. I read your press conferences just to see if you mention me. I see you with your team, and I think this is what it’s supposed to look like. Not the polished machine I’ve kept running on habit and fear.”

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He steps even closer.

“And the worst part is, I don’t want to stop.”

You inhale, slow and sharp. “Then don’t.”

The kiss isn’t soft.

It’s not gentle or delicate or romantic in the storybook sense.

It’s need. Weeks of it. Months, maybe. Pinned under frustration and silence and professionalism.

His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting to memorize it. Your fingers dig into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear again. His mouth is warm, urgent, a little desperate. Yours is no better.

You pull back once. Just enough to say, “Close the door properly.”

He does.

***

His suite smells like coffee and paper. His race notes are scattered across the desk. You don’t even get halfway to the bed before he’s kissing you again — slower this time, but no less hungry.

He doesn’t rush.

And neither do you.

Because if this is a bad decision, you’re going to make it the best bad decision either of you has ever had.

You undress him carefully. He does the same, unhurried, reverent. He touches your shoulder like it’s something holy. You run your hands down his spine like you want to remember how his body fits against yours.

The bed is large and too white, but he warms it like he’s made of fire.

The intimacy isn't in the sex itself — it’s in the way he kisses your throat afterward, in the way you curl into his chest without asking, in the way his hand finds yours under the covers like a reflex.

You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder.

He breathes evenly for the first time in months.

***

You wake to the smell of coffee.

His room is flooded with pale Belgian morning light. Your clothes are still scattered, but you don’t care. You find his white Mercedes button-up hanging over the back of a chair and shrug it on. The sleeves drown your hands. The collar smells like him — clean, expensive, slightly burned espresso.

You walk barefoot into the suite’s kitchen area.

He’s standing over a French press, eyebrows furrowed, as if he’s trying to solve an engineering problem with the water temperature.

He glances up. His expression softens the second he sees you.

“You’re stealing my shirt,” he says.

“It’s not stealing if you weren’t wearing it.”

He hands you a mug. “That’s not how shirts work.”

“It is now.”

You both sit at the table, quiet for a few beats. It’s domestic. Too domestic. You in his shirt, him sipping coffee in boxers and half-mussed hair.

You glance at him over the rim of your mug. “So. What now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m not going to disappear again.”

You nod slowly.

“I’m still Cadillac,” you say.

“I know.”

“You’re still Mercedes.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“And this is … very stupid.”

“It’s the stupidest thing I’ve done in years.”

You grin. “Good. I hate being the only reckless one.”

He leans back, watching you. “I’m serious, Y/N. This won’t be simple.”

“I know.”

“There will be questions.”

“There always are.”

He watches you for a long moment. “You’re not scared?”

“I am,” you say honestly. “But I’ve been scared before. Didn’t stop me then either.”

He smiles.

You drink your coffee. The silence between you isn’t awkward anymore. It’s thick with possibility.

Eventually, you stand. “I should go. FP3 in a few.”

He stands too. “I’ll see you on track.”

You smirk. “Try not to stare too hard.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

You walk to the door. He follows.

Before you leave, he says, voice low, “I meant what I said. You make me want things I thought I buried.”

You kiss him one more time — just soft enough to make him curse under his breath.

“I’ll see you out there,” you say.

And then you walk back into the world, still wearing his shirt, heart beating faster than it ever did in a race car.

***

It starts with a headline.

Love in the Wolff Den: F1 Power Couple or Conflict of Interest?

Then come the blurry photos. Your hand on his chest. His fingers brushing your jaw. Grainy, flash-washed shots snapped from across a Stavelot hotel lobby that make everything look sleazier than it was.

It spreads like wildfire. Not just gossip sites, but major outlets — Sky, Motorsport, Bloomberg, for God’s sake. Everyone with a byline and an opinion suddenly thinks they understand what this is, what you are.

And then come the calls.

Not from your comms team. Not from PR.

From the board.

You’re standing in the middle of Cadillac’s race operations suite in Indiana when it comes in — your CFO, voice clipped, polite, fake. He phrases it delicately, like it’s your idea. Optics, you understand. Just a temporary step back, maybe for the rest of the season. Let things cool off. He uses the word “professionalism” three times in one sentence. You count.

“You’re asking me to sideline myself,” you say, tone dangerously calm. “Over a man.”

“It’s not that-”

“It is that.”

“There’s pressure. External. The headlines are framing it as a conflict. You’re both decision-makers. If this were a boardroom-”

“It’s not a boardroom. It’s a goddamn pit lane.”

He doesn’t argue. Which pisses you off more.

***

Toto’s phone doesn’t stop buzzing either.

He ignores it until it starts vibrating his desk.

Shaila barges in. “You need to respond.”

“I have,” he says, flipping through tire comp analysis. “I told them I wasn’t leaking strategy to my girlfriend over breakfast.”

She blinks. “You called her your girlfriend?”

He glances up. “That’s the word everyone else is using.”

“Okay,” she says carefully. “Well. The shareholders want a closed-door call. Today. They’re throwing around words like ‘governance’ and ‘interteam transparency.’”

He exhales through his nose. His jaw tightens.

“Tell them I’ll take the call after I finish reviewing the telemetry,” he says. “But if they suggest I pull back from managing the team over something that hasn’t affected a single race outcome, I’ll remind them that Ferrari and McLaren literally ran a married couple in engineering for five years.”

“Noted,” Shaila says, and walks out with the speed of someone who wants to live.

***

You don’t talk for three days.

Not because you’re angry at each other.

Because you’re both working.

Because the world is watching.

Because you’re trying — maybe futilely — to hold your ground.

You’re staring at a mockup of the new rear wing, not really seeing it, when Derek, your number two, comes into your office.

“You’re going to want to see this,” he says.

You look up. “Is it a fire?”

“Sort of.”

He turns the monitor toward you.

You squint.

It’s a live press conference. Mercedes-branded backdrop. Toto behind the mic.

Someone off-camera asks, “Toto, with recent rumors about your relationship with Cadillac’s team principal, how do you respond to those saying it presents a conflict of interest?”

He doesn’t even flinch.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that it’s interesting how quickly some people invoke ‘conflict of interest’ when a woman dares to take up space at the same table.”

Your breath catches.

“In this sport,” he continues, “we celebrate cutthroat negotiations. Aggressive contracts. Power plays. But the second a woman builds something formidable, people start calling it a threat.”

He’s calm. Surgical. But you can see the steel under his words.

“I have not compromised my team. She has not compromised hers. We are professionals. We are rivals. And if anyone believes the existence of mutual respect — or affection — between two team principals undermines the integrity of the championship, perhaps their issue isn’t with governance. It’s with equality.”

Someone tries to interrupt. He cuts them off with a single glance.

“And for the record,” he adds, “she’s done more in four months to shake this sport out of its stagnation than most of us have in ten years. I suggest we stop punishing her for succeeding.”

The clip ends.

Derek looks at you. “That was a choice.”

You stare at the screen for a long time.

Then you stand.

“Cancel my dinner with marketing,” you say. “And get me a driver to the hotel.”

***

It’s late. You don’t knock.

Toto opens the door like he’s been expecting you.

You step inside. Neither of you says anything for a beat.

He closes the door behind you. “I didn’t do it for a thank you.”

“Good,” you say. “Because you’re not getting one.”

A pause.

You look at him, all carefully unbuttoned collar and tired eyes, and say, quieter now, “But I saw it.”

“I meant it,” he says simply.

You sit down on the edge of the couch. Your hands are still curled into fists.

“You know I almost agreed to step back?” You admit. “Just for a second. I thought maybe it would make everything easier.”

“And then?”

You look up. “And then I realized I didn’t fight this hard to build something just to let them push me out the second I’m inconvenient.”

He watches you. “No. You didn’t.”

You swallow. “You didn’t have to speak up.”

“Yes,” he says, crossing to you, “I did.”

He kneels in front of you, hands resting on your knees.

“This sport chews people up,” he says. “It makes us choose between the parts of ourselves we care about most. But you … you make me remember why I cared in the first place.”

You study him. His face is open, unguarded in a way you don’t think he’s ever allowed himself to be on purpose.

You speak slowly. “We’re both trying to build empires.”

He nods. “Yes.”

“Let’s see if we can share one.”

His smile is small. Real. “God help Formula 1.”

You lean in.

This kiss is different.

It’s not born from tension or defiance. It’s something else. An alignment. A decision.

You don’t say you love him. Not yet.

But it’s there. In the way your hand rests on his cheek. In the way he kisses you like he’s found a home.

***

The next morning, a headline reads:

WOLFF AND Y/L/N: FORMULA 1’S NEW POWER COUPLE GOES PUBLIC

You sip your coffee and shrug.

Toto glances over. “You’re not going to throw your phone this time?”

You grin. “Depends. Did you leak it?”

He raises a brow. “Did you want me to leak it?”

You laugh.

And then the day begins.

Because empires don’t build themselves.

But maybe you don’t have to build them alone.

[thatonegrimm]

🌙 Saja Boys – Drabbles # 12

🧿 Jinu – “Too Much Eye Contact” 

You locked eyes with Jinu across the room.

It wasn’t intentional. You were just scanning for something—your phone, maybe a charger—and there he was.

Sitting quietly in the corner, legs crossed, arms resting on his knees.

Staring directly at you.

Most people glance away when you catch them. Jinu didn’t. He held it. One second. Two. Three.

Like he was waiting for you to notice.

Your grip on your cup tightened.

You raised an eyebrow. What?

He tilted his head, just a little. What do you mean, what?

Still no words.

Something in your chest fluttered—sharp and sudden.

You looked away first.

But the weight of that look stayed. Lingering like heat on your skin.

Later, when you passed him in the hallway, he didn’t say anything.

He just bumped your shoulder lightly and murmured your name under his breath. Like punctuation.

You didn’t ask what it meant.

You just… felt it.

💪 Abby – “Your Voice” 

“Say it again,” Abby said suddenly.

You paused mid-bite. “What?”

“That thing about the dumplings. How you like them best with the crispy edge.”

You blinked. “Uh… why?”

He shrugged. “Just like hearing you talk. Especially when it’s about stuff you love.”

You laughed, unsure how to process that level of unexpected sincerity. “Okay, wow. That’s… kind of romantic.”

He flushed. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird.”

He grinned, then looked down at his bowl.

“I dunno,” he added. “Sometimes I don’t know what to say. But when you talk like that, I feel like I get to know you better.”

Your heart thudded once, too loud.

He glanced back up, smile smaller now. “So say it again?”

So you did.

And this time, you saw the way he listened. Really listened. Like it mattered.

📚 Mystery – “Midnight Snack”

You were sneaking into the kitchen like a criminal—socks barely touching the floor, phone flashlight guiding your path—when you froze.

Mystery was already there.

Standing in the faint glow of the fridge, backlit and silent. Eating dry cereal straight from the box with monk-like composure.

You whispered, “That’s cursed behavior.”

He looked over his shoulder, totally unfazed. “It’s efficient.”

You padded over, grabbing the edge of the counter. “Don’t you want a bowl?”

“I’m not a bowl person,” he replied.

You stared. “What does that mean?”

He nudged the box toward you.

You took a handful and leaned against the fridge with him in companionable, 3AM silence.

He added, “You always come down around this time. I figured I’d run into you eventually.”

You glanced sideways.

He didn’t look at you, but his voice softened: “Glad I did.”

💋 Romance – “Makeup Room” 

The makeup room lights were warm, but Romance glowed on his own.

You walked in, mid-sentence, and stopped short. He was seated at the mirror, eyeliner half-done, lips already tinted. One hand lifted to fix his hair, the other lazily flipping a brush between his fingers.

He saw you watching. Smiled.

“Do I look pretty?” he asked.

You exhaled. “You know you do.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I want to hear you say it.”

You swallowed thickly. “You look stunning.”

The smile didn’t fade. Just… changed. Softer. Real.

He turned slightly, no longer facing the mirror. Now he was facing you.

“You look at me like I’m more than that,” he murmured.

Your voice caught.

He gave you a chance to say something. But you didn’t.

So he just went back to his eyeliner, as if he hadn’t gutted you.

The silence wasn’t awkward. Just honest.

🔥 Baby – “Spicy” 

You took one bite of his fire noodles. Immediate regret.

Tears welled in your eyes. Your mouth sizzled. You reached for the nearest drink and coughed like your ancestors felt the spice.

Baby sat across from you, smirking like he’d won something.

“Too much?” he asked.

“This isn’t food,” you wheezed. “It’s revenge.”

He handed over his drink without a word. “I warned you.”

“Barely!”

“You said you could handle it.”

You glared. “My tongue is in the astral plane.”

He snorted. “Your face is really red. It’s kinda cute.”

You flipped him off with trembling hands. He grinned wider.

Later—when you were still sniffling and dramatically sprawled on the couch—he appeared with cold milk and your favorite snack.

“Still think you’re tough,” he muttered, placing them gently beside you.

You didn’t say anything.

But you let him sit next to you.

And he didn’t move away.

M-List

Taglist: @honey-and-sweetdreams @lyunsafebubble @moonlit-koraline @reixtsu @ghostiiess 

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ Only You

Warnings: Suggestive (non-explicit), first time, intimacy, emotional vulnerability, soft romantic angst, post-love scene crying (happy), deep devotion. I acyually don't know if this qualifies as smut. . .? Reader & Damian are both aged up!

The room is quiet.

Sea breeze brushes through the gauzy curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. A record hums in the background—instrumental and slow, a waltz meant for bare feet and quiet longing.

And Damian is watching her.

He’s standing near the balcony doors, shirt undone, moonlight painting his skin in silver ribbons. His body is sculpted with lean muscle, scarred like a story written across every inch—each mark a chapter, each bruise once a battlefield. But it’s his eyes that hold her. Always his eyes.

Steady. Alive. Vulnerable.

He doesn’t speak as she steps forward. Just watches. As if words might break the spell.

She’s wrapped in white. A robe tied loosely at the waist, her collarbone bare, glowing. Her hair is damp from their earlier walk on the beach. She smells like vanilla and salt.

Damian breathes in—soft, reverent. Then, voice low:

“Are you sure?”

She nods.

“I’ve always been sure about you.”

His throat bobs. He looks at her like a man standing on the edge of something sacred. Then steps forward, slowly, like he’s afraid to shatter her just by being near.

She lifts trembling fingers and touches his jaw. It’s rough with stubble, soft where it curves toward his neck. His eyes flutter closed. Her thumb brushes beneath his eye, then trails to his mouth.

His lips part around a breath.

She kisses him.

It’s soft, at first. Testing. Curious. Like fingers brushing across piano keys before a song begins.

But when he exhales against her—really exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the day they met—his arms find her waist, his hands cradle her spine, and everything deepens.

He kisses her like it hurts.

Like he’s been starved for something only she can give. Not lust. Not need. But devotion. The kind of hunger reserved for temples and prophets. The kind that makes a man fall to his knees.

When their lips part, he presses his forehead to hers. He’s breathing like he’s run for miles.

“You undo me,” he whispers.

She laughs softly, brushing her nose against his. “That’s the point.”

His hands slip into her hair.

And slowly, with infinite care, he kisses her again.

This time it burns.

It’s a kiss that opens her chest like a prayer. It makes her toes curl and her spine arch and her soul quake in the quietest, most beautiful way. His mouth maps her—slow, deliberate—like he’s memorizing how her breath changes when he presses against her lower lip or how her hands cling tighter when he groans softly into the space between kisses.

They stumble backward toward the bed, lips never breaking.

He unties her robe with a quiet whisper of fabric. The robe slips off her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

He stares.

And not like a man seeing a body.

But like a man witnessing divinity.

“God,” he whispers, barely audible. “You’re…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just runs a shaking hand along the curve of her hip, reverent, like he’s painting a portrait with his fingertips.

He leans in and presses a kiss to the hollow of her throat.

Then another, lower.

And another, at her sternum.

She trembles.

His kisses are soft but worshipful—mouth parted, breath warm, hands never greedy. When he lowers her to the bed, he does it like laying down something precious. Like letting her rest on the altar of the world.

She watches him undress. The shirt slips away. The belt follows. And when he moves over her, their skin touches fully for the first time.

She gasps at the feeling.

So does he.

“Too much?” he asks, immediately stilling.

“No,” she breathes. “Not enough.”

Their bodies fit awkwardly at first. His leg bumps hers. She nearly elbows him in the jaw. They laugh—nervous and warm—and it breaks the tension.

And then…

Then, Damian touches her again.

Slower now. With a purpose.

His fingertips glide along her waist, her thigh, the inside of her wrist. He presses kisses there—her pulse, her belly, the curve where her shoulder meets her neck. His hands slide along her ribcage like he’s trying to feel her heartbeat from the outside.

She arches into him, helpless.

“Damian…”

Her name on his lips is something else entirely.

He groans when she says his—soft and gasping and holy. He cups her cheek, holding her still, and their foreheads touch again. Their breathing syncs. Their hearts thrum in tandem.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he whispers. “If I’m ever too much.”

“You’re never too much,” she says. “You’re everything.”

And when he enters her, it’s not perfect.

It’s careful. And slow. And achingly vulnerable.

He stills the moment their hips align, breathing hard, head bowed against her shoulder. His hand finds hers, fingers tangled tight, knuckles white.

Her other hand cups the back of his neck, grounding him.

And when he moves—it’s with reverence.

Like every inch of him is trying to say I love you. Like every breath between them is an act of worship. He buries his face in her hair and whispers things in Arabic—devotions, half-prayers, poems never meant for daylight.

She doesn’t understand every word, but she feels the meaning.

Feels it in the way he trembles when she calls him hers.

Feels it in how his hands shake when he cradles her hips.

Feels it in the way he shatters when she says, “I love you,” right as he comes—his body stilling, heart in his throat, a gasp of her name like it might save him.

Later—

They lie tangled in soft sheets, skin flushed and lips swollen, limbs over and under. Her head is on his chest again. His arms are around her waist. His fingers twitch slightly where they press to her hip.

She draws little patterns against his collarbone. He sighs into her hair.

“You cried,” she murmurs.

He doesn’t deny it.

“I’ve never…” he begins, voice hoarse. “I’ve never been touched like that.”

She lifts her head.

“You mean…?��

“Not just physically,” he says, eyes meeting hers. “I’ve fought wars. But nothing has ever undone me like tonight. You held me without asking me to bleed. That’s… new.”

Her throat tightens.

He cups her cheek, thumbing at the corner of her mouth like he’s trying to memorize her expression.

“I love you,” he says, voice cracking. “I love you so much it hurts.”

She leans in, kissing him again.

And again.

Soft. Sweet. Endless.

And when he curls around her to sleep—arms locked tight, forehead to hers, body warm and trembling—he whispers the one word that means everything:

“Rūḥī.”

My soul.

requested by:@damian-wayne-818 I hope it's what you expected! Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @dreamerwhofell , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore (if you want to be added comment down below!!)

[kanako257]

Saja boys reaction hearing you reveal your crush on them ̨ ! ୨୧ 一 사자. ՞

Pairing: saja boys x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, Romance, Slice of Life, Confession

Word Count: 1,650 words

Warning: None

Disclaimer: All fictional scenarios, personalities, and relationships portrayed in this work are the product of imagination and are not intended to reflect real-life events, actions, or people.

Jinu

It slips out while you’re reviewing choreography notes with him backstage. He’s been working solo with you late into the night, still in his stagewear, sweat making his bangs stick to his forehead.

You’re both tired. Maybe too tired.

“You need to stop doing that thing with your hand at the end of the chorus,” you say, not looking up. “It makes it harder for the others to sync.”

He looks at you. “That’s my signature move.”

You scoff. “It’s distracting. Like—really distracting. I mean, even I get thrown off watching you, and I…”

You trail off.

He tilts his head. “You what?”

“I—” You should lie. You absolutely should. But the tiredness, the late hour, the months of trying to be professional—something gives.

“I have a crush on you, okay? You do that thing with your hand and it messes with my brain. So maybe just…cut it out.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The air between you feels like glass.

Jinu doesn’t smile. He doesn’t tease. He leans forward slightly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

You blink. “Because I’m your manager, and you’re—Jinu.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And I trust you more than anyone. You know me better than most. If anyone had a right to…feel something, it’d be you.”

It’s not a confession. Not quite. But there’s softness in the way he looks at you now. Less idol, more man.

And when he gets up to leave, he adds, “I’ll keep the move… unless you want me to stop watching you when you give notes.”

Abby

You and Abby are doing vocal drills, of all things, in the van on the way to a rehearsal.

He’s leaning into your personal space again, teasing you about your “manager voice” — that tone you use when you're scolding the boys.

“Oh, that tone. Say my name like that again,” he grins.

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Abby.”

“C’mon. Just say it like you mean it. Abby.” He makes a mock-dramatic face. “Like you’re in love or something.”

“I am in love,” you mutter, barely realizing you said it aloud.

The van goes silent.

He stares. Blinks. “Wait, are you being serious right now?”

You suck in a breath. “No. Yes. I mean—I didn’t mean to say that out loud, but yes. I guess I am.”

He’s quiet longer than expected. No grin. No snarky reply.

“I didn’t think you saw me like that,” he says, voice lower.

“I didn’t think you’d care.”

He leans back, eyes flicking toward the front of the van, then back to you.

“I do care. I’ve been trying to get a reaction out of you for months.” Then he laughs, not cocky this time. Soft. “Guess I finally got one.”

Mystery

You think he doesn’t notice anything. He’s always so withdrawn, buried in his lyrics or books, headphones in.

But you’re helping him revise a verse one evening and blurt out, “You always write about love like you’ve never felt it.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I haven’t.”

“Well, I have.” You glance at him. “Not that it matters.”

He looks up. “Who?”

You freeze. He doesn’t usually ask questions like that.

You try to brush it off. “It’s complicated. He’s a singer. A demon. Bit of an enigma. Wears too much black. You know.”

He doesn’t react at first. Then:

“Me?”

You don’t respond, which is all the answer he needs.

He nods slowly. Then does something you didn’t expect.

He reaches for your notebook, opens a fresh page, and scribbles a few lines. Hands it to you.

"Even demons want to be seen by the right eyes."

You glance up, startled. He won’t meet your gaze.

“That’s not for a song,” he mutters. “It’s for you.”

Romance

You’re helping him pick fan letters for a video shoot. He’s reading them out loud in exaggerated voices, trying to make you laugh.

“‘Romance Saja, you are the moon to my demon heart—’ Wow. They’re not even subtle.”

You smile. “Some people are just bold like that.”

He pauses. “Would you ever write a letter like this?”

Your eyes meet. You smile a little too long. “Maybe.”

“What would it say?”

You hesitate. Then: “Probably something like…‘Romance Saja, stop making it so hard to be your manager when you’re so goddamn charming all the time.’”

He goes silent. Blinks. His whole expression softens.

“…Wait, are you serious?”

You shrug, playful. “Does it sound like a joke?”

“No. But I thought you didn’t see me like that. That I was just the flirty one.”

“Everyone sees you. I just tried not to.”

He swallows hard, then takes your hand—not dramatically, but gently. Real.

“Tell me again. Not as a manager.”

“…Romance Saja, I like you.”

His smile could light up kingdoms.

Baby

You’re organizing fan meet notes when he barges in with leftover snacks.

“Wanna share?”

You shake your head. “Not hungry.”

He sits beside you anyway. “You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. Just tired of pretending things don’t matter.”

He cocks his head. “Like what?”

You look at him. “Like how I’ve had feelings for one of my clients for…too long.”

He goes quiet. His hands fidget with the snack bag.

“Oh,” he says. “Um…do I know him?”

You nod. “Very well.”

He doesn’t speak for a bit.

Then, voice small: “You mean me, right?”

“…Yeah.”

He laughs nervously. “I…thought you were too cool for me.”

You smile. “You’re a literal demon idol. I should be saying that.”

He looks relieved. But serious.

“I don’t know what happens next,” he says. “But I want to be careful. I don’t want to mess this up.”

You nod. “Me neither.”

He nudges your shoulder. “Then let’s…not mess it up.”

[yintual]

 ㅤ( 🍀 ) ㅤ O7.O9PM; ㅤ𝗹𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗿𝘆

jungwon thinks you need a break from studying 𖹭 749% > ﹏ <。 𝗰𝘄 # kisses ﾟ glasses bf ! won +PHYSICS mentioned

if there’s one singular flaw you have, yang jungwon finds himself thinking, it’s that you study a tad bit too much.

from his seat directly across you, he’s been watching you mumble about physics formulae for close to 3 hours. the library, too, is now almost completely empty save for the two of you. 

it’s not that he wants you to stop—jungwon’s more than aware of how important the assignment you’re working on is. so of course he wants to be supportive. which is why he’s tagged along with you in the first place, after all.

but hell, a guy gets tired of waiting, alright?

especially when his girlfriend just so happens to be sitting right across him—in hand holdable, and even, dare he say, kissable distance.

and you refuse to make it any easier on him with how cute you look when you pout at the page of numericals in front of you. it’s like you don’t even care about his sanity.

he rests his chin on his palm as he watches you furiously scribble something and erase it immediately after. 

tone flat, your boyfriend finally breaks the silence. “you know you’re looking at that worksheet like it personally offended you, right?” 

you answer without even sparing him a glance. “ugh, shut up. i got the sign convention messed up again. and i hate differentiation.”

“hmm. well maybe, and hear me out here ... what if … the universe is telling you to take a break.”

you don’t answer. he wonders if you even registered the words he’s just said.

“orrr …” jungwon leans forward, attempting to catch your eye to no avail, “maybe spare a glance towards your attention starved boyfriend? i promise he’s more interesting than electrostatics.”

that gets a giggle out of you, which admittedly does make him momentarily proud. but in mere seconds you’re back to locking in. he can’t help but mentally curse the education system for bringing him to this position. because god. this is tragic, really. 

with a sigh, he finally decides to take matters in his own hands. without a second’s hesitation, he’s pushing back his chair in favor of getting up and walking over to you.

“baby. i’m talking to you.” 

“alright, gosh, i’m—” but you apparently hadn’t taken into account the change in his position. you blink, confused, and realize after a minute that you feel a soft warmth behind you. 

and as you turn in your chair to face him, you find his arms caging you in against the table. 

“... i’m listening.”

jungwon leans in closer, his expression oddly smug. “don’t you think you’ve practiced enough questions for today?” 

“i just— there’s only a few more chapters i have left to go over ..” you’re not fully sure if it’s the close proximity that’s making you flustered.

“no. i think you’ve done enough.” 

you want to argue but the finality with which he speaks makes you reconsider your own words. 

“we don’t want you getting burnt out, yeah? you need some time away from physics.” 

you can barely think to formulate a reply to that as he dips his head down, placing a short kiss to your lips as if to emphasize his point. all you can do is smile into it, kissing him back with a hand resting on his chest to steady yourself.

“think we can both agree my idea was better, hm?” jungwon mumbles, peppering a few short peck along your jaw for good measure.

you pull back slightly, though, much to his displeasure. “well, mr. boyfriend, if you’ve had enough attention, then … i really do need to finish at least one more page.”

“... who said i’ve had enough?”

and then he’s taking off his glasses in one fluid motion before his lips are back on yours swallowing any protests you might have had. gone is the sweet, soft boyfriend who’d been giving you company all this while. 

(seriously, he picks the worst times to do these unfairly attractive things.)

the edge of the table digs into your back ever so slightly but you’re much more busy processing how sweet he tastes against you—of desperation. it’s a gorgeous color on him.

you vaguely think you hear his glasses fall to the floor with a soft clink. but with how intent your boyfriend seems upon robbing you of your coherence, you can’t say for sure. 

doing physics numericals is overrated anyway. you’d honestly rather just kiss your boyfriend, instead.

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 @amatariki @i-am-not-dal @liyahhhh620 @elleetlalune @luvvchn @s0shroe @wensurr @unhakies @starniras @calabaeri @athenaisonlinee @weepingsweep @itsactuallylina @puma-riki @starniras ⋆

        𝖤𝖷𝖳𝖱𝖠! [ <3 ] do we like layout. yes or yes. + gais i finally understand what timestamps are. its when u write a drabble and don't know what to call it!

ㅤㅤㅤ© YiNTUAL ♡ 2025

[kenntoria]

──── 𝑮𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑫 𝑪𝑨𝑮𝑬 ────

SYNOPSIS. you marry satsuki gojo not for love, but for what he represents: power, security, the illusion of being wanted. it’s a quiet, distant life—until his son, satoru, returns. charming, reckless, and far too observant, he sees through you from the start.

what begins with stolen glances spirals into something dangerous: a secret, a betrayal, a love you never expected. and when it all falls apart, you’re forced to choose between what ruined you and what might save you.

but some lines, once crossed, can’t be undone.

TAGS/WARNINGS. satsuki gojo is satoru’s father, i gave him a name and a character just for the story. fem reader, age gap(not between satoru and you), emotional neglect, emotional infidelity, forbidden romance, slow burn, secret relationship, complicated family dynamics, bittersweet, so much angst, emotional hurt and comfort, power imbalance, morally grey characters, longing, guilt, smut, cheating (in context), explicit sexual content, themes of loneliness and betrayal, you could say both reader and gojo have daddy issues kinda, exploration of family dynamics. 15,4k words…

TORI’S NOTES. pls read the tags/warnings guys!! anyways, this was loosely inspired by a turkish tv series called “forbidden love” which is a really fucking great show and the dynamics and plot there are immaculate. hopefully, you enjoy this <33 also if you know who the art belongs to in the header pls lemme know.

you meet satsuki gojo in an elevator.

you’re interning at one of his subsidiary companies in shinjuku, working late, wearing a pair of scuffed heels and a blazer that doesn’t quite fit. you’re trying to look like you belong, even though you’re running on caffeine and sheer panic, even though you’ve been walking a tightrope since the day you left your family behind and told yourself you’d make it on your own.

he steps in on the top floor—alone—and you feel it before you see him. the shift in air. the press of presence. the kind of silence that makes you look up.

he’s wearing a black coat and gloves, his platinum hair pushed back like it never learned to fall out of place. older, clearly. not tired, but heavy. like the kind of man who never has to raise his voice to get what he wants.

you press the button again, like it might make the descent go faster.

he glances over. “you don’t have to keep pressing it,” he says, voice smooth and unreadable. “the elevator isn’t ignoring you.”

you flush, quiet.

but he doesn’t look amused. not quite. just… curious.

“what department?” he asks.

“marketing,” you say, after a pause. “well, marketing development. just an intern.”

his gaze lingers. then he nods once and looks away.

you think that’s the end of it. just a strange, stiff encounter with a man who probably owns the building you’re trying to impress.

but then, the next week, your name is pulled from the intern pool for a private project. suddenly you’re assigned to a small research task under one of his closest executives. suddenly your opinion is being asked in meetings. and when you look up during a conference call, you catch him watching you through the glass, hands in his pockets, expression impassive.

you don’t understand it.

not at first.

he starts small. passing comments in the hallway. a drink sent to your table when you’re out with coworkers. an invitation to a private dinner—not framed as a date, not exactly. he doesn’t touch you the first few times you meet. doesn’t try to impress you. just listens. just watches.

you expect him to ask for something. mostly, you expect him to turn cruel, but he never does.

instead, he offers you a job after your internship ends. offers you a place to stay when your apartment floods during a typhoon. offers you answers to questions you didn’t ask, like,

“what do you want to be in five years?”

“has anyone ever taken care of you before?”

“do you always flinch when someone gets close?”

you don’t realize you’re falling into him until you’re already too deep to climb out.

you let him take you to dinner, and then to bed.

and then, six months later, when he tells you he wants to marry you—

you say yes before you even think to ask why. there’s an excited gleam in the ice blue of his eyes, something that pushes you into wrapping your arms around his sturdy frame and whisper an affirmation into his lips. or maybe it’s the diamond that glints under the moonlight.

but you don’t marry satsuki gojo because you love him.

you marry him because he offers you a lifeline when you’re twenty-five and quietly falling apart—starving for something steady, something grown-up, something that makes the ache in your chest feel justified. you marry him because you’re tired of disappointment, tired of men who take and forget to leave anything behind, tired of waiting for someone to pick you. you marry him because he offers you a future drawn up in legal contracts and estate homes, because he places a ring on your finger like it’s a solution instead of a question.

you marry him because he’s older, and sharp, and still, like a mountain you can rest against. because he looks at you with quiet interest, with a kind of coldness that makes you want to prove yourself—makes you want to be good for him, for once, instead of messy and difficult and too much. he offers you affection without chaos. structure without screaming. a name that means something, finally. and you take it.

you marry him because he shows you that care can be a tailored coat draped over your shoulders in winter, a bank account that never runs out, an apartment you never asked for but get anyway—clean, minimal, with a view of the skyline you used to dream about. because when he says you belong to me, it sounds less like a threat and more like relief. like he’s offering you the role of someone permanent, someone seen.

he doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it’s never unkind. he’s polite and controlled when he fucks you—never rough, never wild, never anything that might blur the line between need and love. he kisses your forehead when you come home late. he buys you books you mention once in passing. he nods when you tell him about your childhood and doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t ask questions you don’t want to answer. he lets you be quiet, and in return, you let him believe that silence means contentment.

he spoils you in ways that feel deliberate: private cars, spa weekends, your name on guest lists you never imagined seeing. you learn the weight of status like it’s second nature—learn how to say thank you, how to smile at his colleagues, how to sit at his right side and make it look easy. and when you wake up in his bed, wrapped in high-thread count sheets and the scent of bergamot and cedar, it feels like maybe this is what people mean when they say stable.

and maybe you marry him because he looks like what a husband should look like: tall, expensive, terrifying in the boardroom, someone with hands that know how to hold power and still touch your wrist like it’s delicate. maybe you marry him because people whisper when you walk in the room beside him, because his hand on your back makes you feel chosen, because he tells you to stop apologizing and you almost believe him.

maybe you marry him because the only semi-steady male figure in your life— your father— never did look at you like you were anything more than a glance, and satsuki looks at you like a solution. like something valuable. and maybe that’s enough.

maybe it has to be.

because you do not marry him because you love him.

you marry him because it’s the only kind of love you’ve ever been offered.

and you definitely don’t marry him expecting to meet his son.

you knew he had one—of course you did. it came up once, offhandedly, in that clipped way satsuki mentioned most personal things. a son from a previous marriage. adult. lives abroad. works with overseas clients but owns his own separate company. “rarely home,” he’d said, as if that explained everything. as if there was no reason you’d ever need to meet him.

and so you don’t think about it. you don’t ask questions. you build your routines around the quiet, clinical calm of your marriage. you host dinners, answer emails, smile politely when his business partners ogle you like an accessory they could never afford. and when satsuki tells you, in early december, that you’ll be spending the holidays at the family estate in kyoto, you just nod and pack your things.

the estate is old money. not modern minimalism, not the cold beauty of his penthouse in minato—but history, carved into dark wood and silk screens, hallways lined with ancestral portraits that stare as you pass. the kind of house that smells like camellia oil and incense, like something sacred and private. you arrive two days before christmas, and the staff is already preparing for a quiet dinner party. something tasteful. something exclusive. nothing warm.

you don’t expect anyone else.

especially not him.

satoru shows up six months into the marriage, just before dinner, when the sky is already turning violet and soft snow has begun to fall. you’re seated at the far end of the long, lacquered dining table, tracing the rim of your glass with one finger. satsuki is beside you, hand resting on your knee beneath the table, heavy and impersonal, like a placeholder. you’re listening to some executive’s wife talk about a skiing trip to niseiko when the door at the end of the hall opens.

the air changes.

you don’t know why you look up—but you do.

the housekeeper bows, stepping aside.

he walks in like he owns the place. tall. loose-limbed. hair a tousled mess of moonlight white, like he spent the entire flight running his hands through it. his coat is half off his shoulder, scarf unraveling, sunglasses perched on top of his head despite the fact it’s already dark outside. he’s dressed well, but not like he tried. something expensive and rumpled and careless. he looks like trouble that learned how to behave just well enough to get away with it.

his gaze lands on you instantly.

and he smiles. slow, amused. like he already knows something you don’t.

“oh,” he says, stepping further in. “you’re her.”

your stomach flips. you blink, mouth parting—but nothing comes out.

satsuki doesn’t move, just rests his hand more firmly against your thigh, grounding you with pressure.

“you’ve heard about my wife,” he says calmly.

and satoru’s eyes don’t leave yours. he’s standing on the other side of the room, but it feels like you can feel him. like heat under your skin.

“i’ve heard,” he says, lips quirking. “she’s pretty.”

his voice is low and casual. no bite to it—but something lingers in the way he says it. like he’s testing you. or maybe his father. or maybe himself.

you shouldn’t feel anything.

you shouldn’t feel the pulse at your neck quicken, shouldn’t feel your skin burn beneath the long sleeves of your dress. shouldn’t feel the tiny tremor in your hands as you lower your glass to the table and force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

you shouldn’t care and you are convinced you don’t.

—

the gojo house is big and cold—too big for how quiet it is, and too beautiful to ever feel lived-in. it sits on a private slope just outside kyoto, surrounded by dense pines and meticulously maintained gravel paths, bordered by walls thick enough to keep the world out. it’s the kind of place where sound vanishes too quickly. where even your footsteps feel like an intrusion.

the interior is all pale marble and deep wood, a mix of traditional architecture and modern minimalism that somehow makes it harder to settle. the ceilings stretch higher than you expect, every room perfectly arranged, untouched, like a showroom. nothing feels soft. nothing feels yours. even the sun filters in like it’s been instructed not to linger.

you’re given the garden wing and told to make yourself at home.

your room is beside satsuki’s, though he rarely sleeps. there’s a large window that faces the pond, where koi move in slow circles under a sheet of winter ice. the bed is king-sized and impersonal. the wardrobe is already filled with seasonal clothes you never picked out. everything smells faintly of cedar and linen and new money. it’s beautiful. and sterile.

satoru’s room is upstairs, at the end of the north hall. you don’t go near it at first. you don’t need to.

you try, at first, to live quietly. to earn your place in the house by not taking up too much space.

you spend your mornings on the terrace, curled under a cashmere blanket with a porcelain cup of genmaicha that a maid brings without asking. the steam fogs up your glasses. your fingers turn stiff from the cold. sometimes you pretend to read, but your eyes don’t follow the words. instead, you watch the way the morning mist clings to the lacquered railing. the way the garden’s plum trees hold on to their last leaves like they’re trying not to be bare.

midday, you take slow, winding walks through the greenhouse—an enormous glass building off the east corridor, filled with rare orchids and fruit-bearing trees. it smells like damp moss and lemon balm, and sometimes, if you stay long enough, you can pretend you’re somewhere else entirely. somewhere softer. you pause by the camellias, the white ones, and trace the shape of their petals with your fingertips. no one asks where you are. no one comes looking.

in the evenings, satsuki retreats to his study—dark wood, no windows, always locked from the inside. you stop asking what he’s working on after the third time he tells you, calmly, “it’s nothing that concerns you.”

and so, at night, you drift.

you wander room to room like a ghost in your own house, bare feet silent on the polished floors. you touch the backs of antique chairs, the corners of carved screens, the cool stone edge of the koi pond. you run your fingers over framed scrolls and family heirlooms behind glass. you take long baths in the deep-soaking tub and let your head rest back until your ears are underwater, heart thudding slow and loud in the quiet.

there are no clocks in the house. time bends strangely.

you learn to find solace in small things—folded linen robes, the weight of a heated floor, the low murmur of rain against shoji screens.

you learn to be still. you learn to be quiet.

you tell yourself this is peace. but you’re not sure it is.

you find satoru in the kitchen one of those nights, barefoot and leaning lazily against the counter, eating chocolate-covered almonds straight from a crystal jar. his shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, collar undone to reveal the elegant slope of his collarbones and just a sliver of his chest. there’s something too casual about him, too effortless—like he was born into comfort and never had to learn how to earn it, which is the case.

he doesn’t look up when you step into the room, just tosses another almond into his mouth, chewing slow.

“your room doesn’t have a snack bar?” he asks around the bite, reaching for another handful. “shame. i’ll have to talk to housekeeping.”

you hover in the doorway, half caught between leaving and saying something. the lights are low—just the under-cabinet ones casting a soft glow against the marble countertops—and everything about the moment feels like it’s not supposed to happen. too quiet. too late.

“i couldn’t sleep,” you say, finally. your voice is hoarse when it comes out, making you cringe at the sound of it, but your expression doesn’t change. it feels right to keep a shield around satoru.

that gets his attention. he turns, just a little, casting a glance over his shoulder. his eyes flick over you—robe loosely belted, hem brushing your ankles, your bare feet making no sound against the floor. still, you feel too exposed, like he’s seeing something you didn’t mean to show.

he shrugs one shoulder. “my bad. i’ll keep it down next time.”

you frown. “what?”

he taps his phone against the edge of the counter, screen lighting up briefly before he locks it again. his smirk is slow and irritatingly self-satisfied.

“the noise,” he says, voice low and bored. “your walls are thin, sweetheart.”

and then he pushes off the counter, brushing past you on his way to the stairs, footsteps silent against the polished floor. like he didn’t just say something meant to stick to your ribs and it wasn’t meant to be a challenge.

you stand there long after he’s gone, heart suddenly a little too loud in your chest.

at first, you don’t know what he meant.

but then— with burning shame, you realise.

you lie awake that night in your too-big bed with the silk sheets sticking to your skin, and your mind won’t stop looping through it. your walls are thin, sweetheart.

he heard you.

he heard you fucking his father.

and it’s not like there’s much to hear, really. you don’t make too much noise. not on purpose. you try to be good. still. quiet. like you’re supposed to be, like satsuki likes his things. you climb on top of satsuki when he asks, and when it’s convenient, and when it fits neatly into the clockwork routine of your marriage, and you move the way you’re expected to.

you kiss him. sigh into his shoulder.

you moan when he touches you.

you arch your back and say his name when he finishes, and you keep your face turned just slightly away so he doesn’t see that you’re not all the way there.

and it hits you—hard, sudden, ugly—satoru didn’t just hear it.

he listened.

he must’ve laid there, maybe just one room over, while you gasped through your teeth and dug your nails into satin sheets, trying not to look bored, trying to summon heat where there was only resignation. and now he knows. maybe he knew the first night. maybe he recognized it—the silence between the moans. the mechanical rhythm. the effort.

you wonder if he could tell you never came.

if he could hear the difference.

your face burns. your skin itches. the silk is too smooth, too cool, like a lie you’re too exhausted to keep telling. you roll onto your side and stare at the drawn curtains, heart pounding in your throat, and wonder what kind of man throws that line so casually over his shoulder and walks away without looking back.

what kind of man hears a woman pretending to enjoy her marriage and still calls her sweetheart.

—

he flirts.

not in the clumsy, obvious way that boys your age used to—those quick grins and rehearsed compliments, those lingering touches that always felt more like attempts than affection. no, satoru’s flirting is slower, sharper, so casual it almost passes as harmless. like breathing. like it costs him nothing. and maybe it doesn’t.

he flirts in front of everyone—his father, the staff, chauffeurs, distant relatives, guests with titles longer than their patience. he does it like it’s a private joke only the two of you are in on, like he’s daring you to react. daring you to let something slip. but you don’t let yourself indulge in it, don’t let it touch you the way he wants it to.

he makes lazy, unhurried comments when you walk into the room, never quite looking at you directly, but always loud enough for someone else to hear.

“you always look this put together, or is it just to impress the old man?”

“damn. you make that color look more beautiful.”

“look at you, all dressed up and pretty.”

he says it like a sigh, or like he’s bored and needs a new toy to entertain him, voice smooth and slouched and rich with mockery that never quite lands as mean. and you try not to let it show, but your stomach flutters every time.

he glances at your legs when you cross them. lets his eyes drag down your neckline, baby blues lingering on the expensive necklace his father gifted you, like he’s still thinking. he always stands just a little too close when he passes behind you at dinner. always leans in when you speak, even if he could hear you just fine from a distance, which makes you want to slap him in the face because the warmth emitting from him is too much.

he tells you you’re “adorable” when you blink at one of his references—something dry and sarcastic that floats right over your head, usually mid-conversation in a room full of people. and then he grins like he’s won something when you look flustered.

“what? you don’t know that movie?”

“god, you’re so cute when you’re confused.”

“don’t worry, princess. i’ll explain it to you later.”

he calls you princess when you frown, darling when you pretend you’re not paying attention, sweetheart when he wants you to get flustered in front of his father. and you do—because no one has ever said those words to you without wanting something. but with satoru, you’re not sure what he wants. that makes it worse.

and he never crosses a line.

not one that matters. not one you can point to.

he never touches you—never more than a passing brush of knuckles as he sets a teacup beside you, or a hand at your lower back as you’re guided into a car. never long enough to accuse him of anything and never long enough to accuse yourself of anything, either.

but his presence is constant. deliberate. it almost makes you question if he’s played this game before.

he leans into your space. mirrors your movements. sits across from you at every meal, sprawled and open, legs spread like he’s relaxed in a way no one else is allowed to be in this house. and he watches you—god, he watches you—with that lazy, amused gleam in his eyes that makes you feel like he’s reading something under your skin you didn’t even know was there.

the worst part is no one else seems to notice.

or maybe they do, and no one says anything.

and satsuki? he doesn’t blink. doesn’t glance up. doesn’t acknowledge it at all like he doesn’t care and he doesn’t see it.

like you’re not even worth the jealousy.

so you sit there, in your pretty dresses and tasteful jewelry, sipping your wine and pretending you don’t notice when satoru’s fingers brush the rim of your glass where your painted lips touch it as he passes it back to you. pretending you don’t hear it when he mutters under his breath—

“god, you’re so easy to ruin.”

and then smiles like he didn’t say anything at all.

but still, he never crosses a line. not really.

not until the party in tokyo.

it’s the kind of event you’ve grown used to by now—ornate venue, glowing chandeliers, the soft clink of crystal and meaningless conversation humming beneath the polished noise of wealth. a gala hosted by one of satsuki’s oldest partners, the type of thing where everyone is dressed like they have nothing to prove and everything to protect.

you fly in together, the two of you. first class, of course. private terminal. he doesn’t speak much on the flight, just reads over business reports with his glasses low on his nose, and you sip champagne and pretend the silence is companionable. it’s not.

you arrive before sunset, driven straight to the hotel, and by the time you reach the venue—draped in something black and tight and chosen for effect—satsuki’s already slipping into his element. one hand on the small of your back, greeting industry names, bowing with just the right degree of distance. you smile on cue. you laugh politely. you know how to be ornamental by now.

satoru’s already there.

you spot him the moment you enter the ballroom—propped against the marble bar like it’s a throne made for him, hair tousled like he didn’t try at all, collarbone on show beneath a silk shirt that looks like it cost more than your entire week’s allowance. he’s holding a glass of red, swirling it like he actually gives a shit about tannins. when he sees you, he doesn’t wave nor does he smile. just tilts his glass in acknowledgment like a private joke only you’re supposed to understand.

you try not to look.

you try so hard.

but he keeps catching your eye. like he knows.

an hour into the event, when satsuki is deep in discussion with the finance minister and half the board of some international conglomerate, you step away to breathe. to hide. you drift toward the quieter side of the ballroom, past gold-accented walls and perfumed bodies, just far enough to feel the edge of solitude.

satoru finds you there, of course.

he doesn’t ask permission.

“you’re just gonna stand there all night?” he says, easing into your space like it’s nothing, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other still holding that half-finished glass.

you open your mouth to deflect, to say something harmless, but he’s already moving—offering his hand with a mocking little bow. “come on,” he says. “you’re dressed like a dream. it’d be a crime not to dance.”

you hesitate just long enough.

and he smiles, slow and certain, like he knew you’d say yes even before you did.

the music is a rich, jazzy ballad—old-fashioned, warm, nothing like what plays in the clubs. it echoes gently across the ballroom, and when his hand settles on your waist, it feels like a secret. you take his other hand. his palm is big and warm. familiar in a way that terrifies you.

“your husband won’t mind?” he asks, voice soft in your ear. he’s teasing you.

you glance back, spot satsuki mid-conversation, expression unreadable, hands gesturing in measured control. “he’s talking to the finance minister,” you murmur, trying to steady your breath as satoru pulls you just a little closer. “i think he’ll live.”

his mouth twitches. “you’re prettier up close,” he says, as if the words aren’t knives.

you glance away, heart racing, teeth sinking into your lower lip. the dance isn’t fast, but it isn’t slow either. it’s enough to make you sway. enough to make your body remember the shape of heat, even through layers of couture and silk and restraint.

and then the song fades into something quieter.

something that asks for closeness and intimacy.

something you shouldn’t allow.

he doesn’t ask. he just tilts his head, eyes half-lidded as he studies you, voice dropping as if the room’s emptied of everyone but you.

“has he ever told you that?”

you blink. “what?”

“that you’re beautiful.”

your throat dries.

it’s not the question, it’s more the way he asks it. the certainty behind it. the soft, cruel awareness in his tone—like he already knows the answer. as if he’s spent too many nights wondering how you can look so lovely and still be so starved.

you don’t respond. you can’t.

but you don’t pull away either.

not until he leans in—slowly—and your breath catches at the unmistakable press of heat between you, the anticipation blooming into something reckless and warm.

you flinch. just enough.

you pull away before he can kiss you. just one step back. hands trembling like your nerves have caught fire.

he lets you go. doesn’t chase, just smiles again, softer this time, like he’s not surprised. like he knew this would happen too. and then he turns back toward the bar.

you return to your husband’s side in silence, makeup still intact, breath uneven.

but that night, when you lie beside satsuki in the hotel suite, listening to the sound of his breath while he sleeps, you can still feel the ghost of satoru’s hand on your waist.

you don’t stop thinking about it.

not then.

not ever.

—

you watch satoru and satsuki sometimes, and it unsettles you more than you expect.

their relationship is a strange dance—equal parts admiration, rivalry, and unspoken tension. satsuki, with his impeccable control and cold authority, commands rooms and boardrooms alike, a man carved from steel and silence. satoru, by contrast, moves through the world like a wild storm wrapped in casual grins and reckless confidence, but beneath that careless exterior, you sense a deep, complicated loyalty to his father.

they speak little to each other when you’re around—just polite exchanges, clipped tones, eyes that flicker with something unspoken. you see the way satoru tests satsuki’s patience, the way satsuki’s jaw tightens just slightly when his son pushes boundaries, and you wonder if it’s more than just a father-son dynamic. like there’s something heavier between them—competition, maybe, or old wounds neither wants to admit.

you can’t help but feel like you’re caught in the middle of that tension, like you’re a fragile fault line waiting to split. satsuki’s hand on your knee sometimes feels less like comfort and more like a claim—like he’s reminding you, silently, of where your loyalty is supposed to lie. but satoru’s presence feels like a crack in that armor, a tempting escape from the cold order satsuki demands.

your thoughts betray you constantly. you see how satoru’s defiance might be a way of reaching for something satsuki never gives freely—love, approval, freedom—and maybe that’s why he lingers near you, why his eyes hold that unreadable mixture of challenge and something softer when they land on you.

you wonder if satoru envies you for what you have, or if he envies satsuki for what you don’t. and maybe both.

you catch glimpses of their history in the way they move around each other—the subtle shifts in posture, the sharp glances that flash too quickly to be noticed by anyone else. satsuki’s presence is steady, unyielding—a mountain carved from years of discipline and expectation. satoru, by contrast, is the unpredictable wind that refuses to be tamed, restless and wild beneath that polished exterior.

sometimes, you see satoru’s smile falter when satsuki speaks, just for a moment—like a boy still craving his father’s approval despite himself. and satsuki’s eyes harden, not with anger, but with something like regret, or disappointment. it’s clear they’ve been through battles that no one else knows about, fights where words were weapons and silence was a shield.

to you, their relationship is like watching two storms collide—each powerful on its own, but when they meet, the air crackles with tension and something dangerous simmers beneath. satsuki holds the power, but satoru carries the fire, and you’re left wondering which will burn brighter, and which will consume everything around it.

you realize you’re an unwelcome variable in their equation. satsuki’s calm control is always tested by satoru’s sharp edges, and you can feel it every time their eyes lock—a silent war waged in shadows. you’re caught between the push and pull of their fractured bond, an unspoken tension that presses down on you heavier than any promise or ring.

sometimes you wonder if satsuki sees satoru’s interest in you as a challenge, a threat to his carefully maintained order. and if satoru sees your presence as a way to carve space for himself—proof that he can claim something his father owns, or something his father withholds.

it terrifies you, this tangled web of power, desire, and unspoken pain, and you’re the uncharted territory between them—dangerous, forbidden, and impossible to ignore. you know, deep down, that no matter how much you try to resist, you’re already part of their story now.

and you realize, with a sinking feeling, that none of it is going to end quietly.

the moment he pulled you close, felt the heat of his body against yours, something inside you cracked—a fragile barrier you thought had been sealed long ago. it was terrifying, this sudden longing that twisted your insides into knots. you told yourself it was wrong. dangerous. satoru was his son, the very embodiment of everything you swore to keep at arm’s length. and yet, the ache in your chest whispered a different truth.

you wanted him.

more than you wanted safety, more than you wanted silence, more than you wanted satsuki’s steady, cold touch.

it wasn’t just lust. it was the way he looked at you—like you were a secret worth discovering. like you were more than just a trophy wife. like you were alive.

you hated yourself for it. hated the way your thoughts kept drifting to the curve of his jaw, the sharp laugh he tried to hide, the way his fingers brushed your skin like he was memorizing it. hated how your heart betrayed you every time he smiled or touched your hand “accidentally.” hated how lonely you’d become, how hungry for something real, and how satoru was the only warmth you could imagine in the cold palace you’d married into.

you wrestled with the guilt, the fear. with the desperate hope that maybe—just maybe—you could find something in him that your marriage never gave you. but every time you caught yourself imagining his lips on yours, every time your skin flushed remembering his breath near your ear, you heard the cold voice in the back of your mind:

he’s his son. he’s forbidden. this is not love.

and yet, the ache only grew, louder and sharper, until it was impossible to ignore. you were caught between the promise of safety you made to satsuki and the reckless, dangerous desire burning quietly inside you for his son. a desire that whispered, every time you were alone,

maybe you deserve to be seen.

maybe you deserve to be wanted.

maybe, finally, you can be loved.

you try to push it down.

try to bury it under a thousand rehearsed excuses and reminders of what you promised yourself when you said yes to satsuki.

this isn’t real. this isn’t happening.

he’s just his son.

and you’re his wife.

but the more you fight it, the louder it becomes.

like a pulse beneath your skin—impossible to ignore.

when you see satoru’s smile, the careless tilt of his head, the way his eyes linger just a moment too long, it feels like a flame flickering inside you, warm and dangerous. you find yourself catching your breath when he laughs, your heart speeding up at the brush of his fingers against yours in passing.

you hate how much it hurts.

hate that you crave something so forbidden.

hate that every stolen glance leaves you feeling exposed and trembling.

you wonder if he knows—if he feels the same pull, the same reckless hunger.

or if it’s only you, caught in the trap of loneliness and longing.

some nights, when the house is dark and satsuki’s study door is shut tight, you lie awake replaying his voice, the softness of his touch, the way his presence fills the space around you. you want to reach out, to touch, to taste, to be seen in a way you never have been.

and yet, guilt wraps around you like chains, reminding you of the lines you can’t cross, the roles you can’t break.

but desire doesn’t care for rules.

it lingers in your blood, whispers in your ear,

and pulls you deeper into the forbidden.

—

the first time it happens, it’s nothing like you thought it would be.

you’ve imagined fire and urgency, stolen moments and desperate touches. but this—it’s soft. slow. gentle in a way that makes your chest ache with something you didn’t even know you were missing.

it’s late afternoon at the gojo family’s summer house in hakone. the air is thick with the scent of pine and blooming hydrangeas, sunlight filtering through the leaves in lazy golden streams. you’re sitting at the edge of the pool, the cool water lapping at your ankles, soaking the hem of your long dress up to your calves. your bare feet rest lightly on the stone, toes flexing against the smooth surface.

the dress clings to your skin where it’s wet, weightless and cool—a contrast to the heat that curls low in your belly, the exhaustion that drapes over you like a heavy cloak.

you hear footsteps before you see him. satoru is barefoot too, his shirt unbuttoned halfway, the sleeves rolled up, hair tousled in that careless way you’ve come to recognize. he moves quietly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile stillness that surrounds you.

he stops beside you, crouching down so you’re eye level, his dark eyes searching your face with something raw and unreadable.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low and hesitant.

you nod, but the word feels hollow on your tongue.

“liar,” he says, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

you meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—the gentle ripple of water, the whisper of wind through the trees, the steady beat of your heart.

“he doesn’t love you, you know,” satoru says quietly, his tone both cruel and tender. “he never could. people like him don’t know what to do with soft things.”

you close your eyes, the truth settling heavy in your chest.

“i know,” you whisper.

his hand reaches out, brushing the wet fabric of your dress where it clings to your knee. the touch is light, reverent, as if he’s afraid to break you.

“then why’d you marry him?” satoru asks, voice gentle now, almost a confession.

you swallow hard, your throat tight with unshed tears.

“because i wanted to feel like i belonged to someone.”

for a moment, silence stretches between you, filled only by the quiet splash of water and distant birdcalls.

his hand slides slowly up your leg—never rushed, never greedy—just steady, warm, real. the heat seeps into your skin, grounding you, pulling you out of the numbness.

“you don’t have to belong to someone to be worth something,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours.

and then, with a tenderness that feels like salvation, he leans in.

his lips find yours—soft, patient, promising.

you don’t pull away.

you let him.

and in that moment, everything you’ve been missing comes rushing back.

the kiss starts almost hesitantly—like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll let him in. his lips brush against yours softly at first, barely more than a whisper, gentle and tentative as if afraid to overwhelm you. it’s nothing like the cold, mechanical touches you’ve grown used to. it’s something alive, something aching.

his hand stays steady on your thigh, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment. the warmth of his palm seeps through the soaked fabric of your dress and makes your breath hitch. your fingers twitch at his wrist, unsure whether to pull him closer or to stop time entirely.

then, slowly, deliberately, he deepens the kiss. his lips part just enough, and the world narrows until there is nothing but the two of you—the taste of him, a faint trace of wine and something wild and intoxicating. his breath mingles with yours, uneven and soft, like a secret shared in the quiet.

there’s no rush. no frantic need. just a slow, steady exploration, a promise whispered between lips that have learned to be gentle. his mouth moves with care, mapping yours as if memorizing every curve, every tremble.

you feel the tension in your body begin to unwind—the tight coil of loneliness and despair loosening just a little. it’s like breathing for the first time after being underwater.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed as if savoring the moment. your heart pounds loud in your chest, a wild, beautiful rhythm you didn’t know you’d been craving.

he murmurs against your lips, “i’m here.”

and somehow, in those two simple words, you find a flicker of hope.

but reality comes crashing down quickly, cold and unrelenting, like a wave pulling you under just when you thought you’d found air.

as his lips linger against yours, as his fingers press gentle warmth into your skin, a voice inside you screams—this is wrong. wrong because he’s his son. wrong because you’re married to satsuki. wrong because every promise you ever made was to someone else, and this—this is a betrayal wrapped in softness.

your heart pounds not with desire, but with panic, a sharp ache of guilt and fear twisting inside your ribs.

yet satoru’s eyes, those soft, searching eyes, hold you steady. they don’t judge. they don’t demand. they coax. with a tenderness that feels like safety, like a secret offered just to you in a world that never cared to understand.

his hands slide from your thigh to your waist, fingers threading lightly through the fabric of your dress, tracing the curve of your hip. the warmth of his touch is intoxicating, a quiet promise that maybe you don’t have to be alone in this.

you want to pull away, to shut it all down before it goes any further. but instead, you find yourself leaning into him, letting the kiss deepen into something more—something that speaks of longing and loneliness, of broken pieces seeking to be made whole.

it’s a dangerous line you’re crossing, blurred and fragile, but in that moment, with satoru’s hands steady on you and his breath mingling with yours, it feels like the only place where you might finally be seen.

and so you stay.

just a little longer.

under the soft glow of the moonlight, the pool water shimmering quietly beside you, everything feels like it’s suspended in time. your heart is pounding loud enough to drown out the faint sounds of the night — the rustling leaves, distant crickets — and yet, when satoru’s eyes meet yours, everything stills.

he cups your face gently with those large hands, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone as if memorizing every curve. you can’t stop the way your breath catches, how your fingers tremble slightly as they rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palm. the world feels dangerous, yet safe in this moment — a paradox only satoru could embody.

his voice is a low murmur, full of something unspoken, something aching. “i don’t want to stop. not now.” and you don’t either. the weight of the secret you carry, the life you live with satsuki, it presses down on you like a shadow. but here, now, it’s as if none of that matters — only the way satoru’s lips brush yours again, softer this time, like he’s trying to convey every word he can’t say.

slowly, carefully, his hands move to your waist, pulling you closer. your body responds without hesitation, leaning in, molding into his warmth. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a quiet fire growing in the space between your bodies. the moonlight traces the lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck, and you reach out, fingertips trembling, to touch the pulse at his throat. he shivers at the contact, a quiet sound of vulnerability escaping him.

“you’re here,” he whispers, voice breaking just enough to let you know how much he’s trying to hold himself together. “with me.”

you nod, unable to speak, your lips catching his again, deeper now, more urgent. the fear of discovery is still there, looming at the edges of your mind, but satoru’s hands, warm and sure, ground you. he slides them down your back, over the curve of your hips, pulling you flush against him. his body is firm, reassuring — a silent promise that he’s not going anywhere, even if the world tells you both you can’t be here.

the wetness of the night clings to your skin, and satoru’s touch is electric, tracing a path down your spine, fingertips exploring with reverence. he breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe in the scent of you, his breath hot against your skin. “i want to make sure you’re okay. i want to be gentle.” his words are soft but fierce, full of a protective kind of love that makes your chest ache.

you’re trembling—nervous, unsure—but the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing that matters, makes you want to believe you’re not broken. makes you want to believe you deserve this.

carefully, satoru helps you up, guiding you inside the summer house. the rooms are warm, a contrast to the cool air outside, and the soft light casts shadows that dance along the walls. he’s still holding you like you’re fragile, like you might vanish if he lets go.

when he finally closes the distance, his hands are gentle but hungry, exploring you like he’s discovering a secret garden. every kiss, every touch is an unspoken confession—a need so fierce it’s almost painful.

you gasp softly when his mouth finds the curve of your neck, the way he nips and sucks is desperate but careful. your fingers weave through his hair, pulling him closer like you don’t want to ever let go. the world narrows until there’s nothing but skin and breath and the sound of your heart pounding loud in the quiet.

he’s slow with you, patient, like he wants to savor every moment. his hands learn every inch of your body—the softness of your skin, the way you shiver beneath his touch, the way you sigh when he trails kisses down your collarbone. and you forget about everything else—the coldness of your marriage, the weight of your promises, the danger of what this means.

you let your hands wander over his shoulders, over the muscles you know so well from stolen moments and shared glances. the air between you thickens, charged with longing and tenderness. slowly, you both shed the barriers — clothes slipping away with careful urgency, revealing skin kissed by lingering sunlight and tingling with anticipation.

his fingers trace the line of your collarbone, down the swell of your breasts, his touch featherlight but unwavering. your breath hitches as his lips follow the same path, soft kisses blooming like petals on your skin. you’re trembling, caught between nerves and desire, but satoru’s hands cradle you, anchoring you to the moment, telling you wordlessly that it’s okay to let go.

he moves with a reverence that makes every touch feel sacred. his mouth finds the delicate skin just beneath your ear, his voice a breathy murmur, “you’re so beautiful. i’ve wanted this for so long.” the words wrap around you, tender and true, and your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

when he finally settles between your legs, the warmth of his body pressing against yours is overwhelming — a perfect mix of strength and softness. the slow, steady rhythm of his movements is a conversation of its own, speaking of trust and need and something deeper than passion. you close your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of him — every brush of skin, every whispered promise, every gentle sigh.

he pauses sometimes, his forehead resting against yours, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt or pain. but you’re there, fully present, giving yourself to him in this secret sanctuary. the world outside, with all its complications and betrayals, fades away, leaving only the two of you — tangled, breathless, and achingly close.

afterward, wrapped in each other’s arms by the poolside, the night feels impossibly still. satoru’s fingers trace lazy circles on your back, and you can’t stop the tears that spill silently down your cheeks — tears of relief, of fear, of love too fierce to be tamed. he holds you tight, whispering, “we’ll find a way. i swear.”

he whispers, voice rough with emotion, “you’re everything i didn’t know i wanted.”

and you feel your cheeks burn, ashamed and exposed, but underneath it all, there’s a small, fierce spark of something you thought was lost—a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re wanted. not for the life you married into, not as a prize or a possession, but for who you really are.

—

it’s a slow fall after that.

not a plunge, not a moment you can point to and say, that’s when it all changed. it’s more like the slow, inevitable tipping of scales. the way you go from one kiss to two. one night to three. one excuse to a hundred soft, silent ones that pile up like snow on the edges of a house you no longer feel at home in.

you try to stop. you do. in the hours after, when you return to your cold bedroom and peel off your dress like it’s made of guilt, when you catch your own reflection in the mirror and can’t quite meet your eyes—you tell yourself it can’t happen again. that you’ll pull away the next time he leans in, that you’ll turn your face, that you’ll remember who you are, what you swore, what name you wear on your finger. it’s his name but not his.

but then satoru touches you again.

and everything inside you shatters like porcelain.

he touches you like you’re precious. not fragile—not delicate or breakable like the glass women you’re expected to mimic—but precious. something rare. something meant to be held carefully, not for fear of breaking, but because it’s deserved.

his hands never take before asking, and when they do ask, it’s always with care. he kisses the inside of your wrist like it’s holy. he mouths at the slope of your shoulder like he’s starved. he palms your face and whispers “look at me,” and when you do, when your eyes meet his—blue and bright and warm—it’s like standing in sunlight after years of being cold.

he talks to you like you’re more than just a body wrapped in pearls and cashmere. more than someone to wear on his father’s arm. he listens when you speak, even when your voice is small, even when you hesitate. even when you say things you shouldn’t admit out loud— “sometimes i think i don’t know who i am anymore,” and “i think i married him because i didn’t want to disappear.”

he never laughs. never dismisses. he just says, softly, “you don’t have to explain it to me.”

and then he touches you again.

he kisses you like he’s proud of you—like he’s proud to have you. not as some stolen, shameful secret, but as something he wants to keep. he kisses your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his favorite habit. he kisses your cheeks and your throat and your sternum like he’s putting something back where it belongs.

he says things that feel too good to hear and too dangerous to believe. “you deserve more than this,” and “he doesn’t see you,” and sometimes, when he’s inside you and your breath stutters and your hands are in his hair and you’re gasping into the crook of his neck, he says, “mine.”

quietly. like a vow. like he doesn’t care who it breaks.

he fucks you like you’re real.

not some trophy and not some quiet wife. not some placeholder to keep a legacy pretty. he fucks you like he wants to know what makes you fall apart and then puts you back together with the same hands. he takes his time with you—long nights that bleed into mornings, where his mouth maps every part of you and he learns your rhythm by heart. where he breathes your name into your stomach, your thighs, the center of you, over and over until it’s the only thing left in your head.

and he’s not perfect. he’s not gentle all the time. sometimes he’s messy with it, rough with it, needy. he pulls you into dark corners and kisses you like he’s angry at the distance between you. he pushes you up against the bathroom door in a quiet restaurant because you laughed too sweetly over dessert. he hikes up your dress in the backseat of a black car on the way to a party and bites down on your shoulder just to keep from groaning your name too loud.

but even then—especially then—he holds you after. always. always wraps you in his arms and touches your hair and kisses your temple like he can’t believe you’re real.

you never feel more alive than when you’re in his arms.

when your legs are tangled under his in a bed that doesn’t belong to either of you. when his breath ghosts over the back of your neck and he mutters half-asleep, “don’t go yet.” when you’re sitting between his thighs while he dries your hair with a towel, like it’s a ritual and it matters to him. when he holds your hand in secret and kisses your knuckles like he’s making a promise you’re both too afraid to speak out loud.

it’s a slow fall. and you fall all the same.

and the worst part—the part that keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling in your husband’s house—is not that it’s wrong.

it’s that it’s the first time anything has ever felt right.

you come home to your husband with your makeup smeared and your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might rip out of your chest.

your dress is rumpled, your lips still swollen, and there’s a faint ache between your legs that makes your knees wobble as you step out of the car. you keep your eyes low as the staff greets you, give them nothing more than a polite nod and a soft “thank you” before you disappear down the hall like a ghost.

your hands shake as you strip out of your clothes in the bathroom. you peel off the lace and silk like it’s a crime scene, like if you leave it on too long it’ll burn you. you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror—lipstick smudged, mascara streaked, eyes too bright, too wild—and you look like someone you don’t recognize. someone ruined.

his scent is still clinging to your skin. expensive cologne and sweat and heat. the ghost of satoru’s mouth still lingers on your neck, soft bruises blooming under your jaw where he kissed you too hard. where he bit down just to see you shiver.

you scrub it all away with trembling hands.

you press your palms flat against the sink, bow your head, and try to breathe. the water runs hot. too hot. scalding, almost. but it doesn’t burn enough to make you feel clean. nothing does anymore.

you lie in bed that night with your back to satsuki, still damp from the shower, your body coiled tight beneath the sheets like a secret you don’t want him to see. he’s sitting up beside you, his reading glasses on, a neat folder of briefings and documents in his lap. the soft rustle of paper, the click of a pen against the corner of his clipboard—it’s the only sound in the room.

he doesn’t touch you. he never does unless it’s scheduled. expected.

he glances over once, offers a brief, “you’re back late,” and you murmur something vague. traffic. the driver took a wrong turn. your head hurt. you needed air.

he nods and turns back to his documents.

and you think about how much you used to hate silence, how much you still do.

how heavy it feels now—how full of things you’re not allowed to say.

you lie there beside him in his cold, perfect bed with your hair still damp and your heart still beating in someone else’s rhythm, and all you can think about is the way satoru held your face in his hands like you were worth looking at. the way he said your name like it tasted good in his mouth. the way he looked up at you from between your thighs and whispered, “i’d give you everything if you let me.”

you fall asleep before satsuki does. or maybe you pretend to.

you don’t say goodnight.

in the morning, the house wakes before you do—glass clinks in the kitchen, shoes echo across the marble, muffled voices speak through closed doors. you walk into the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for too long.

your lips are raw. your throat is marked. your eyes are heavy.

you put on moisturizer with hands that remember how he kissed your fingertips. you dab concealer over a bruise you let him leave behind. you spray perfume behind your ears and hope it doesn’t smell like guilt.

and you wonder—how long can i survive like this?

how long can you live in this liminal space, in the tight grip of half-truths and false smiles, wrapped in the soft thrill of being someone’s secret? how long before you forget who you used to be? how long before the shame rots you from the inside out?

you think maybe you should’ve said no that night by the pool.

maybe you should’ve run when he touched your face and looked at you like he’d burn for you.

like he already was.

but you didn’t.

you let him in.

you opened your mouth and begged for more.

you curled into his lap and rode the high of being wanted so fiercely it made you cry.

and now—it’s too late.

because you married a man who never really saw you, never asked for anything more than your presence, your silence, your prettiness in pictures. a man who offered protection and nothing else.

and you fell in love with the only person in the world you were never supposed to touch.

and he touched you.

again.

and again.

and again.

until you forgot what it felt like to be untouched.

until you forgot what it felt like to be good.

until you forgot what it felt like to be clean.

—

satsuki gojo is not a man who lets himself feel.

at least, not in the way other people do.

he’s measured. composed.precise in every word, every movement. the kind of man who values control the way others value love. who commands attention without raising his voice, who delivers disappointment with a smile so polished it feels like praise.

he can sit across from a man whose company he’s about to dismantle and pour him tea with a steady hand. he can dismantle a legacy with three words and a signature. he’s never needed threats. he’s never needed rage.

because power, when wielded properly, is quiet.

and for most of his life, he believed that was enough to keep the world in order. his world.

neat. predictable. built brick by brick in his image.

he chose you the way he’s always chosen things—with intent. not for sentiment, not for warmth, not for romance. sure, your simple charm was always something he liked, but you were always more of a solution. a symbol. a perfect little piece to complete a picture he’d been curating for years.

you were beautiful, yes. poised, obedient. the kind of woman who knew how to smile at the right people, wear the right clothes, say the right things. he’s teached you a lot, but you weren’t stupid. you didn’t press and you didn’t pry. you didn’t cry when he was cold, or complain when he was late.

you were grateful in a way that flattered him.

and maybe, somewhere deep down—though he’d never admit it—he thought he was giving you something generous. a name. a home. protection.

in return, he asked for compliance and you gave it to him.

you smiled when he gave you diamonds. you folded yourself into his world with elegant silence. you learned not to ask where he went at night. and he never asked what you dreamed about. it worked.

until it didn’t.

he noticed the shift before he had a name for it.

it wasn’t obvious at first. it was in the way you lingered longer in the garden after dinner. the way you turned your head when your phone lit up across the room, a split second too fast. the way your laughter—once rare and practiced—started to sound real again.

he noticed the changes in your perfume. subtler, warmer. scents that weren’t chosen by his assistant or gifted in velvet boxes. you started wearing lipstick he hadn’t seen before and looking like someone who belonged to herself.

he didn’t confront you.

instead, he watched.

he started marking the time you left and returned. took note of how often your hair was out of place, your blouse wrinkled, your voice a little hoarse, like you’d been endlessly whispering things into someone else’s skin.

your body language changed—softer, secretive. like you were learning how to feel again. like you were warming up in someone else’s sun. your body betrayed you, not in bruises or confessions—but in a kind of ease that hadn’t existed between you in months.

and still, he didn’t suspect satoru.

not at first.

not because he trusted you and certainly not because he trusted him, but because he didn’t think either of you would be that stupid.

and maybe part of him didn’t want to believe it.

however, satoru had always been difficult.

they’d always had a strained dynamic.

he was reckless in ways that grated against satsuki’s sense of order. loud where satsuki was quiet, impulsive where he was methodical. he’d fought everything from the moment he could speak.

rejected the power of the family name, the legacy, the weight of expectation. there was something untouchable in him, something wild that satsuki could never quite control—no matter how much money, pressure, or cold expectation he applied. a ghost of his mother’s defiance, wrapped in her smile, armed with her softness.

from the outside, they were the picture of high-society decorum—father and son, both devastatingly intelligent, devastatingly composed, cut from the same ruthless cloth. they looked alike in photographs. sounded alike in interviews. but beneath the polished surface was something frayed, something long-decayed that no amount of money or legacy could repair.

satoru was a reminder of everything that had slipped through satsuki’s fingers.

his late wife’s laughter—light, uncontrolled, human—echoed in satoru’s careless smirks, in the way he leaned too far back in chairs, in the irreverent tone he used when he spoke to people who ought to matter.

she’d been soft. too soft, he used to think. prone to warmth, drawn to people. she gave things away—attention, forgiveness, affection—without vetting them first.

he loved her once, in his own quiet way. but he didn’t know what to do with her softness. didn’t know how to nurture it, only how to contain it. and eventually, it dimmed. and when satoru was born, he took what was left of that softness and love with himself, until the woman he married was six feet under.

but satoru. . . from the moment he was old enough to speak, he’d been impossible to mold. brilliant, yes. too brilliant. but willful and defiant.

he refused to be groomed like a proper heir. he questioned things that were meant to be obeyed. he didn’t take to structure. didn’t respect the natural order of hierarchy. didn’t respect him.

and yet, he had everything satsuki had wanted in a successor. charm. intuition. a terrifying sort of instinct for power. but he wasted it.

he chose unpredictability over control. freedom over legacy. emotion over efficiency. and satsuki could never decide what infuriated him more: that his son refused to be shaped into something useful—

or that he reminded him too much of a past he could no longer touch.

every conversation between them was a performance. every exchange a negotiation. there was love, somewhere—buried deep and misshapen—but it had long since been smothered by expectation, pride, and quiet, festering disappointment. he gave satoru everything a father was supposed to give: education, opportunity, wealth.

but not the things that mattered. not patience, not understanding, not softness. and in turn, satoru gave him brilliance. gave him rebellion.

but never respect and never the submission satsuki demanded, even in silence.

their dynamic had long ago calcified into something functional and cold—like glass. clear enough to see through, but too brittle to touch.

satsuki could never quite reach him. never quite shape him.

and after a while, he stopped trying.

polite meals. distant updates. strained dinners where satoru cracked jokes to make you laugh, and satsuki watched with a stillness that looked like patience but felt like contempt.

and then the whispers came.

not loud. not dramatic. just small details offered by staff who knew when to speak and when to stay silent. two coffee cups in satoru’s room. laundry that didn’t belong to him.a lipstick print on a glass no one remembered pouring.

satsuki didn’t ask questions. he observed.

he sees it first in the way your eyes start to drift.

in the way you excuse yourself from dinners earlier than usual, lips still stained with barely-hidden kisses, skin humming with the memory of someone else’s mouth. he sees it in the tremble in your hands when you pour his tea, the way your smile falters when he looks at you for just a beat too long.

he sees it when satoru walks into the room and your spine stiffens like you’ve been caught already.

he sees it in satoru too—the looseness in his posture, the smugness barely hidden beneath casual remarks. the quiet little grins aimed nowhere and everywhere. the way he looks at you like he’s already claimed you.

like he doesn’t care who knows.

and one night, he followed.

he stood in the dark at the top of the stairs, just out of sight, as you crept barefoot down the guest hallway. your cheeks were flushed, your mouth was kiss-bruised, your sweater was too large. too familiar. too his. and you were smiling. not at him. for someone else.

he watched you slip into the shadows with quiet, practiced shame, and he didn’t feel surprised. he didn’t even feel heartbreak, he felt confirmation.

and something worse— humiliation.

not just as your husband. but as a father. because it wasn’t just betrayal, it wasn’t even infidelity. it was the way you looked at satoru—like you used to look at him, long ago. like you’d been asleep for years and someone finally woke you up.

like you’d finally remembered how to feel.

and the part that sliced deepest wasn’t that you’d chosen someone else. it was that you’d chosen someone he made. someone who shared his name. someone who had every piece of him he’d never been able to give.

he sat with that knowledge for two days.

ate breakfast across from you like nothing had changed. listened to your footsteps echo down the marble hallway. watched satoru breeze in and out of the house with that smug, careless smile and imagined wiping it clean off his face.

he kept it in his chest like a ticking clock.

and waited.

until the third night, when you come home late.

and you have to know, satsuki doesn’t scream.

he doesn’t throw things. neither does he raise his voice. doesn’t call you names or demand answers. there’s no storm. no fire. no broken glass glittering across the floor.

just silence—dense, absolute. the kind that makes your bones ache before you even understand why.

he’s sitting in the lounge when you come home. not his study or the formal sitting room reserved for guests and political favors, but the old lounge near the back of the house—the one with worn leather chairs and a window that always sticks halfway open. he used to like sitting here with you, hands full of documents and reports and your perfume lingering by his side.

the floor creaks when you step in. his jacket is folded over the armrest, his tie loose around his neck like a noose he forgot to tighten. there’s a half-full glass of whiskey in one hand, the rim catching the firelight from the hearth behind him.

he looks up when you enter and he smiles. but it’s the wrong kind of smile: it’s thin and deliberate and shaped like control—sharp and elegant and meant to wound. you’ve seen it on him and you’ve never liked it.

“you’re late,” he says.

his tone is soft, casual. like he’s commenting on the weather. like you’ve only broken curfew by an hour and not shattered the most sacred rule of this house.

you open your mouth to lie—to give him something rehearsed. traffic. errands. lunch with the wife of that board member who always pretends not to loathe you. something easy, something clean.

but then you meet his unbelievably cold eyes and everything dies in your throat. because he’s already holding the truth. you can see it in his face—in the stillness, the patience, the cold poise of a man who’s already played the entire game in his mind.

he knows.

he hums under his breath. the sound is small and almost amused, but it lands like a slap.

he taps his thumb once against the rim of his glass, then says, “i hear you’ve taken a liking to hakone.”

your breath stutters.

“you’ve been going often,” he adds, like it’s an idle thought, like he’s piecing something together he already understands.

you force your voice to work.

“I like the quiet,” you say, careful. measured.

his lips twitch. “yes,” he murmurs. “so do i.”

he sets his glass down with precision, the base hitting the table with a soft clink.

he doesn’t look away.

“you know,” he continues, tone drifting somewhere between dissection and conversation, “i used to wonder why the staff stopped telling me when you left the city.”

his fingers trace the seam of his trousers.

“why the housekeeper started locking the guest suite.”

a beat.

“why you began ignoring my calls.”

your chest goes tight, pulse thudding in your ears.

“they didn’t tell me,” he says. “but they didn’t have to.”

and then—his voice, colder. quieter.

“i’m not a fool.”

your mouth opens on instinct. some part of you still thinks you can lie your way out. deny it. explain it. apologize. even though there’s nothing left to salvage. you don’t even know which version of the truth you’re trying to reach for, but you don’t get the chance.

he cuts in.

“how long?”

you freeze.

he takes a step closer, the firelight catching in the creases around his eyes.

“how long,” he repeats, “have you been fucking my son?”

the words hit you like a blade through silk—clean, merciless, elegant in its precision.

you flinch visibly.

your fingers twist in the fabric of your coat like you’re bracing for a blow. your throat goes dry. your lungs stall. you can’t answer.

because what is there to say?

that it wasn’t planned? that it wasn’t a betrayal at first, just a kiss by the pool? that you didn’t mean for it to turn into something real?

it all sounds so small now. so hollow.

satsuki rises to his full height—he moves slowly, methodically, like he’s done this a hundred times before. straightens his cuffs. buttons the top of his collar. steps toward you without urgency.

he stops a few feet away. not close enough to touch. just close enough that you feel the weight of him, the cold edge of his presence. the domineering cool emitting from him.

he looks at you for a long time.

not with rage or disgust, but with something worse.

disappointment.

like he’s been bracing for this all along. like he expected better—and isn’t surprised that you didn’t deliver. it hits you harder than it should and your nails dig into the plush of your palm, holding in the desire to apologise over and over and ask for forgiveness like a child would with a disappointed parent.

“was it revenge?” he asks.

his voice is quieter now. more intimate.

“a performance?”

he studies your face.

“or did you just get tired of waiting for me to love you?”

you want to scream. to fall to your knees, to beg him to understand that it was never about revenge, that you were lonely, so unbelievably lonely, and satoru looked at you like you mattered. like you existed. but none of that matters now.

the words never come, instead they lodge in your throat like splinters.

“i thought you knew what you were getting into when i approached you.”

he tilts his head slightly, almost curious. like he’s waiting for something that you no longer have to give.

then he exhales just one breath. low. even. controlled.

“he always did take what wasn’t his.”

you blink. he’s not looking at you anymore.

his gaze slips past your shoulder, to the fire, or the window, or some long-dead moment you’ll never be privy to. he’s remembering something you were never a part of and it hurts like it never did before.

“i should’ve known he’d want you too,” he says, and this time the words are softer. like a realization spoken to himself.

you don’t know what history lives between them. you don’t ask because it’s not yours to touch, it never was.

you take a step back. then another.

your breath comes shallow. your cheeks burn. shame licks up your throat and settles in your mouth like ash. but he isn’t done. he adjusts his cuffs again, casual, like he’s resetting himself. it feels like he’s stepping back into the man he was before he ever let you into his home.

“there’s a dinner with the yamamotos tonight,” he says.

his voice is clipped now, businesslike. the conversation is over. this is protocol.

“you’ll attend like you always do,” he adds. “wear the gold chanel dress. and the necklace i gifted you for new years.”

you stare at him.

you’re not sure what you’re waiting for. mercy? forgiveness? one final insult? you think it’d be better that whatever this is.

“and then?” you ask, even though you already know.

he looks at you once more and this time there’s nothing in his eyes— no heat, no cold, no flicker of what you used to hope was affection. just a decision.

“then, in the morning, you’ll leave.”

your heart stops.

“you’ll be out of this house by ten,” he says.

his tone is simple and settled, the one you’ve heard him use a million times in different settings. you just never thought it’d be directed to you.

“the lawyers will be in touch.”

your knees go weak. your vision tilts, dangerously blurry, but somehow, you stand.

somehow, you nod, realising there’s nothing left to fight for. he turns away, back toward the fireplace. the flames flicker quietly, casting soft light on the clean lines of his silhouette.

and as you watch him, standing in a room that once belonged to both of you, you realize—

this is the first time he’s ever really seen you.

and it will be the last time he ever looks at you the same way again.

—

the guest room feels unfamiliar, almost cold, despite the thick curtains and soft linens that try to soften its edges. you close the door behind you with a hollow finality, the sound echoing in the silence like a heartbeat you can’t catch.

the room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside, a distant reminder that life continues beyond these walls. you sink onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe—shallow, uneven, like someone learning how to again.

your mind swirls with everything left unsaid. the confrontation with satsuki replays in endless loops, his measured voice cutting through the memories you had tried so hard to bury. it’s not just the end of a marriage; it’s the unraveling of the life you thought you had. you touch the faint bruises on your skin, remnants of stolen moments with satoru, and a bitter ache settles deep in your chest. the guilt is sharp, a weight that drags against any flicker of solace.

your phone vibrates quietly on the bedside table, screen lighting up with satoru’s name. you don’t answer. you can’t. each message is a tether pulling you back to a world you need to step away from, no matter how fiercely your heart resists. ignoring him feels like a small act of control amid the chaos—a way to protect the fragile pieces of yourself before the inevitable departure.

you ache for the tenderness he gave you and resent the fragility it exposed. loneliness presses in, but so does a quiet clarity: you cannot stay in this in-between, clinging to shadows when the dawn demands you move forward.

you don’t sleep. not really.

you drift in and out of shallow, fragmented dreams—flashes of firelight, the ghost of satsuki’s voice, the warmth of satoru’s hands pressed to your hips. it all blends together until you can’t tell memory from nightmare. every time your eyes close, something inside you flinches.

you lie on your side in the guest bed, staring at the edge of the wall, and you think about how quickly things fall apart. how something that felt so real, so alive in your hands, could slip through your fingers with just a few words. you remember satoru telling you once—softly, like he was afraid of the truth—“nothing we take from him ever lasts.”

you had shrugged. brushed it off.

but maybe you should’ve listened.

his name lights up your phone again around 2:00 a.m.—a short vibration, then another. then a call.

you stare at the screen until it fades. you don’t answer. you don’t dare to.

you know what he’ll say. you know the voice he’ll use—the low, urgent one that always made your chest ache, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. and maybe that’s what you’re afraid of. that if you hear it, you’ll forget why you have to go.

you press the phone beneath a pillow. try not to cry. fail.

when the first signs of morning come, you sit up slowly, your body stiff and reluctant. the house is still quiet. no footsteps, no movement down the hall. it feels like a mausoleum now. you move through it like someone haunting their own life.

you take a long shower. let the water burn your skin red in places. like punishment, maybe, or maybe you just want to feel something that isn’t regret.

the mirror fogs, but you wipe it clear with your palm, stare at your reflection like it might give you answers. you look older today. heavier. but there’s something in your eyes—tired, yes, but awake like you’ve finally decided something for yourself.

you get dressed methodically. a blouse and black slacks you bought yourself with your own money. you fold the gold chanel dress into your bag without thinking, like a relic you’re not sure what to do with. the closet is already half-emptied; you did most of it in the night, between moments of panic and resolve. you left the jewelry. the heels. the coats. you don’t want to take anything you can’t justify wanting.

when you’re done, you sit on the edge of the bed with your coat in your lap and your bags at your feet. your phone buzzes again. another call. his name, again.

you silence it and yet—it hurts. god, it hurts.

because you miss him. not just the sex. not just the rush of being seen, desired, adored.

you miss the stupid jokes, the way he always leaned in too close when he talked. the way he touched your back in passing, like it was second nature. his honesty, his kindness, his desire for you to see him just like he saw you.

you miss how easy it was to feel wanted around him.

how light your body felt when he held you. how much fun you had, even when everything was wrong, but wanting him won’t undo what you’ve done.

and there’s something uglier than heartbreak curling inside your chest now. shame, maybe. or self-loathing. or the simple, brutal truth that you knew what this would cost you. you knew. and you chose him anyway. and now you have to let him go like the mistake it was.

you stand, finally. smooth your blouse. pick up your things. the door creaks slightly when you open it. the hallway is still empty.

you don’t see satsuki again.

but the housekeeper is already waiting by the front doors, her posture stiff, her eyes unreadable. she nods at you once yet doesn’t speak. the kind woman who’d greeted you a few years ago is gone and for a brief second, you feel like a ghost all over again.

no one says goodbye.

no one asks where you’re going.

you walk out of the house with the air crisp and the sky still gray, and it doesn’t feel like freedom, not yet, but it does feel like something.

like an ending you’ve earned and a beginning you might survive. . .

epilogue.

satoru sits alone in his sleek, dimly lit apartment overlooking the city, the night stretching endlessly beyond the glass. the silence here isn’t comforting; it’s heavy and hollow, pressing down on him like a weight he can’t shrug off. his phone lies face-up on the table, screen dark now, no new messages from you. the absence feels louder than any words ever could.

he thinks about you constantly—about the way you moved through the gojo estate, so fragile yet fierce in your own quiet way. how your eyes held a mix of longing and pain, like you were always searching for something just out of reach. he remembers the nights in hakone, the softness of your skin against his, the hesitant way you let yourself fall apart in his arms. those moments are etched in him, vivid and aching.

but alongside the tenderness, there’s the bitter sting of guilt—because he knows what you lost. the life you left behind, the promises broken, the distance you’ve been forced to put between yourself and satsuki. he wonders if you blame him, if you see him as the one who took what wasn’t his. part of him understands. part of him hates himself for it.

he wrestles with the fact that he loved you in a way no one else did—or could. that in those stolen hours, he tried to make you feel seen, whole, and alive. and yet, all he could give you was secrecy and fleeting warmth. the knowledge that he was the reason you lost everything haunts him more than he admits.

there’s a quiet ache beneath his usual careless grin, a sorrow he buries deep beneath sarcasm and deflection. satoru wonders if you’ll ever forgive him—or if forgiveness even matters anymore. he replays your last moments together, the way you pulled away before the kiss could become more, the way you disappeared afterward, leaving nothing but silence.

he’s haunted by the thought of you, not as a prize won or a secret kept, but as someone he genuinely cared for—someone he wanted to protect from the cold world that had hurt you so much already. and now, without you, even the city’s neon lights feel dimmer, the nights colder, and the space beside him painfully empty.

he knows he’s lost you in more ways than one. and the weight of that loss is something he carries with quiet, relentless heaviness.

satoru’s thoughts spiral in the quiet hours, tangled and relentless. he remembers the way your laughter once filled the corners of the house, sharp and unexpected, like sunlight breaking through a storm. how rare those moments were, and how fiercely he clung to them. he wonders if you ever felt the same—that small flicker of something real beneath the facade of your marriage, beneath the walls you both built to protect yourselves.

he thinks about satsuki, his father, with a complicated knot of resentment and reluctant understanding. satsuki’s coldness was a shield, a calculated distance that made love impossible, and maybe satoru saw himself in that—flawed, unreachable, always on the edge of something breaking. he knows satsuki never loved you the way you deserved, and maybe that’s why satoru’s feelings for you became so fierce, so impossible to ignore. it was as if loving you was the only way to fight against a legacy of emptiness.

he replays the stolen nights and whispered promises, the way your fingers tangled in his hair, the quiet confession in your eyes when you finally let go. those moments weren’t just physical—they were a desperate grasp for connection, for something genuine in a life that had become a series of transactions and silent compromises. he wishes he could go back, erase the pain that followed, but he knows some wounds run too deep.

there’s also a gnawing fear beneath everything—fear that you’re slipping further away, that the distance between you is becoming permanent, defined not just by walls and silence but by the choices made and the secrets kept. satoru hates that he might have been the cause of your exile, that the sanctuary you once sought in him might now be a memory too painful to revisit.

and yet, despite it all, he can’t stop hoping. hoping that somewhere beneath the fractured pieces, you’re still there—still breathing, still fighting. that maybe, someday, the space between you can be crossed.

satoru knows he could find you anytime he wanted. the networks of the city, the connections woven through his life like threads in a tapestry—they’re all there, quietly waiting for him to pull. he could ask, trace, track. his world is built on precision and control; locating you would be no different from making a phone call or booking a flight.

but he doesn’t.

not yet.

there’s a part of him that understands the chaos you need to navigate on your own, the space to breathe without the weight of his presence pressing down on you. he respects that silence, no matter how much it tears at him. he hopes you’re finding some clarity, some piece of yourself you lost when everything fell apart. and beneath that hope is a quiet, stubborn wish—that when you’re ready, you’ll reach out. that you’ll call him, ask for help, or maybe just for company.

he wants to see you every day. to hear your voice, to catch the light in your eyes when you smile without hesitation. he dreams of ordinary moments with you—the kind of moments that feel impossible now. but he doesn’t force it. he holds space for you in the chaos of his life, a silent promise that he’ll be there when you decide you’re ready.

and then, one day, by chance more than design, he does see you.

it’s unexpected, like a flicker of warmth in a cold room. you’re just across the street, caught in the rush of the city—unaware, untethered, breathing in the world on your own terms.

for a second, time bends. the noise around him dulls.

he watches, heart pounding, the distance between you suddenly unbearable and yet impossible to close in that moment. it’s accidental. unplanned. raw.

the moment stretches, fragile and electric, as satoru stands frozen on the sidewalk, watching you navigate the crowd with that familiar, tentative grace. the sunlight catches the edges of your hair, casting a halo you hadn’t realized you’d missed so desperately. his breath hitches—not from surprise, but from the weight of everything unsaid, every stolen moment that now feels like a lifetime away.

he wants to call out, to cross the street and bridge the gulf that’s grown between you. but something holds him back—a mix of respect, fear, and the unspoken understanding that you need to decide how this story continues. so instead, he lets you go, watching until you disappear around the corner, swallowed by the city’s endless motion.

the ache in his chest is sharp but tethered to a new hope, fragile but undeniable. seeing you—really seeing you—reminds him that the pieces aren’t lost forever. that maybe, in time, the distance can be closed not by force or desperation, but by choice.

he pulls out his phone, fingers hovering over the screen. but he doesn’t call. not yet.

instead, he carries the image of you with him—a quiet promise, a flicker of light in the dark—waiting for the day when you’ll reach back. when the accidental meeting becomes a deliberate reunion. and until then, he’ll hold on to that moment, small and precious, as the beginning of everything yet to come.

days pass like slow tides, each one pulling satoru deeper into a restless rhythm of waiting and wanting. the accidental glimpse of you lingers in his mind—a persistent ache that colors every quiet moment. he keeps checking his phone, half-expecting your name to light up the screen, half-afraid it never will.

he’s careful not to overwhelm. no messages, no calls, no attempts to intrude on the fragile space you might be carving out for yourself. instead, he focuses on the small details he remembers—the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the softness in your eyes despite the shadows beneath them. those details become a silent prayer he carries with him, a hope that you’re healing in your own time.

sometimes, he wonders what you’re feeling. if you think of him, even for a fleeting second. if you’re angry, or scared, or lonely like he is. the not knowing is its own torment, but he endures it because it’s better than pretending the connection never existed.

and then, one evening, as twilight bleeds into the city, satoru finds himself walking past a quiet café he knows you like. the place is small, tucked between towering glass buildings, with warm light spilling onto the pavement. through the window, he sees you seated at a corner table, alone, eyes fixed on a book, a cup of tea untouched.

his heart stutters, the sight both a balm and a challenge. he wants to cross the street, to speak to you, to reach out and pull you back into his world. but he hesitates, caught between hope and fear, between what he wants and what you need.

you look up.

just for a second. just a shift of your gaze, like you’re checking the street, like you felt something—or someone. and satoru knows the moment your eyes land on him.

you blink. he can see it from across the street, that flicker of recognition behind your lashes. the brief, stunned stillness. the small part of you that wants to look away but doesn’t.

and it’s then that he moves.

he crosses the street without thinking. the city hums around him, cars passing, lights changing, but none of it touches him. his feet hit the sidewalk, one after the other, like this was always where he was going to end up.

the door jingles softly when he pushes it open. warm air hits him—coffee, jasmine tea, something spiced—and he sees you straighten in your seat, uncertain, your fingers curled tight around your book like it might keep you steady.

you don’t speak right away. you just stare. like you don’t know if this is real. maybe you’ve conjured him somehow. so he gives you a moment.

he approaches slowly, careful not to crowd your space, hands shaking at his sides and breathing shortening from nervousness. your tea sits untouched, lips of steam curling from the rim. there’s a smear of mascara beneath your left eye. your expression is tired. guarded.

but still you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

he stops just in front of the table. lets the quiet stretch a second longer. then—softly, almost like a joke, like a thread offered—

“hello,” he says. “i’m satoru. and you?”

you blink again. your brow furrows.

and a second later you understand.

your mouth parts, trembling. you reach for the moment like you’re not sure how to hold it, how not to break it. your small hand comes up—slow, uncertain—and he takes it, warmly and steadily, thumb brushing the back of your fingers in a manner too familiar.

you nod once, mouth opening to try and say your name, but it comes out as a sob instead.

your shoulders tremble. tears slip down your cheeks without warning, fast and hot, catching in the hollow of your throat. your fingers tighten in his, like you’re afraid you’ll fall if you don’t hold on or he’ll disappear.

and satoru’s already leaning in, already wrapping his arms around you like he always did when you fell apart.

he doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t ask.

he pulls you to your feet and into him like he’s wanted to do it for years, like your body belongs there, right against his chest, your face tucked into the curve of his neck.

your hands fist in his coat. your tears soak through his shirt. he doesn’t care.

he just holds you—tight, real, steady.

like he’s never letting go again.

—

satsuki’s office is dimly lit, the city lights casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. he stands by the window, arms crossed, staring out but not really seeing the skyline. the quiet hum of the city below feels distant, almost irrelevant.

satoru leans against the doorway, casual yet tense, his usual carefree grin replaced by something sharper, more measured.

“you knew, didn’t you?” satsuki’s voice breaks the silence, low and controlled.

“knew what?” satoru replies, eyes narrowing but voice calm.

“about us.” satsuki turns, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “about her.”

satoru shrugs, stepping fully into the room. “i figured it was only a matter of time.”

“you crossed a line,” satsuki says, voice steady but with an edge. “not just with her, but with me.”

“maybe i did,” satoru admits. “but she wasn’t yours. not really. you never loved her.”

“love isn’t always what it seems,” satsuki counters, eyes hard. “sometimes it’s duty. control. legacy.”

“then you failed,” satoru says quietly. “because she deserved more than duty and control.”

for a moment, the two men simply regard each other—father and son, rivals and kin, bound by a past neither can fully escape.

“what now?” satsuki finally asks, voice softer.

satoru’s gaze flickers, uncertain for once. “now? i wait. i hope she knows she’s not alone.”

“and if she doesn’t come back?”

“then we live with the choices we made,” satoru says, stepping toward the door. “but i’ll be here. whether she calls or not.”

satsuki watches him go, the weight of everything heavy in the room—words left unsaid, love misunderstood, and a family fractured, too close to broken.

[bowtiepasta]

hanta sero going from the little boy down the street who helped you find your way home in the new neighborhood, to your first friend in middle school, to your first kiss in high school, to the one who teached you how to french inhale, to your emergency contact in college, to the best man at denki’s wedding; staring at the very familiar—very cute, maid of honor.

“you’re ogling again,” kaminari snickers, swirling his drink like he’s even remotely classy, tie tugged loose and eyes gleaming. “real subtle, romeo.”

sero hums, eyes not peeling away from the petal covered lawn, where you’re talking to jirou’s little cousin, crouched so your heels don’t completely sink into the grass. still wearing that scruffy old varsity jacket over your dress. his varsity jacket.

“she steal that from you?”

“it’s not a big deal,” sero says, but he’s smiling ear to ear. crooked and tipsy and head over heels.

mina drops into the chair next to him. “you’ve got the same look on your face you had when she agreed to be your stand-in valentine freshman year.”

“that was a big day,” he mumbles.

she drops a cherry into her mouth, stolen from someone’s abandoned shirley temple. “you used to get all weird when she sat next to other guys.”

kirishima downs the rest of it, talking and sipping. “he stopped talking to me for weeks because she shared a slushie with me. two separate straws.”

“that was one time.”

kaminari laughs too, “you were practically allergic to sharing back then, fuckin’ idiot.”

sero shrugs, ears tinting red as his leg starts to bounce under the table. “things change.”

“do they?” jirou pipes in from next to him. “you’re over here, and she’s all the way over—” she gestures at him, then between you. “—there. tough luck, bud.”

“yeah,” sero exhales, leans back in his chair to stretch his arms behind his head. “guess i blew it, huh?”

“oh my god,” mina groans. “you didn’t blow anything. she waved at you twice already.”

kiri grins. “you want us to go with you? do the whole awkward friend group swarm thing?”

“please don’t,” sero chuckles into his drink despite being incredibly embarrassed. “she’d hate that.”

“you know what she wouldn’t hate?” mina sneers, nudging his arm. “you walking over there and telling her she cleaned up nice tonight.”

“she does look good,” sero agrees quite quickly.

“so tell her,” jirou encourages.

he hesitates. “i just—let me get another drink first.”

“nope,” denki says, standing up and stealing sero’s red solo before he can argue. “you’re not hiding behind a plastic cup. she’s right there.”

sero watches you—head tilted while you listen to someone, one of denki’s chatty family members, fingers tugging absently at the sleeve of his jacket.

and then you glance up, eyes meeting his, and your face breaks into that easy, familiar smile. the one that used to knock him sideways back when you were fourteen and he hadn’t figured out what to do with these feelings yet.

sero stands. then he sits, legs getting wobbly all of a sudden. his imagination takes over, painting a world where he confesses and it goes wrong. where you stop answering his calls, where you take his heart in your hands and leave it at the open bar.

he looks around at the table, expectant faces right back at him. kirishima is starting to notice his hesitancy, frown deepening. and he doesn’t want to disappoint his friends—he really doesn’t. but they won’t be the ones picking up the pieces if it all falls apart tonight, will they?

“never mind,” he says, mostly to himself. “i’m good.”

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Things we left unsaid

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word Count: ~1.1k

Summary: You, Lando & confessions.

Masterlist

⸻

It starts with a text.

Lando [5:41 PM]

you home?

You [5:42 PM]

yep blanket burrito on the couch why?

Lando [5:42 PM]

perfect i’m on my way

You blink. Sit up.

You [5:42 PM]

??? you can’t just show up mid-burrito

Lando [5:43 PM]

sure i can i’m bringing snacks

You [5:43 PM]

…okay fine what kind of snacks?

Lando [5:44 PM]

you’ll see (also tell your blanket to make room for me)

⸻

He shows up fifteen minutes later with a paper bag full of stuff that shouldn’t go together but somehow works—popcorn, sour candy, chocolate-covered pretzels, a single apple for “balance.”

“You know,” you say as he dumps it all on the coffee table, “this is a chaotic spread.”

He grins. “It’s us. We’re chaotic.”

You roll your eyes but scoot over, tugging the edge of your blanket open.

Without hesitation, he slides in next to you. Close enough that your legs press together under the blanket, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It kind of is.

You put on a movie—something neither of you really watches. The room is dim except for the screen, and everything feels quieter than it is.

At some point, your head ends up on his shoulder.

At some point after that, his arm settles behind you, fingers brushing your hair absently.

And neither of you moves.

⸻

Halfway through the movie, you shift to look at him. Your faces are inches apart.

He doesn’t pull back.

He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—soft, curious, almost-smiling.

Your heart’s doing that fluttery thing again. The one that says go even when your brain’s whispering wait.

You speak first. “This feels… different.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It does.”

You swallow. “In a good way?”

He nods. “In a really good way.”

You pause. “So are we…?”

His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight. “We can be whatever you want us to be.”

You’re quiet. Not because you don’t know what you want—but because you do.

“I want this,” you say. Barely a whisper. “I want you.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for days.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

You nod.

And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in—slow, deliberate—and when his lips meet yours, it’s gentle at first. Careful. The kind of kiss that feels like a question.

You answer it by leaning in closer.

And then it deepens.

Not rushed. Not messy. Just real.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, your smile tugging at your lips like it can’t help it.

“That was…” you start.

“A bit overdue?” he offers, grinning.

You laugh. “Yeah. That.”

He tightens his arm around you. “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

For the first time in a long time, you feel steady, too.

⸻

At one point, Lando shifts, glances at you. “Can I…?” he asks, motioning toward your lap.

You blink. “My lap?”

He gives a sheepish little shrug. “It looks comfortable.”

You lift an eyebrow but smile. “You’re such a menace.”

He grins, already laying down, head gently resting on your thighs. “But a charming one.”

You don’t argue. You just adjust the blanket, tuck it around both of you again, and softly card your fingers through his hair.

He hums. Eyes flutter closed. His lashes fan over his cheeks, and you swear your heart squeezes.

It’s quiet for a while. Just the soft hum of the TV and the gentle rhythm of your fingers in his hair. Every few seconds, his hand—resting on your knee—twitches slightly, like he’s fighting the urge to move closer, speak louder, say more.

Then, slowly, he turns his head and presses a light kiss to your knee through the blanket. Then, again, but to your hand this time—just a gentle press of his lips against your skin, like he’s thanking you without words.

You freeze for half a second.

And then melt.

Because it’s not loud. Not demanding. It’s soft and reverent and real.

His thumb brushes over your fingers, and he whispers without opening his eyes, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this safe with someone.”

Your throat tightens.

“Me neither,” you whisper back, fingers curling gently around his hand.

You lean down, resting your chin on his shoulder lightly.

And for a long while, neither of you needs anything more than this.

⸻

Lando doesn’t move much after that.

He stays curled against you, cheek resting softly against your thigh, one hand loosely cradling yours like he’s afraid to let go—even in his sleep. His breathing evens out slowly, each rise and fall of his chest syncing with the rhythm of your fingers brushing through his hair.

You glance down at him.

His lashes are still, mouth parted slightly, expression softened into something completely unguarded. He looks younger like this. Softer. And it hits you again—how rare this kind of quiet is for someone like him. Always moving. Always on.

And now… he’s here. Asleep in your lap. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t dare move.

The TV drones on, forgotten. Your focus is entirely on him—the weight of his head, the warmth of his hand, the way your heart feels full and fragile all at once.

You didn’t expect this kind of closeness to feel so easy.

Or maybe it’s not easy—it’s just right.

You shift slightly, just enough to adjust the blanket over him, careful not to wake him. Your fingertips drift along the curve of his jaw for a moment, feather-light.

And when he sighs in his sleep, thumb twitching against your palm, you feel it again—this pang in your chest like something’s blooming and breaking at the same time.

Because you’re falling.

So slowly, so deeply.

And you don’t want it to stop.

Not when he looks like peace personified in your lap.

Not when your hands still remember the press of his lips from earlier.

Not when you’ve never felt safer with anyone in your life.

You let your head fall back against the couch cushion. Close your eyes. Just breathe him in.

And you think, God, I’m in trouble.

But it doesn’t scare you like it used to do.

Not even a little.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Masterlist

[demie90s]

kk arnold x chaotic!reader smut where reader is just talking and saying crazy things the whole time and how kk would react to it, thank you in advance and i love you and ur writing so muchhhhh

You Serious?

Kk Arnold x Fem!Reader

MORE | NAVI

Summary: KK knew you were a lot, but she didn’t expect that energy to carry into the bedroom. She should be annoyed. But she’s not. Not even close. She’s obsessed.

Genre: Smut | Humor | Chaos x Control | Soft Dom!KK x sub!Reader

Word Count: ~ 1k

Warnings: Strap-on sex (reader receiving), Praise kink (on both ends), Slight dumbification, Orgasm control, Light choking / possessive behavior, Reader is so unserious, KK trying her best to stay focused

You were loud. Always had been. Loud when you walked in a room, loud when you laughed, loud when you didn’t get your way, and KK had learned to tune you out sometimes for her own peace.

There’s no tuning you out now.

“Why you strokin’ it like that?” you gasp, eyes fluttering like you ain’t just say the most insane thing. “Like—damn..you tryin’ to put a baby in me? ‘Cause it’s workin’.”

KK snorts, the laugh low in her throat, hips slowing just to watch your face twist up again. Her strap drags so deep when she does it like that, and your hands claw at the sheets instantly.

“Shut up,” she mutters, but there’s no bite in it. Not when you look that good under her, makeup smudged and hair a damn mess. Your mouth is open still because God forbid you just take it in silence.

“Nah, ‘cause you gotta feel what I feel,” you babble, hands flying up like you about to catch the Holy Ghost. “I feel like I’m gettin’ possessed or some shit, KK. Like, if my toes curl any harder, I’m levitating.”

KK bites her lip hard, trying not to laugh, trying not to cum off your voice alone. You’re so damn annoying. You’ve been like this since the minute you got in her bed.

She’d stripped you down all smooth and slow, laid you out pretty, started eatin’ it with focus like a professional, and you still didn’t shut up.

“Your tongue got Bluetooth or something?” you’d moaned, back arched off the sheets. “’Cause it’s syncing with my soul, ouuu.”

KK hadn’t even paused. Just hummed like, yeah, and kept going.

Now your legs are over her shoulders, trembling. You’re sensitive, you have to be, because your thighs are twitching and your hands are shaking and your eyes roll back when she speeds up, but your mouth still going.

“Wait. Don’t stop. But also…pause, ‘cause my spirit just left.” KK puts her hand over your mouth. It lasts maybe three seconds before you lick her palm.

“What the fuck,” she breathes, pulling back and shaking her head.

“You knew who I was when you laid me down,” you say, like it’s the pledge of allegiance. “Don’t try to mute me now.” KK rolls her eyes and slams back into you. Hard.

You squeal. And for once, it’s not words, just sound. Raw and broken. KK grins, finally satisfied.

“…Damn. Okay, Daddy Daycare. You ever thought of doin’ porn on the side or—”

“You’re sick,” KK groans, pressing her body all the way down, forearms beside your head now, forehead brushing yours as she strokes deep and deliberate. “You know that, right?”

You’re giggling, choking on a moan and breathless at the same time. “I’m serious. You got that stroke. Like, give me a bib. I need hydration.”

“Please, shut up—”

“But I love you,” you whine, kissing her sloppily mid-sentence, tugging her shirt up like you don’t know what you want first.

Your nails dig into her back like she’s yours. Like she’s always been. “Even if you a lil mean when you fuckin’ me. That’s okay. I like pain. I like trauma.”

KK laughs again, really laughs this time, and it’s so unfair because she’s still driving into you like she’s trying to break your damn mind.

Her strap hits perfect, her rhythm stupid consistent. Like muscle memory. Like it was made to fuck you dumb.

And it is working. She can tell. Your voice stutters now, all that attitude melting into open-mouth moans, legs twitching when she angles her hips just right.

“You feel good?” she asks, low and smug.

“I feel like I should pay you.” KK grins.

“Nah, baby. I like workin’ overtime.”

She pins your wrists above your head, grip tight. Your eyes bulge when she thrusts a little rougher, a little deeper.

“Oh my..Goddamn, this how heaven feel?”

“Guess you made it,” she smirks. You blink up at her, dazed.

“…kk.”

She laughs again, face buried in your neck for a second before she lifts back up, staring down at the way you twitch every time she moves.

You’re so animated. She’s never met someone who could be this much of a fool while getting fucked within an inch of their life.

Still, she can’t stop watching. “I swear if you make me cum talkin’ like this—”

“You will.”

KK raises a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” you breathe, biting your lip and tilting your head with mock innocence. “I’m bout to squirt all over this bed like a broken faucet, and you gone sit there smilin’ like State Farm.”

KK loses it. She starts laughing while stroking, breath hitching and forehead pressing against yours again.

“You’re dumb,” she pants.

“Say you love me.”

“You’re fucking crazy—”

“Say it or I stop moaning.”

KK wraps her hand around your throat so lightly it makes your eyes go wide.

“You won’t stop moaning,” she whispers darkly. You gasp, grin splitting your face wide like you’ve just been blessed.

“Oh my God, you freaky. Wait—pause, I’m actually about to—fuck—!”

You clamp down around her, whole body shuddering as your orgasm crashes over you in an uncontrollable wave. It’s violent.

And loud. And messy. You’re crying and laughing, biting your own hand while your thighs shake like leaves. KK just watches, completely obsessed.

“Damn…” she mutters, dragging her strap out slow, sticky and wet and shining from you. She taps it against your thigh. “I should record you. Send it to your mama.”

“You a demon.”

“You a dumbass,” she retorts, smiling. You blink at her like you’re in a coma.

“Can I get a grilled cheese now?” KK throws her head back and laughs. She drops down beside you, pulling you into her chest with zero resistance even though you’re sweaty, and still giggling.

She kisses your forehead once. “God, I’m so obsessed with you.”

You peek up at her, grinning. “Told you. I’m a good time.”

KK leans down, kisses your lips slow.

“Yeah,” she whispers against your mouth.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai @mrsarnold @prettyyyinblack

[thecchiiiiiiii]

Fresh Blood by Haiden Henderson – “The same game that we both keep losing, 'cause I want you to change, but I never do. So, who's hurting who if I keep running and running and running and running back to you? Fresh blood, but the same old story, know that I'm bad for you, but I'll keep coming back” (Daniela Avanzini x reader)

Synopsis: She's damn stubborn and she hates that she knows it because its the reason that haunts her every day.

Remember that this is FICTION only.

Read part I here

—☆

It happens halfway through the line— your hand frozen above the open page, pen hovering like it’s waiting for permission.

Your sleeves are too long again.

They always are when you’re tired, frayed cuffs swallowing your knuckles, ink staining the fabric where you keep dragging the tip across by accident. There’s cold coffee bleeding rings into the dedication stack, but you’ve stopped bothering to ask for fresh cups.

It all tastes the same after the second hour.

You hate crowds. Hate small talk. Hate the cameras blinking like tiny demands. But you do it anyway, for them. For her.

For the lie you bottled up and sold with your name stamped on its throat.

She’s here tonight. You know it before you see her.

She’s good at slipping in when you’re looking down, good at being the echo just out of reach.

She’s there now, half-hidden behind a crooked shelf of battered poetry books— secondhand spines, dog-eared regrets, someone else’s underlining. Always poetry. Always the bruised parts.

The line creeps forward. You sign the sad ending again and again: What We Never Said.

Funny.

You never did say a damn thing when it mattered. Not first. Not when she needed you to.

And when you finally did, you bled it onto paper for strangers to take home in plastic bags and cracked spines.

She watches you and you can feel her.

Like a bruise under your collar, pressing warm. She wants to laugh. So, she does.

A sharp, breathless thing that tastes like old salt. A sound only you can hear above the shuffle of receipts and polite thank-yous.

A kid stands in front of you, can’t be older than sixteen, maybe seventeen at a stretch.

Soft shoulders under a thrifted jacket two sizes too big, eyes too wide for a world like this. They look at you the way you remember looking at your first paperback on the library shelf— like you can’t possibly be real.

“Did it really have to end like that?” they ask.

Their voice is too bright for something that heavy. They glance at the stack, the dog-eared copy of your book clutched to their chest like armor.

They laugh a little, nervous. “I just… I really saw myself in the main character. Like— it felt like you wrote it just for me.”

They want you to laugh too, you can see it, the desperate hope that you’ll say something warm, something that gives them permission to believe it all ends up okay.

But you don’t.

You just stare.

Past the kid’s hopeful grin, past the cheap pendant around their neck, past the smudge of your own face reflected in the bookstore’s glass door.

Past them— to her. Always to her.

She leans into the shelf, shoulder brushing cracked bindings, her hair tumbling loose the way you always loved best. The way you used to bury your face in it to hide from the truth.

The kid shifts, shuffles their feet. Says it again, softer this time. “Did it really have to end like that?”

You don’t look at them. You don’t look at her. Your pen trembles in your grip, the dedication half-formed on the page. Your mouth sets in that hard line you learned to wear when you were twelve, the same line you wore the night you almost didn’t leave. The night you almost proved yourself right.

You say it like you’re still convincing yourself: “Yeah. It did.”

A sound cuts the quiet— her laugh, sharper this time. A single note, breaking like glass in your chest. A few heads turn but she doesn’t care. She’s never cared.

She asked you always, forehead pressed to yours on the splintered steps behind the old church, her room, yours, everywhere: Write me a happy ending, okay?

You said you would. And you did.

Just not on paper.

Because the sad ending was the only one that made sense.

The only one that fit the shape of your hands.

You sign the page, hand shaking. The kid smiles like they understand. They don’t.

They tuck the book under their arm and say thank you. They mean "thank you for seeing me". But you didn’t.

You were too busy trying to look anywhere else but at the thing that always stays.

Her.

Always her.

You breathe out when the kid disappears into the crush of bodies. You look up, just once. She’s still there— arms folded across her chest, hair half-hiding the grin that never forgave you for telling the truth too late.

She tilts her head. The soft fall of her laugh reaches you again, warm and ruinous.

You sign the next book anyway.

—☆

Dani remembers the first time she fell out of the tulip tree.

She was seven, maybe eight— wait no. She was nine, small enough to believe the branches would hold, reckless enough to keep climbing anyway. 

The bark slipped under her sneakers, sap clinging to her palms. From the top, the world looked soft. Manageable. She liked it better up there— above the shouting, the polished lemon floors, the brothers with matching grins.

Up there she could pretend she was bigger than the yard, bigger than the house that always smelled like old books and your mother’s soap.

She slipped before she meant to. The thud rattled through her bones. Dirt in her mouth, grit grinding between her teeth. She tasted iron and tried not to cry.

When she blinked the sky back into focus, there you were— hovering above her, eyes wide enough to swallow the whole tree. You looked like you’d fallen too, like your ribs hurt worse than hers did.

She grinned through a split lip. Told you it only hurt a little. It wasn’t true— but she liked the way your hands trembled when you touched her chin, gentle as a promise.

She liked that you held her scrapes like proof. Proof she was here. Proof you’d carry her home, let your mother press warm towels to her knees, her scalp, her knuckles.

She liked that your brother didn’t come running. He watched from the curb, helmet in hand, mouth bent in that half-smile that said, "she always bounces".

Like he’d already decided you’d be the one to catch her every time she fell— before either of you knew what it would cost.

She never forgot the look on your face, the way you carried her weight like it was always supposed to be yours.

The way you didn’t flinch when she smeared blood on your sleeve.

The way you whispered, "Does it hurt?"— like the answer would break you.

She lied.

She always did. "No", she said, voice bright through copper taste.

And you believed her.

Every time.

She remembers your mother’s hands too. Warm water, clean towels, the way you’d sit there while your mom cleaned Dani up like she was another stray you dragged home. "What happened to you two?"

"It was my fault," you’d say.

Dani never corrected you.

Not when you took the blame so easily.

Not when your brother ruffled her hair like she was his too, like he could swoop in just long enough to look good before leaving you to patch her up.

There were crowns too.

Dandelions, weeds. She remembers your backyard— a kingdom no one else knew how to find. "I’m the queen," she told you.

"You’re my knight." You didn’t argue until your brother did.

"I’m the knight, "he said, sword stick in hand, tapping her shoulder like he owned the right to protect her.

"You were the scribe," he said.

She didn’t know what that word meant then. She knows now.

She knows exactly what she made you hold for her all these years.

—☆

She remembers the first time she danced for real— not just spinning on the cracked patio when no one was watching.

She remembers your face in the front row, sweaty palms, wide eyes, the way she mouthed don’t look away before the music started.

You never did.

You were the only one who didn’t. Not her mother with her polished lemon-clean house, not her father who clapped too slow.

Only you.

You didn’t see the trophies the way she did.

Heavy things that looked pretty on a shelf but felt like anchors when the house got too quiet.

You never asked why her room was the only place allowed to be messy.

You just sat on her bed, touched the shiny plaques, told her she’d win them anyway.

She told you it was you. That she danced better when you were there. That she’d lose on purpose if it meant you’d hold her after.

She didn’t know how to say love yet. But you heard it anyway, didn’t you?

You always did.

—☆

She remembers the fort behind the tulip tree the way some girls remember the first bra they hid in the back of a dresser.

Secret.

Clumsy.

Hers.

It started as her idea— a fortress no one else could touch.

She’d dragged you behind the house with a handful of stolen blankets, her mother yelling through the screen door to come back inside. She’d stuck her tongue out over her shoulder and kept going.

You were twelve. She was twelve. Old enough to know how to push you past your good sense. Old enough to know you’d follow.

She always liked how you followed when she ran.

You knelt in the dirt, hammer too big for your small hands, banging nails in crooked lines.

She pretended she knew how to tie the blankets between branches.

The whole thing flapped in the wind, half undone by dusk.

She remembers you turning to her, cheeks flushed, mud streaked up your arm. She remembers thinking "I could live here." Just us.

No parents. No chores. No him.

And she remembers the kiss. Barely a kiss.

A press of her mouth to yours while your hands were still braced against the plank. Quick and hot. Juice-sticky lips. The taste of dirt.

The way you went so still she thought you’d stop breathing.

She pulled back first. You stared like you’d never seen her before— which made her grin, you always look at her like that.

She remembers saying, “Don’t tell him,” voice sharp with something she didn’t have the word for yet.

You nodded, thumb brushing her lip where you’d left a bit of sugar.

When you went home that night, she lay in her bed with splinters in her palms and that kiss tucked under her tongue like a stolen coin.

"Mine. Only mine."

—☆

She remembers how it started to split.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen— secrets under blankets, sleepovers that turned into whispered I-love-yous she’d never say out loud with the lights on.

Thirteen was the year she learned how to say I choose you and make you believe it.

There’d been a fight— stupid, over who got to ride your brother’s bike down the hill first.

He was older.

Stronger.

He always won.

But when he turned his back, she yanked you behind the garage, laughter biting the inside of her cheeks.

“Let him have it,” you said. Always giving up, always folding yourself small to make room for him.

But she didn’t want him to win. She remembers grabbing your wrists, shoving her forehead to yours until you flinched.

“I’d pick you,” she hissed.

“Always you. Never him.”

You looked at her like you wanted to ask why.

You never did.

You didn’t have to.

She told you in the way she squeezed your wrists, left half-moons where her nails dug in.

She let you go. Ran out to the street. Rode the bike first. Fell. Skinned her knees bloody. But when he asked who pushed her, she pointed at herself. Mine. My choice.

 Fourteen was the year she learned to wish for things she’d never say out loud.

That night behind your house, the meteor shower stinging her eyes raw.

Your brother beside her, pointing out constellations she didn’t care about. You beside her other side— notebook balanced on your knees, scribbling as if the sky would answer back.

“If you could wish for anything?” she whispered, breath ghosting your ear so he wouldn’t hear.

You said, "I wish you’d stay."

She didn’t answer because her throat closed up.

She wanted to say, "I wish you’d make me."

Wanted to drag your pen out of your hand and press it to her ribs so you’d write the promise there instead.

She slipped her fingers into yours, hidden in the grass. One squeeze for I hear you. Two squeezes for Me too.

When he laughed about the stars, she laughed too. But she only looked at you.

15 was unknown because she it was tiring to balance her split life then she'd remember you and that stupid pen.

God, will you ever pick her up instead of that pen and notebook you always seem to fill and not her?

 Sixteen— the dance competitions started getting bigger. Louder. Brighter.

She remembers standing behind the heavy curtain, sweat damp on her neck, trophy dreams rattling in her bones.

She remembers your face through the glare, always right there. Your grin crooked, your hand lifting in that stupid, shy wave.

She danced for you. Always.

Her mother thought it was for the family. The trophies on the mantle.

Her father thought it was for the legacy— a perfect daughter.

But it was for you. Only you.

When she spun, she spotted your eyes first to keep her from tipping over.

When she bowed, she looked for your soft smile to remind her she was still a girl under all that perfect.

She never told you how many times she scanned the crowd first for you. How she’d whisper to her reflection, "Don’t look away."

—☆

Seventeen was the first time she realized how quickly a heart can break without even cracking open.

Biggest competition of her life. New studio. Bigger stage.

She stood in the wings, stomach twisted up like ribbon. She looked for you— as always. Her eyes skimmed the seats.

But he was there instead. Your brother. Grinning. Waving the way you did.

Holding out a rose she didn’t want because it wasn’t yours.

She danced anyway. She won anyway. But the bow felt wrong. The trophy felt cold. She told herself you were proud. She told herself maybe you’d see her later.

Maybe you’d say "I’m sorry I wasn’t there" and she’d forgive you like she always did.

But you didn’t say sorry.

You lay facedown in your bed when she came over. You didn’t even turn when she curled behind you and pressed her mouth to your spine.

She whispered, "I looked for you."

You said, "Did you find me?"

She lied: "Always."

She lied that day to you.

But then again, she lied to herself too many times to even care about the lie she told you. Maybe she should've.

Maybe then, it would have been easier laid out bare.

—☆

Eighteen was when she realized you’d never stop waiting for her to choose. And she’d never stop asking you to make it easy.

Your brother asked her out for real. Under the tulip tree. Same place she kissed you first.

She saw you— knew you were there, somewhere behind the branches. She almost turned around. Almost ran to you instead.

But she didn’t. Because you were the poem and he was the promise.

You were maybe and he was safe.

When she found you later, porch steps warm under her thighs, your cigarette ember dying between your fingers, she wanted to say, "Tell me not to."

She waited for you to say it. You didn’t.

So she said yes.

And she hated herself every time she touched his hand but felt your ghost on her mouth instead.

 Your brother’s coat around her shoulders. Your poems under her pillow.

Her mother watching.

The neighbors murmuring. Perfect match. Perfect kids. Perfect together.

No one ever asked if she wanted perfect.

—☆

She remembers that night behind the church, your hands trembling on her hips, your mouth spitting promises you’d never make her keep.

"Women love women better than men can," you said, half a joke, half a truth that burned her throat when she whispered say it again.

You did. She let you.

Let you write her name in every notebook, every page bleeding into the next.

You were always the proof she didn’t know how to live without. But he— he was the excuse. The easy answer to the question she couldn’t stand to hear.

Why him?

Because you were too much.

Because she wanted simple.

Because the world would clap when she stood next to him.

Because no one would ask why her hair smelled like your shampoo when she lay down next to him at night.

She remembers the day he asked, again, like a plague.

Tulip tree roots under her feet. The fort rotting behind her back. She heard you breathing inside, she knows you were there. Of course you were.

She said okay like it didn’t taste like poison.

She crawled through your window that night anyway. She always did.

She always comes back.

And you let her. You always did.

—☆

Nineteen was your brother’s gift— a necklace small enough to disappear between her collarbones.

A chain so delicate it felt like a leash.

She opened it at the dinner table. Your mother cooed. His mother clapped. Everyone smiling, perfect. Perfect.

You slipped her a poem later. Handwritten. Smudged where your thumb had pressed too hard.

She read it in the backseat of your car. Her legs tangled over yours.

Your mouth on her shoulder where the chain dug in.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"No — say it like you mean it."

You did. Over and over.

Until the necklace felt like a joke.

Until she couldn’t remember why she wore it except to remind herself you were always the truth she lied about.

—☆

At twenty she found the ring.

Hidden where you thought she’d never look— bottom drawer, behind your old cassettes. Small velvet box, soft with dust.

She turned it over in her palm so carefully she thought she might break the world if she closed her fist too tight. The box cheap but the promise heavy enough to knock her knees out.

She never told you.

She touched it only once.

Snapped it shut like it bit her.

You never knew she knew.

She slipped it back like it never touched her skin at all.

But that night, lying on her childhood bed while your brother’s voice echoed from the hall— she stared at the ceiling and wished.

Wished you would do it.

Wished you would ruin it for good.

Wished you’d smash the perfect picture before she had to step inside it.

You never did. You just stayed the soft landing. The arms. The lie she kept writing with your mouth on hers.

When your brother gave her his ring instead, she wore it like penance. Like a dare to herself— "Don’t look at the drawer. Don’t think about what you didn’t choose."

But she did. Every time she touched your wrist.

Every time she crawled through your window at 3 a.m., your name a prayer on her tongue.

—☆

She remembers the fight. The sink. The chipped mug.

Your brother’s voice warm and dumb with victory.

"Stand up for us," he said.

"Write something beautiful."

Like you hadn’t been writing her your whole damn life.

Like you wouldn’t choke on every word they wanted you to bless them with.

And now twenty-two. The envelope. The cardstock. The gold foil names: Him & Her.

She sat on your porch, knees bare, your old hoodie zipped halfway up. She didn’t knock because she knew you’d open the door anyway. You always did.

“I wish it was you,” she whispered, voice shaking, throat raw from all the things she’d never unlearn.

You didn’t answer. You just handed her your cigarette when your hands shook too hard to hold it.

She kissed you because that was the only thing she was ever good at— loving you in the dark where nobody could see her ruin.

You said," You were always going to choose safe."

She said, "I was always going to choose you too."

And she meant it. God, she did.

But she also knows it’s a lie. She knows it’s true. Both things can be true. That’s the worst part.

Because she’d pick him every time the lights were on.

Every time the neighbors were watching.

Every time her mother polished the trophies, and your mother set another place at the table.

But she’d pick you every night after. Every secret. Every slip of a dress on your floor. Every soft ruin she pressed into your throat.

Dani knows what she’s done. She knows what you are— the soft place, the scribe, the graveyard.

She knows she never deserved you.

She also knows she’ll crawl through your window again.

She always does.

But wishes are not choices.

And she was never brave enough to make one real.

So she stayed soft in your bed. Hard on your tongue. Forever in your notebooks.

Not yours.

Not his.

Not hers either.

Just a ghost.

A crown of splinters behind a tulip tree.

A name you’ll never stop writing.

A truth she’ll never stop hiding.

—☆

Dani hates churches. Always has.

She hates the way her heels echo off marble, the way the saints stare down like they know exactly what she’s about to do— what she’s always done.

She hates the way her dress sticks to her thighs, heavy with dirty rainwater.

She hates that the veil keeps slipping, snagging on her hairpins like it’s fighting to stay with her when she doesn’t even want it.

She hears you before she sees you— that door slamming open, the wet slap of your shoes. She swears her heart stops. It always does when you walk in.

When she turns, it’s like turning back time. You’re there— soaked to the bone, eyes so raw she wants to look away but she never does.

You stand there like you belong here. Like she was always going to wait for you to ruin this too.

You smile. Of course you fucking smile. “Don’t you look like a ghost, Dani.”

She hates how it twists in her gut— how she wants to laugh, wants to slap you, wants you to drag her down the aisle and out the fucking door.

“Get out,” she spits, but it’s too thin. It’s always too thin when it’s you.

“Make me.”

She steps forward, lace trailing behind her like a lie she’s not brave enough to bury. “He’s waiting for me.”

You snort— it’s almost cruel, but you’re shaking. She sees it. You always shake when you’re about to break her.

She knows because that what you always do to her.

“Let him wait. That’s all he’s good for, right?”

Her palm connects with your chest — a soft thud that echoes like a gunshot. “You don’t get to do this now.”

“Now?” Your laugh cracks through the church like thunder. “Now is the only fucking time left, Dani.”

She wants to scream at you— to grab your face and make you see her. “You had years. You had every chance. You never came.”

“And you never fucking asked!” Your voice bounces off marble and stained glass— saints above your heads pretending not to watch.

“You wanted me to stand outside your door like a dog,” you hiss.

“You wanted me to bleed it out, so you never had to fucking choose.”

“I did choose!” she spits back. Her chest heaves— she’s shaking so bad the lace trembles around her ribs.

“Every time you showed up, I chose you.”

“And every time you chose me, you still let him keep you!” You slam your hand against the pulpit— the wood cracks.

“You wanted me to say it first so you could pretend you weren’t fucking mine.”

She shoves you so hard your shoulder hits the marble pillar behind you. She wishes it hurt you. She wishes she could.

“I was yours!” she cries. Her fists pound your chest, useless and desperate.

“I was. And you never did a fucking thing to keep me!”

Your laugh is a ragged thing— you catch her wrists, your grip all bruises and prayers.

“What did you want, huh? You want me to crash the wedding? Burn the dress? Drag you by the fucking veil out the door?”

“Yes!” she screams— the word rips her throat raw. “Yes! I wanted you to fight for me!”

You’re so close she tastes the rain off your lips. “And I wanted you to say it first.”

She stops.

The echo of it "say it first" rattles through the nave, settles under her ribs like an old sin.

Her voice is nothing when it comes out. “Why? Why does it matter?”

“Because every time I said it first you left me standing there like an idiot,” you snap.

“Say it first. Prove you’re not gonna fucking run.”

“I don’t run—”

“Yes, you do.” Your voice is soft, deadly.

“You run every time it’s real. So fucking say it.”

She thinks of every door you knocked on. Every ‘please’ you whispered against her hair. Every ‘stay’ you never said out loud because she wouldn’t let you.

And maybe for once. Just once— she wants to give it to you. Give you the gun so you’ll pull the trigger on both of you.

Her chest heaves. Her tears taste like rain and dust and her own coffin.

“I love you.”

You flinch like it hits you— like it cuts where you wanted it to.

She pushes it deeper. Her voice breaks like glass under your shoes.

“I love you. You stupid, stubborn — I love you and I waited for you to take me. I wanted you to take me.”

Your hand fists in her hair. Her veil hits the floor. Your forehead presses to hers, your breath all heat and salt and ruin.

“Say it again.”

She chokes on a laugh— half a sob, half a vow. “I fucking love you.”

Your mouth crashes into hers, bruising, hungry, yours yours yours.

She says it again into your lips, into your teeth, into your hands tearing the pins from her hair.

And when you break the kiss, when your voice scrapes raw against her throat— “Run with me.”

She almost laughs— the happiest thing she’s ever tasted. “Take me.”

You grin like you’ve waited your whole life to hear that.

And this time when you drag her through the side door, she doesn’t look back.

—☆

Back in the bookstore, the kid is gone. The page is signed. The line moves.

You blink. Your pen scratches paper again, but the words blur at the edges.

She stands behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her laugh before you hear it— that low, secret sound she’s always saved just for you.

She leans in, one hand braced on the table beside your arm. Her hair brushes your cheek, soft as a memory. Her mouth finds your ear, her breath warm where it ghosts over your skin.

“I told you I wanted a happy ending,” she whispers, like a confession she’s tucked inside a hundred other broken promises.

You don’t look at her— you can’t. Not with the way your chest is splintering open like old wood.

Not with the way your hands remember every lie you both told to make this ending possible.

But she feels you smile, that same tired, crooked smile she’s always said she’d choose, in every version of you she was brave enough to keep.

“Guess we made one anyway,” you say, the words trembling on your tongue, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

She laughs again, quieter now. A sound only you hear beneath the rustle of paper bags and shuffling feet.

Her fingers find the back of your neck, slipping under your collar, warm, familiar, daring.

“You know it’s always you, right?” she murmurs.

“Even when it isn’t. Even when I say it isn’t.”

You close your eyes. Let the truth settle in the hollow of your throat where her lies used to live.

You lean back into her touch because you always do— the soft gravity you could never fight.

Behind you, her lips brush the edge of your jaw. The place she kissed first, the place she never really left.

“Write me another one,” she says, her voice breaking like dawn through curtains. “A better ending. One where we get it right.”

You set your pen down. You turn, just enough to see her eyes. Bright. Bruised with all the lives you could have had.

“Okay,” you whisper. “One more.”

And when she kisses you there, in the middle of the signing table, in front of strangers and stories and all the promises you couldn’t keep, it tastes like forgiveness.

Like an epilogue you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to write down right.

And when you hand the next fan their copy, there’s a gold band on your finger that matches hers— a secret written in plain sight.

[iloveseraphims]

WARNINGS: Nsfw, smut, asphyxiation, masturbation, force, gender neutral, dirty talk...ıdk this is my first smut work.

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He cares deeply about you. While he might be clumsy at first, he'll get better at it once he gets used to it. If you're human, it's very difficult, but he still tries. But if you're a giant (he's even bigger than regular giants), he'll have less trouble. If you act like he hurt you, congratulations, he won't touch you again. He was genuinely scared.

Hugs, whether you are a human or a giant you will sleep on him.

It's in these moments that he shows the love he's always been hesitate about showing the most. Just you and him. He doesn't need anything else.

He'll talking to you until you fall asleep. He loves watching you on his rising and falling chest.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His tongue. Whether you're a giant or a human, it's the part of him that makes it easiest for him to touch you.

As for you, it's your body. He doesn't love any part more. He loves your body because it's yours.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

Sometimes he's in it, sometimes not. He wants to start a family with you, but he's afraid his child will be like him or that child be hated by everyone just because he's the father.

If you're human, he'll cum on you. He'll watch you with amusement for a while as you writhe, sticky with his sperm. You are literally drowning in his cum.

If you are a giant he will cum in your mouth, chest and hips.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He wants to find a devil fruit that can change your human size. So he can do anything without restrictions. Other than that, he doesn't have any dirty secrets. He tells you everything he wants to do to you during sex.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

Despite his age, he's not actually experienced; no one has ever loved or trusted him. That's why he hasn't felt the need for sex. He values ​​the connection between you more than you think, and he's definitely going to tell you about it. You are the first in everything in relationships.

He doesn't really care if you're experienced or not. But there's a part of him that hopes you're not. That would seem even more important to him.

When you first together, he tries to make it unforgettable for both of you. He's insatiable.

F = Favorite Position

If you're human, you won't have much opportunity to try different positions. He'll masturbate while he fucks you on his tongue. Sometimes he'll ask you to ıhm...hold his cock with your small body so he can feel your body. He's a giant what else do you plan to do?!

If you're a giant, missionary position and fucking from behind. But missionary his favorite. He's a big man, he loves crushing you beneath him, feeling your body. He's hungry for touch and warmth, he can't get enough. He loves to hear your little moans and squeaks underneath him.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

He's usually playful, making fun of your inability to speak. "Is that your limit?~ I thought we were just getting started. Don't faint."

There will be a lot of talk about the size difference. "Look at this waist, it looks like I'm holding on to a bough.''

But sometimes (rare) he can get serious. Doesn't have to happen at the beginning sex, it can even happen in the middle.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He's a warrior. He can't deal with that. He's not interested. But if you're human and it can seriously interfere, he'll cut it off every now and then.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Closer than your jugular vein. No I'm not kidding you cling to each other in every way. You're always intimate. If you haven't been together for a long time, you'll hear words of love you don't usually hear in those moments.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He doesn't feel the need to masturbate alone. If you're human, he already does it with you. If you're a giant, he barely feels the need to masturbate at all. He's not one to succumb to his desires.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Staying on the edge. Whether he's fucking you with his tongue as you a human, or as a giant with his cock, he wants to make you beg in every way, to hear his name coming out of your lips until he get bored of it.

Did I mention crushing? He loves to be make you pressured.

He loves to fuck your brain, he will push you beyond the limit and fuck you until you melt under him. So you will need him to get you back together.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Anywhere you can be alone. He doesn't want anyone to see you.

But one time, he'd taken you to an early meeting saying he'd had an idea. He'd picked you up before anyone else was in the room and stuffed you into his pants. "Get to work, little one~"

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Uhm you being you? His excuse for being aroused could even be that you're breathing oxygen. But most importantly, you're wearing clothes that are unique to Elbaf. He feels like you belong more to him.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No to violence of any kind. He would never agree to harm you, even if you wanted him to. If you're a giant, he might give you a light spanking but nothing more.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

It's the most important thing in your relationship. He'll take advantage of every inch of it. He's mastered it. He prioritizes your pleasure, but his only stopping point is when he's satisfied.

If you want to try, he'll laugh it off but let you. Be prepared for a lot of his dirty talk and teasing.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He acts like the whole world must wait for the steward of his pleasure. Slowly, in a way that both of you will enjoy. But sometimes he can be rough and fast with giant you. Being fast doesn't make short sexs time. Nah you'll be making love all night.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He actually likes fast sex too. He might want to fuck human you quickly with his tongue or he might need fast sex with giant you.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He will try everything that can come to his mind and that is not impossible to do. "Y/n get into my pants~ Hey! HEYY DON'T GO!!"

Yet he always likes to revolve around the same things.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

You're always the first to tire before him. It's impossible to tire him out. He'll do it until you faint, or when reaches that level. But once you faint, he doesn't continue. For him these moments aren't just for pleasure, they're to be shared.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

No. He enough for you. He's definitely not going to be jealous of the toys.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can do it all the time, like breathing. His favorite thing to do is make fun of you. He can even slap your ass a lot when there's no problem.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

You can't easily make any sounds out of him. When you do, they're grunts. But with your bodies pressed against this giant man, you can feel those grunts with your entire body. Sometimes when he's too hard on you, he might let out a soft moan. But right behind that moan, he'll be teasing again.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

He wants to marry you. He doesn't care what you are, he wants you to belong together. He just wants to continue his life with you.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Thick and big. It's very, very, veryy big. Do I need to say it? But if you ask how big it is compared to the Ancient Giants, still it's big. Well I have no idea about cocks sorry.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He's quite unstable when he's with you. You're chatting and joking around, and the next thing you know, you're naked.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He'll force you to lie down on top of him and sleep and rest. He won't fall asleep before you, and if you try to get him to sleep, he'll say he's not sleepy. "Shall we do another round then?"

[sturniololuvz]

What would teendad!Chris do if he heard daisy cussing for the first time?

💄teendad!chris

⸻

“You seriously don’t get it, do you?” Daisy spat, slamming the passenger door hard enough to make Chris wince.

He’d barely put the car in park in front of the house before she was out. He followed her up the driveway, keys in hand, heart racing with the kind of frustration only your own kid can bring out of you.

“Daisy, we’re not done talking.”

“Exactly,” she snapped, spinning around on the front steps. “We’re never done talking. You just keep lecturing like I’m five years old.”

Chris’s jaw tightened. “I’m not lecturing. I’m parenting. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m the enemy.”

She scoffed. “Oh my God, you always make it about you. I’m telling you how I feel, and all you care about is your ego.”

“My ego?” Chris stepped closer, eyebrows raised. “Daisy, you’ve been slamming doors, rolling your eyes, and ignoring everything I say for a week straight. Forgive me for thinking maybe I’m allowed to be pissed.”

“I don’t care if you’re pissed!” Her voice cracked, and suddenly the volume doubled. “You act like you’re doing everything right and I’m just some moody kid losing her mind for no reason! Maybe I wouldn’t be so fucking mad all the time if you’d actually listen to me for once!”

Everything fell silent.

Chris stared at her. Not just surprised — stunned. She hadn’t just cursed. She had unleashed it.

Nick and Matt, who’d been sitting inside watching TV, both turned toward the front door with wide eyes. Matt muttered, “No way,” under his breath.

Chris blinked slowly. “What… did you just say?”

Daisy froze like she’d only just realized it came out. Her chest was rising fast, her cheeks flushed. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” Chris cut in sharply. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm. His face unreadable. “You said exactly what you meant.”

He ran a hand through his hair, turning away for a second, collecting himself before facing her again.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever cursed at me. Ever. You wanna talk about me not listening? You just blew up on me without even letting me try.”

Daisy’s lip trembled, but her arms stayed crossed. She looked defensive… but scared, too. And small.

“Do you think I don’t try?” Chris’s voice broke slightly. “Do you think I like being the bad guy in your story? I’m young ! so yeah i’m still trying to figure out how the hell I’m supposed to raise you right, and now you’re yelling and cussing at me like I’m some asshole who doesn’t care?”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” she yelled.

“Then say that!” Chris snapped back, finally raising his voice. “Don’t just throw words like fucking knives and walk away!”

For a moment, they just stood there on the porch. The air between them thick with anger and heartbreak.

Inside, Nick whispered to Matt, “Should we… step in?”

Matt shook his head slowly. “Nah. This one’s between them.”

Back outside, Daisy’s voice finally softened. “I’m sorry.”

Chris looked at her — really looked at her — and saw everything she was trying so hard to hold back. “I know you are,” he said quietly. “But I need you to talk to me. Not explode. Not curse at me like I’m someone you hate. I’m your dad. That still means something.”

Daisy swallowed hard. “It does. I just… I don’t know how to say stuff when I’m mad. I feel like if I don’t yell, no one hears me.”

“You don’t have to yell,” Chris said, his voice gentler now. “You’ve got a mouth on you, clearly. But you’ve also got a heart. Use that too.”

A pause. And then Daisy looked up at him, eyes glassy. “Still grounded?”

“Oh, you’re absolutely grounded,” he muttered, stepping aside so she could go inside. “But I’ll think about shaving a day off for every curse word you don’t say this week.”

She cracked the tiniest smile. “That’s not happening.”

Chris laughed under his breath. “Didn’t think so.”

⸻

taglist : @sturniolo-szn2 @fadedstvrn @tezzzzzzzz @stayingstromboli @ivysturnss @sturniolofreakk @ihateemetoo @sturniolo-tease @sturniololuv3r @sturnsclam @nxvasturns @csturniolo43 @mattspillowprincess @sturniolo-fann @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @bernardmatthews @bugs-tags @emely9274 @arianna1342 @stevielovesmatt @riggysworld @ph3ebssturniolo @whore4chris @amelia4chris @pizzapocketpocketpizza @strxn-2 @xxxxxxlovesstuff @whump-loverz @sarahsturnn @urloveanaa @k-pevensie28 @chrissturniolobendmeovernow @chriss-slutt @lenus1aa @kitty-meow-meow44 @sturnslux3 @blahbel668 @kingofeverythingmb @kenah-sturniolo @sturniolobananas1 @le4hsblog @alorsxsturn @matchzah3sturns @bronnysnothere @sturniololovaa @lethalovers @thighs4evan

[wingfleur]

thinking about sitting on clark kent’s lap while you vent after a long day of work.

it doesn’t matter if you’re a journalist at the daily planet, or a lawyer, or currently in school with a part-time job to help hold you over. whatever it may be, you can always count on clark to listen to you while you debrief, his hands on your thighs as you rant and rave about your boss being a dick yet again.

clark’s interest in your day is always genuine. he’s a guy who truly cares about the little things— hell, he’s probably the first superhero to ever pause mid-battle to save a squirrel from getting crushed, even when the world-at-large is clearly at stake. that’s one of the things you love about him— how his heart seems to rule everything he does, rather than his head— and because of that, you never have to worry about whether he’s being authentic or not. but heart of gold aside, clark’s far from good at everything.

and one thing about clark is that he’s never been a good actor.

“clark,” you say to him suddenly, the sound of your voice forcing him to straighten up. his eyes painfully pry themselves away from the curve of your lips to meet your eyes— which he finds beautiful too, don’t get him wrong— but alongside their usual admiration for him, he finds that they regard him with an endless amount of mirth.

ah, fuck. he’s been caught, hasn’t he?

“you’ve been staring at my lips for the past 5 minutes,” you say, chastising him softly. “did you hear a single word i said?”

yeah. he’s definitely been caught.

“i— god, sorry,” clark says quietly, blue eyes helplessly falling back to your lips. he’s in no position to be making excuses, and he really doesn’t mean to keep staring at you like this, but, god, he can’t seem to help it! all clark wants is to kiss you really, really badly right now, because no matter how much you like to deny it, he finds you absolutely stunning when you’re all ready for bed and talking his ear off. but despite his desperation, clark was raised to be a gentleman, not a dog. he acknowledges that there’s a proper order to these things: first, he should listen to you talk, then validate your feelings, and wait until you declare yourself finished before making a move, but clark’s never been all that good at controlling himself and, if you keep going, he’s not sure if he’ll be able to—

you’re leaning down to kiss him before he can even complete that thought.

clark melts into the kiss like clockwork. those big, strong hands of his that have been drawing mindless circles into the skin of your thighs begin to knead them softly, palms slowly creeping up to disappear under your his sleep shirt. he squeezes the fat of your hips and waist firmly until you pull back to rest your forehead against his, and he’s disoriented enough for his pupils to dilate in a way is distinctly inhuman, but so incredibly clark kent that it makes it endearing, rather than unsettling.

oh, you love your alien boyfriend.

“was that enough for you, supes?” you say coyly, a hand gliding effortlessly from his shoulder into his hair. your fingers tangle into the cropped curls at his nape and clark’s eyes flutter shut from the feeling, the weight of his head falling lax in your palm. he swallows dryly and cracks a crooked, boyish smile at you before opening his eyes back up.

“not really, but it’ll do.” clark stares up at you adoringly, giving you the opportunity to watch those pupils of his finally return to normal. “the good news is that i’m not all that distracted anymore.”

you roll your eyes at him, but clark grins slyly, his thumbs tracing lightly across your stomach.

“i think superman can behave himself until you finish what you were saying.”

# — navigation

[kakashinu]

older bf!toji (30) x fem!reader (23). MDNI. mmm yummy smut. divider from user @uzmacchiato !!

you didn’t think it’d get to this.

it all started when toji - the older guy you call your boyfriend for a year now - was sprawled out on his soft king-sized bed with you on his lap, watching you play a game on your phone comfortably without a care in the world.

he was so attentive to what you do on the little screen, squeezing your side faintly when you failed a level, humming as a response to your explanation of what you have to do each time. and you love it. because he was so sweet listening to you rambled about a game you’re sure he didn’t even care about. but he does care, because you enjoy spending your time playing it, therefore it’s got to be one of his favorite things, too.

halfway into the game, you were starting to get bored and opted to scroll mindlessly through your instagram feed, commenting on your friends’ posts with toji. again, telling him stories on how you met them, some from high school and mostly from college.

it was when you start to notice one of his hands resting on your thigh, dangerously close to your private area. it stays there at first, unmoving, his other hand circling around your waist playing with the tiny bump of fat, pinching it softly - a habit of his.

then, the hand gripped on your thigh so tight - bruising - that you almost stumble upon your own words, embarrassing yourself. thankfully you didn’t, but your breath did get caught in your throat a little before you continue on telling him about that one high school friend you met through choir.

and it just went south after that.

toji still listen to you so intently, so focused on your pretty face and the way your lashes flutter tempting him to the depths of his desire.

toji’s big, rough hand that was gripping your thigh loosened its grip and instead moves towards the inner side, the rugged pad of his thumb caressing your soft skin ever so slowly. it sends immediate shivers down your spine, the hairs on your skin stiff at the sensual touch. you’re somehow still busy scrolling through your phone, an amateurish strategy to divert your mind from the sensation tingling in your stomach.

“hmm, sounds like so much fun, baby,” toji says to you telling him about that one time you went to a water park with your first ever bestfriend. your only response is a yelped out, “mhm!” when your breath starts to get heavier and you’re fighting the urge to not flutter your eyes close.

his hand slips closer to your core now, so close in fact, that you feel his knuckles brushing up against your clothed cunt. and you feel it pulsing. as if physically responding to toji’s touch in an instant. like she’s been anticipating it.

toji isn’t even paying attention to your rambling at all by the time he noticed the change in your behavior, body and voice. because he knows then that his goal now would be to stuff his fingers deep in your clenching hole and to make you cum as many times as he wants you to.

you bring your knees up to your chest, thinking it’d give you a little space away from toji’s taunting hand. well, bad idea. because now you’ve trapped his hand between your plush thighs, basically telling him to not pull it away and continue his ministrations on your pussy.

“toji…” you call out weakly, feeling his smirk growing on his face before you even turn your head his way. his hand is teasingly slowly, unbearably so. he keeps squeezing and caressing your thigh, now rubbing your still-clothed cunt with more precision. with purpose. toji hums, a low, heavy voice emitting from his throat as if to answer to you. but really, he’s enjoying this far too much now that he’s sure he’s got you right in his palms. your stories now long forgotten.

it’s quiet for a moment, safe for your heavy breathing, almost a full panting now, and toji’s hand’s playing with the hem of your shorts. by the will of the universe, your phone drops right on the mattress despite your tight grip on it when your boyfriend ever so kindly cupped your pussy in his big, big hand. your breath hitched.

oh. oh, lord.

that’s not good.

“you alright there, baby?” the audacity of your boyfriend asking that when he’s got your pussy in the palm of his hand. literally. he doesn’t wait for you to give him an answer, not even a single breath wasted before he pushes your shorts down your legs and throwing it god-knows-where. you take a deep breath.

your pussy itches like crazy. toji is so fucking close to where you want him the most, but he’s not doing anything to satiate your aching core. and of course he won’t, not until you say something about it, tell him what you actually want from him like a good girl. that’s how it always is with toji, trains you to tell him what you want from him. your words, and he’ll do exactly that to give it to you. but you’re just so shy with him. even if he’s your boyfriend of a year and he’s definitely done more to you than just barely touching you.

“please…” oh you sweet child, pleading him so early in his game when he’s just getting started to satisfy you to no end. he grins at your quiet plea, knows damn well that it’s affecting you. his fingers hook the hem of your panties, pulling it aside to ultimately reveal your pretty, pulsing cunt. hole clenching, then unclenching around nothing in anticipation. his eyes zeroed in on the view right before him, mouth watering at the sight and how you instinctively spread your legs wider, no longer entrapping his hand between plush skin.

your hips lift off his lap and he chuckles handsomely, the sound vibrating through you spread open on top of him. “oh, sweetheart,” he says to your ear, tingling the back of your neck. he trails his finger down your folds, just barely brushing your clit. your stomach caves in at all the teasing. “needy, aren’t we?” he might as well say he hates you with the way he drags this on for far too long.

you’re squirming now, mouthing at the skin of his neck, getting whiny from the lack of attention. you spread your legs impossibly wide, pulling it back up to your chest and slowly grind yourself against his hand, his fingers. although it does nothing to satisfy you.

that leads you nowhere, but to be held by strong holds right under your thighs. hands capturing you so vigorously you swear a slick runs down your hole. toji has you trapped in a position you can’t get out of and without any warning he mouths on the crook of your neck. kissing and sucking. leaving marks that signifies your belonging to him. his love for you.

“so impatient,” he growls out.

your knees weaken and you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. fuck, he’s so hot when he’s serious.

your hand finds way to his own that’s rubbing your folds nicely, holding it against your smaller one to guide him where you want him the most. one finger starts to tease around your entrance. rubbing circles but never actually giving you what you need so badly.

“mmnn—toji, please,” it was admittedly humiliating how desperate you sound begging for his touches like that. “please .. please touch me?”

a smirk. cocky and arrogant, but promising nonetheless. that he will touch you, brings you to ecstasy like never before. with a finger finally prying your hole open, warming you up. loosening you up nice and gentle, kisses painting your exposed shoulder. then it’s two fingers, slowly at first, and when it gets to three it becomes less painful and all you can think of is how good his thick, long fingers feel inside your sopping cunt.

“yeah? gonna have you cum on my fingers and make a mess on this bed,” and that’s a promise toji will make sure to happen tonight. finger-fucking you on his bed, you making a total mess on his sheets - cum and slick leaving the scene wet, soaking wet. you’ll feel his rock-hard cock poking your ass, big and hard and hot, straining his poor sweats.

and he’s just getting started.

[dayboundpapercrane]

Apple Juice 🧃

caleb x reader (afab!) | MDNI 🔞 | cw: nsfw | cw: pissing | he calls you Pipsqueak :) | as promised it's Caleb's turn to piss on us ☆_☆, very self indulgent bc how did this end up being so long, you are a little shit, Caleb is into it but he refuses to admit it, matching each other's freak.

"Caleb pleaaaase"

It's the third time this week that you are nagging him about this. "Pleasee let me hold it while you pee!! Just once" Did he hear right? You want to hold his fucking cock while he takes a piss? Where did you even get that idea from, he's not even sure he wants to know actually.

Sighing annoyed Caleb turns to you "I already told you my answer, besides, I'm busy" he moves his hands over the table where a new aircraft model he got sits, 7,000 pieces waiting to be assembled. He ignores you for a third time.

"What a nerd." You scoff and hit his knee with your socked feet with no real force. You're just annoyed at him for not letting you get away with your admittedly weird request.

🧃

When Jenna approved your time off you had immediately called him to invite yourself to his house at Skyhaven. You two hadn't seen each other lately, he missed you as much as you did so he agreed before you finished talking.

But Caleb was starting to regret letting you stay over. It was seven am (Seven am!!!) on a weekend when he woke up, yawning walking towards the bathroom, hair a mess, blinking slowly he moves to take out his cock out of his sleep pants to piss when he shrieks making eye contact with you sitting on the sink staring at him.

"Peeing all by yourself beautiful?"

"GOD PIPS...you scared me!!! what the fuck!?"

With a hand on his chest feeling his heartbeat race he glares at your lopsided smile, you know he isn't really mad at you, the tips of his ears red giving away how he truly feels.

Caleb thinks you've lost your mind for sure.

"Aw cmon Caleb, you already know what I want. Look what you've made me do! I'm even following you to the bathroom"

Caleb stares at you, eyes filled with something between amusement and annoyance, he can't believe this, you really woke up at an ungodly hour (your words) all to ambush him on his own house, in his own bathroom.

"Im impressed I gotta say" he looks down at the toilet then at your eyes, his gaze changes, now full of mirth, he smiles at you crossing his arms, that smug look plastered on his face again, it makes you shiver and swallow, whatever he says now is bad news, but damn his biceps look good.

"Soooo, you want to hold it while I take a piss right?" you nod your head at him shamelessly and he sighs shaking his head.

"Come 'ere, let's get this over with" you gasp and move your fists up celebrating like you just won a championship getting down from the sink so fast you almost give him whiplash.

"Buuut! you owe me one for this, ok? Ok" you nod twice agreeing, you didn't care as long as you got your way.

"Someone's excited huh" he purposely makes himself sound more smug, he kinda has the upper hand after all, you do want to hold his cock so there's not much you can say. Stepping closer to him you lean and grab his soft cock.

"I just gotta aim right?"

"Do you even know the mess you can make if you fail"

"Caleb, honey, baby, I'm a hunter. My aim is flawless. Dont you worry, now relax and start. Cmon!"

Caleb blushes hard, this is ridiculous, he breathes in trying to focus on pissing, he can't get hard, no way, you're never letting it go if he does. He closes his eyes feeling your hand hold his length and decides to just do it, fuck it.

You gasp watching the stream start to come out, accidentally squeezing him a bit in excitement, he whines behind you and the sound makes your cheeks warm, legs clenching together. But you have a mission currently, you must stay focused.

"Fuck Pips wait...haa"

Moving his length you aim the stream of piss on the toilet correctly. You're proud that on your first you got it down, but his heavy breathing behind you is distracting, he also keeps making this small choked sounds and soft whines.

"Pips, that's enough, haa, let go"

"Already!? You aren't even finished!!"

"Hey listen! It's starting to feel wei-"

You huff because it hasn't even been a minute! He isn't even finished! Deciding you won't move he pulls at your arm making you let go of his cock to stop him, grabbing his wrists you lose balance and slip, your ass falling on the toilet seat.

You both stare at each other as the stream of piss covers your thin pajamas. Right, you were still holding his wrists. How was he going to grab his length again that way.

Caleb looks down at your sleep set getting soaked in his piss, the shudder that wracks his body is strong, a low moan coming out of his mouth making your pussy clench.

"Caleb..."

The stream of piss ends and he notices you're staring at his now hard cock dripping a bit, he feels lightheaded, you're soaked on his piss, sleep shirt sticking to your skin showing your pebbled nipples.

"Fuck, uhm"

He almost cums from the sight of you, the sound of you breathing hard while spreading your legs unconsciously has Caleb on edge, knowing you're aroused from one look at your eyes.

His lips twitch up, a smirk slowly forming at the revelation you liked being pissed on. That his piss turns you on so much the blush painting your cheeks goes down your neck and chest.

"Fuck, pips sorry. Here let me help you"

Caleb helps you stand up slowly, noticing everything is wet, your hair, chest, crotch, ass, and legs. It makes him feel good, you're his, it's obscene how you covered in the smell of his piss makes him feel excited.

"You like being pissed on Pips? Is it because it's warm? The smell? Tell me..."

"Or is it because it's mine..."

He's teasing, shivers run down your spine as he whispers in your ear all kinds of nasty reasons he can come up with as to why you're so damn aroused at being pissed on by him.

"Should I keep doing it, check if you can cum from that alone"

If he felt smug before, you were 100% convinced he was going to be insufferable now. But you're not the only pervert. Looking into his eyes, you push him to the wall, kissing him deeply.

"As if I'm the only one" you pull at his hard on and rub fast to get your point across and Caleb pulls his head back, delicious whines spilling from his lips as he cums on your hand grabbing your waist more.

He moves away from you, catching his breath, staring down at your body, tongue darting out to lick at his lips feeling them dryer, the action makes goosebumps break on your skin. Caleb always looks at you as if he can't get enough, it makes your insides twist with need.

"Nngh...That reminds me Pips...."

"You owe me one now"

Shit. You forgot that.

🧃

The next time it happens he has you naked kneeling inside the shower facing him, he just came back from work still wearing his uniform, the sound of his belt falling and zipper sliding down makes your heart race, his usual playful grin above you looking far too innocent for what he's about to do to you. You had agreed after all, you owed him one.

"Ready baby?"

His tone is sweet. Caleb could be doing the most depraved shit to you, while using that tone just to drive you crazy. You look up at him batting your eyelashes just to see him blush grin growing.

"Yes."

But you weren't ready for how much you like his piss hitting your chest directly, gasping softly at the warmth shivering feeling the drops fall down your belly towards your pussy, its so dirty, the smell making your cheeks flush and your nub throb.

"Caleb...caleb...Im close"

Caleb smiles more looking down seeing the blissed out expression on your face, lips bitten raw, pupils dilated, you keep rubbing yourself circling your clit slowly and he takes the opportunity to aim at your face.

Eyes clenching as it hits your cheeks, lips, and chin, shaky sighs spilling from your lips as your orgasm hits you in that moment, tasting him on your tongue.

"Fuck, did you just come? Baby did you?"

He holds your face softly, he rubs his thumb on your lips spreading a few drops on them, when you nod he pulls you up to kiss you deeply, his tongue slowly tasting you and himself, leaving you breathless.

"Can't believe I'm into you pissing on me Colonel, does this mean you've marked me? Claimed me?"

Caleb only looks at you amused, shaking head. You were going to kill him one of these days.

A/N: this is way longer than I initially planned lol, i like to think his piss doesn't have a strong smell and it's a very pale yellow, Caleb just looks like someone that keeps his health in check get me? ( →_→) totally normal to think abt that hah, hope you like it :)

Anyways it's 2am and I have a somno smut to write before the idea walks out my brain.