#but everything has been a little tiring lately

[landologged]

Track Limits | Part 1

Pairing: ex!lando x f1driver!reader (ft. love triangle w/ max)

Genre: love triangle, exes to lovers, slow burn, enemies to lovers, angst, emotional???, HORNY AFFFFF, F1, reader is the first female F1 driver in 50 years, toxic dynamics, betrayal, power shift, revenge sex, we’re fucking everyone

wc: roughly 23k

Description: You’re Formula 1’s reigning world champion—the first woman to ever do it. But the start of this season is all about what you’ve already lost. Lando left. Two years in the gutter without even an apology.

You don’t owe him a smile, let alone a glance—but when he follows you into the hallway and you let him touch you, everything breaks.

Notes: my main blog is for p bueckers @bueckets

Max doesn’t lean against the wall—he never has. It’s not in him. He stands like someone waiting for the lights to go out, back straight, arms loose at his sides, fingers twitching in his pockets like they’re used to gripping a steering wheel. He’s outside because he said he needed air, but the air in Monaco doesn’t come without strings. It tastes like spent champagne and new money, clings sweet and artificial at the back of your throat. Perfume and engine grease and too many accents pretending they don’t know who he is. He ignores the ambient glamour the way most people ignore hunger—until they can’t.

He’s waiting for you, of course he is. Every minute you’re late coils tighter in his chest. Not that he’s worried. He’s not the worried type. But there’s a knot forming just under his sternum, a tension he hasn’t shaken since the end of the season. Since you vanished.

He glances at his phone. One notification. It’s nothing. He locks the screen before it fully lights up. Tucks it away. Stares out at the glittering coastline like it owes him something.

And then—there. The white Porsche, turning the corner like a ghost re-entering its own funeral. White, pristine, arrogant in the way vintage things are—refusing to blend in. The headlights sweep across the valet station, the kind of entrance that gets registered even if it’s not announced. Max doesn’t react at first. Not outwardly. Just a subtle shift—his spine pulling taut, his weight redistributing slightly off his right leg, a flick of his fingers inside his pocket like he’s calibrating himself in real time.

He straightens a little. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to realign something invisible. The night exhales. The street bends. Max tells himself not to look eager. Not to stare. Not to overreact. But when the door lifts and you step out, all quiet grace and exposed skin and don’t-fuck-with-me heels, something in his throat tightens anyway.

You look– fuck– you look like sin. Like heartbreak rebuilt into something knife-sharp and exquisite. Like the kind of woman people name storms after. Your dress is white, but not innocent. Not even close. It clings at the waist, parts at the thigh, flows in soft spirals behind you like smoke from a gun that’s just been fired. The kind of gown that moves like it’s tired of being polite. The fabric kisses your calves with every step, ripples over your hips like it’s worshipping them. Your back is bare. Your shoulders glint under the light like they’ve never carried pain.

Max doesn’t do poetry. Doesn’t do adjectives. But fucking he’ll. You finally look like yourself. The you that hasn’t existed in months. Or maybe someone new—someone forged sharp in the fire of that off-season silence. A different kind of fast. A different kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous that makes his teeth ache. The kind that hums beneath the skin, coils in his gut, and settles low—an ache he won’t name, but can’t ignore.

You see him immediately.  You don’t slow down. You don’t smile like you used to. You give him that look—neutral on the surface, but full of teeth underneath. Like you’re waiting to see how he’ll handle it. If he’ll flinch.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Watches as you hand the keys to the valet—smooth, practiced, fingers brushing just enough to make the kid blush. Watches as you respond to his French without hesitation, with that soft warmth you reserve for strangers who haven’t betrayed you yet. Watches as you smile—not the full one, not the one with teeth and tongue and trouble—just the corner, the polite echo of it. The one that says I’m fine when you aren’t. Your voice, low and graceful, drapes itself around merci like silk falling from a shoulder.

Your dress breathes around you like it knows the air here doesn’t belong to anyone but you. And then you walk toward him. Each step measured, heel to stone, click to silence. The wind barely dares to touch your hair. You don’t rush. You don’t need to. You walk like you’ve got nowhere to be and everyone to impress anyway.

Max swallows something stupid. Something like regret. Something like awe. And somehow, you’re still not close enough. He doesn’t step toward you. Not even a little.

He holds his ground like he’s used to doing on track—tight grip, quiet posture, too still. You’re maybe three feet away now, close enough for him to catch the tail end of your perfume, something sharp and floral and completely intentional, the kind of scent that lives in the collar of someone's memory long after the body’s gone. 

Max doesn’t blink. He catalogues everything the way only someone like him can. How your eyes flicker—not uncertain, not shy, but observant, scanning him like telemetry. How your hair’s styled not for effort but for effect. Soft waves, pinned just enough to look sculpted. How your skin glows like it’s been sleeping under better stars. And how your lips—barely glossed—still manage to look like trouble.

You stop two feet from him. Let the silence stretch. There’s a smirk playing at your mouth, not quite earned, not quite performative. The kind you wear when you’ve already decided how this is going to go, and you’re just waiting to see if he keeps up.

“You’re late,” he says, finally, and his voice is low and familiar and unsympathetic in that particularly Dutch way. No hello. No you look good. Just a casual accusation, flat on the surface, but already unraveling around the edges.

Your head tilts slightly. One brow rises. “I know,” you answer. There’s a pause. Brief. Charged.

You look at him fully now. Hold his gaze without flinching. You’re not here for comfort. You’re here for optics. For necessity. For Red Bull. But maybe, just maybe, you’re also here to remind the room that you still exist in every language they tried to write you out of. Max exhales through his nose. Like a laugh trying not to be born.

“I told them I wasn’t going in without you,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t mean something.

You hum. That same infuriating, delicate little sound you used to make when he said something half-serious. Not mocking. Not kind. Just acknowledging it without letting it land. He watches your eyes flick past him, toward the entrance, and for a moment—just a flash—he thinks you might be reconsidering. Might turn around. Might vanish again like a dream punished for getting too close to real.

But then you sigh. Barely. The kind of sigh that means fine. And Max– still Max, opens the door. You don’t say thank you. You just walk past him—skin brushing the edge of his jacket, the silk of your dress rustling against the doorway—and step into the room like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

His hand comes to the small of your back. Light. Barely there. But it is there. And to him, that’s all anyone needs to see.

The air inside is thicker than it should be. Low light spills down from the custom glass fixtures like honey—too warm, too intimate for a place that charges this much to breathe. The room hums with quiet conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery, but under it all, there's that undercurrent Max knows too well: tension, curated and caged. Everyone pretending not to see, not to look, not to notice you stepping into the room on Max’s arm like a reentry wound. Monaco’s elite pretending they haven’t spent the past three months whispering your name like it was cursed.

You keep your head down.

Not a flinch. Not weakness. Just focus. Max can feel the way your posture locks in, muscles pulled tight under that silk-and-steel exterior. The dress moves like it’s made of breath and water, but your spine stays straight. Your chin tilted just slightly down, like you’re giving yourself a second to survive it. Max’s hand is still at the small of your back. He doesn’t move it.

He can’t. He’s not entirely sure if it’s to guide you or to ground himself. And then he sees them.

Lando. Charles. Oscar. Carlos. Their girlfriends. Their drinks. Their eyes.

And for the first time all night, Max falters. Just a flicker. A break in the rhythm. Because Lando looks fucking stunned. Not just shocked, not just caught off guard—but actually, genuinely out of his depth. The kind of look Max has seen on rookie drivers during their first wet quali in Spa. He recovers quickly, of course. He always does. Leans back a little. Wraps his arm tighter around Magiu like he’s marking territory he doesn’t even like the taste of.

Max meets his eyes. It’s brief. Sharp. Heavy. And in that second, there’s a history of fuck-ups and fallout crammed into one glance. You fucking idiot, Max thinks, louder than necessary. Louder than smart. You had her, and you—

He doesn’t let the rest form. Because it’s not his place. Not really. Even if he was the one you called, finally, two weeks after the season ended, voice cracked open like old paint, saying nothing but Are you home?

Even if he was the one who picked up after thirty seconds of pacing because of course he was. Even if Lando dumped you like you were an expired sponsorship deal and walked straight into some glorified influencer’s glittered lap like it wouldn’t follow him. Even if Max felt that lump in his throat grow roots.

He doesn’t let himself think about why. He’s spent a month not thinking about it. Not thinking about the way his chest tightened when he saw your name light up his phone. Not thinking about the way you sounded when you exhaled into the receiver like you hadn’t done that properly in weeks. Not thinking about how he didn’t ask any questions—just left the door unlocked and cleared the guest room and made tea he knew you wouldn’t drink.

Now you’re here, next to him, and it’s real in a way it hasn’t been yet. His hand against your back, warm from your skin, feels too personal. Too right. You tilt your head just barely toward him and mutter under your breath, voice soft and close enough to touch:

“Ik kan niet naar ze kijken.”

I can’t look at them.

Max’s jaw flexes. His hand steadies on your back, thumb brushing the edge of your spine. Just once. Barely noticeable. But it’s a decision. It’s a promise.

“Ik weet het,” he murmurs. “Ik heb je.”

I know. I’ve got you.

And he does. Whatever tonight is—whatever it means—he’s not letting you walk through it alone. He’s never cared much for ceremony. But right now, with your warmth soaking into his palm and your breath catching just enough to betray your calm—right now, it feels a lot like something.

You step through the private door like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just inhale Max’s voice in your mother tongue like a sedative. Like the tension in your shoulders isn’t three months old and fossilized. Like you aren’t acutely aware of the fact that Lando Norris is sitting in the next room, wrapped in someone else’s perfume, laughing into someone else’s throat.

You’re not here for that. You’re here for business. The room is softly lit, quiet, thick with money and influence. Long table. Frosted glass walls. A muted kind of power thrumming under everything—white oak floors, gold accents, minimalist design so curated it’s almost rude. The Red Bull principal stands at the head, his smile tight, his watch louder than his words. Flanking him are a half-dozen men whose suits cost more than most people’s mortgages, plus two women in sleek dresses and sharper expressions, their clipped nods making it very clear they don’t need to be impressed. These are the people who decide what teams look like before the engineers even touch the cars. The ones who know you by name, by number, by millions moved.

Their eyes land on you the second you enter. The silence bends. You walk like the cameras are still on. Like the championship was yesterday. Like your ex isn’t five meters away on the other side of a wall too thin for your liking. You let your heels kiss the floor like it’s a stage. Let your dress do what it was built to do—hug, whisper, glide. You keep your gaze steady, your posture regal, your expression perfectly smooth. Business now. Emotion later. Or never. Preferably never.

Max is beside you, but he’s silent. You feel him there, a familiar gravity. Still close enough to touch. Still warm.

“Look at that,” one of the execs murmurs, voice gruff but amused. “Even prettier than the headlines said.”

You give him a smile. Polished. Practiced. Sharp around the edges. Christian gestures to your seat near the head of the table. “Glad you could make it,” he says, nodding at both you and Max. “We’ll make this quick. We’re not here to waste your time. You’ve both proven you don’t need micromanaging.”

Max slides into the seat beside yours. Casual. Effortless. You follow suit, back straight, hands folded, eyes sharp.

They start talking. Money. Sponsorships. Projected figures for next season. Pay increases. You and Max are getting a bump—sizeable. You don’t blink. It’s what you’re worth. Maybe more. One of the execs jokes that with the two of you on the same team, the constructors' trophy might as well be etched already. Someone else mutters that McLaren’s upgrades are the only threat.

Because you know what they’re talking about. Not the cars. The driver. The boy. The mistake. The person you loved like he wasn’t a liability. The one who let your heart rot in his hands and then replaced you with someone who only understands Instagram captions and face angles. Your nails press into your palm. You make sure your expression doesn’t shift. You nod once. Breathe slowly. Professional. Unbothered.

Max doesn’t say anything. But you feel it—the shift in him. Like his focus sharpens the second you move. Like he’s not just watching the room. He’s watching you. You force yourself to focus on the words being said. Aerodynamic reports. Budget negotiations. Test schedules. But your mind… your mind won’t stop dragging itself back to that moment outside. The brief brush of Max’s hand against your spine. The way it didn’t feel intrusive. Or accidental. Or formal.

It felt like steadiness. Like something you didn’t realize you’d been craving until it was already gone. Like warmth in the cold hallway between past and present.

You swallow. Nod again. Someone says something about your performance last season—how no woman’s ever dominated the way you have. How the data doesn’t lie. That your cornering metrics are almost inhuman. That you might be one of the best to ever do it.

You smile again. Another trophy smile. But it doesn’t reach all the way up. Because behind it, all you can think about is the fact that Lando is five meters away. Max’s hand is still echoing on your skin. And you’re sitting in a room full of power pretending you’re not bleeding under your dress.

The room empties in increments. Slowly, like a tide receding, quiet murmurs of goodbyes and clinks of crystal echoing against the walls like afterthoughts. The chairs are pushed in with just enough noise to remind you you’re still in the land of the living. Polished hands reach for coats. Watches checked. Nods exchanged like currency. No one rushes. No one lingers.

You don’t move. You sit perfectly still in your chair, spine resting not against the leather but your own discipline, your hands laid neatly over your lap like you’re holding something fragile and invisible there. It’s over. The meeting. The dinner. The performance. And still, the tension in your shoulders doesn’t unwind.

Because the ache wasn’t in the meeting. It’s in the moments after. You feel him before he speaks. Max doesn’t move quietly. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t hover. He just exists—sturdy and low and immovable in that way he does when he’s trying to be casual but is actually watching the world unfold in real time. You don’t need to look to know he’s still standing at the head of the table, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, like he’s waiting for something.

You glance up, finally, and catch his eye. Just for a second. It feels like being caught looking down the barrel of something dangerous. There’s no smirk. No grin. Nothing sarcastic in the slope of his brow or the tilt of his head. Just Max, steady and warm and devastating in that suit that’s too sharp for this late at night, like he’s been built out of tailored tension.

Your mouth is dry. You don’t say anything. Not yet. Just lean forward slightly to reach for the water glass you never touched, and as your fingers curl around the crystal stem, your dress shifts. The silk across your chest tugs just slightly tighter, the slit parting a breath wider at your thigh.

And he looks. Not long. Not greedy. But direct. Unapologetic. Like he was waiting for you to move so he had permission. And for a stupid, brainless second, it flusters you. Not because it’s Max. But because it’s you, and you hate that your body notices. You hate that you feel warm under your skin in a room that’s already cooled with abandonment. You hate that every inch of professionalism you put on like perfume is starting to crack where his gaze rests.

You sip the water. It doesn’t help. Max finally speaks. Quiet. Clipped.

“You okay?”

The question lands gently between you, like a paperweight dropped on silk. Light. But you feel it. In your chest. Your stomach. Lower. You clear your throat and lean back, eyes on the glass in your hand.

“That obvious?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “No,” he says. “But I know you.”

And that—that’s what does it. You exhale slow through your nose, the kind of breath that tastes like resignation. Your fingers still wrapped around the glass, condensation sliding cool against your knuckles while heat blooms under your skin like a secret. He’s still standing. Still looking at you with that maddening calm. Like he’s the only person in the world who knows how tightly you’re holding yourself together and the exact second you’ll start to unravel.

You shift again. Cross your legs. The slit parts with a whisper. His eyes flick down. Just briefly. You wonder if he notices the way your pulse jumps in your neck. You wonder if he feels how warm the room’s gotten.

“Didn’t expect them to bring up McLaren,” you say, finally, and your voice is too smooth. Too casual. It sounds like conversation, but it’s not. Not really.

Max lets out a low sound that might be a laugh. Might be disbelief. Might be frustration smoothed out into something prettier. “They’re scared,” he says. “They should be. We’re going to fucking destroy them.”

The way he says we punches something low in your stomach. Like an old bruise pressed too suddenly. You nod. Swallow. Force a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Let’s hope they don’t upgrade too fast.”

You don’t say Let’s hope he doesn’t. You don’t say Let’s hope I never have to see him in the rearview. You don’t say Let’s hope I don’t fucking break apart the first time he’s in my mirrors.

Instead, you say nothing. And Max doesn’t push. He just moves—finally. Walks slowly around the table until he’s closer. Not sitting. Not towering. Just there. Half-leaning against the back of the chair next to you, one ankle crossed over the other, hands folded loosely in front of him. He looks relaxed. He’s not. You can tell by the way his thumbs keep brushing together.

“You handled it well,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “Even when they brought him up.”

You tense. Your body betrays you again. And maybe that’s the point. Because Max leans down slightly, not much, just enough so that his voice is nearer to your ear when he adds, quieter now:

“I saw your hand.” Your breath catches. Of course he did. You hate that you care that he did. You hate how good it feels to be seen. You don’t look at him. Just stare at the condensation dripping down your glass like it’s an escape route.

“Doesn’t matter,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

“It matters,” he says, and there’s something there now—low and charged and thick between his words. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blink. The room suddenly feels smaller. The glass is empty. The lights are too soft. Your throat is dry again.

“I need a drink,” you say, and this time it’s not an excuse. It’s a confession.

Max doesn’t move for a second. Then, “Come on,” he says. “Let’s find something good.” His hand brushes your arm as he straightens. Not an accident. Not subtle.

It’s warm. Too warm. And the feeling lingers. You step out into the corridor first, Max falling into stride beside you, the two of you cutting a sleek silhouette through the soft velvet hush of the hallway. You walk close—not touching, but close. Your shoulders brush every few steps, that easy cadence you slip into when you’re too tired to pretend there’s distance.

You don’t speak yet. Just walk. It’s a short stretch of hallway, but it feels like crossing back into gravity. The hallway lights are gold-toned and low, casting your reflections in ripples across the polished marble floors. You glance sideways at Max as he adjusts the cuffs of his suit, one hand sliding into his pocket with that lazy, practiced ease that says I don’t care and I’ve already won in the same breath.

And just like that, something tilts. You feel it in the ease of his movement, the unbothered slouch of him beside you, the heat still lingering where his fingers grazed your arm. Across the room, Lando exists. So does the girl on his arm. But they feel far away now—blurred at the edges, irrelevant. Because you’re here. With Max. And for the first time tonight, the weight in your chest loosens. You’re going to have a good night. Fuck the past. Fuck them. You’ve got better things to do.

You snort. He turns his head slightly, not quite looking at you.

“What.”

“You really leaned into that whole pensive Dutch robot thing tonight.”

“I was being professional,” he mutters.

“You were being Max.”

Max scoffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I didn’t see you doing any of the talking.”

“I’m mysterious,” you say, with just enough mockery in your voice to make it clear you’re doing a bit. “I let the mystery breathe.”

He laughs again—softer this time, just under his breath. And you feel it loosen something under your ribs. Just a little. Then, the bar. Low-lit. Intimate. Filled with the kind of soft shadows that make it easy to forget what came before. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive, but suspends. Everything gets quieter here. Closer. He holds the door open for you. You walk in like the air belongs to you now. Like it owes you. Like he does.

You’re laughing before you sit. The kind of laughter that lives at the bottom of your chest—hollow, exhausted, edged in disbelief. You fold into your spot at the bar like you’ve finally exhaled, like your body’s tired of pretending to be bulletproof. The champagne’s doing what it needs to do—cooling your tongue, softening the sharpness in your throat—and beside you, Max is slouched just enough to look like he belongs here. Elbow on the bar, knee brushed against yours, mouth curled in that dry, slow way that says he’s been holding back a hundred comments since the first minute of that meeting.

“God,” he mutters, speaking in Dutch but his tone needs no translation, “the management is so fucked.”

You snort, swirling the stem of your glass between your fingers. “I know. That one guy—what’s his name? With the comb-over—he actually suggested doing a TikTok collab with Stroll. I thought I was hallucinating.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sigh, and tilt your head back against the edge of the bar, eyes fluttering closed for a second. The bar’s warm. The world is soft around the edges. You could stay like this. Not forever. But for tonight.

And then, you look at him. Just a glance. Just long enough to catch the way his neck flushes a little pink above his collar, the way his hair’s slightly messed from running his hand through it for the millionth time, the way his lips are parted like he’s still chewing on a thought he hasn’t decided whether to speak.

Something in your stomach drops. Because he looks beautiful. Not magazine beautiful. Not polished, press-conference perfect. Just—real. Flushed and blinking and a little undone, like the stress is wearing off in layers, and all that’s left underneath is him. And then he turns, just slightly, his eyes catching yours, steady, clear, unguarded in a way that makes your throat tighten.

“Was your time off okay?” he asks. Voice quiet now. Still in Dutch, but softer than before. Less sarcasm. More sincerity.

You pause. Then nod, adjusting the way your fingers rest on the stem of your glass. “Yeah,” you say. “Spent most of it in Italy. On my boat. Doing nothing. Yours?”

He hums. Looks away, gaze drifting past the bar, out toward the huge glass windows that overlook the water. His expression shifts—something wistful, something gentle. His lashes are too long, and the gold light turns his profile into something carved.

And then, almost like he’s surprised to hear it leave his mouth. “Would’ve been better with you.”

You don’t answer right away. Of course you don’t. The silence feels like it was waiting for that sentence. Like it was designed to hold it. The air shifts. Slows. Thickens. The lighting overhead warps into something honeyed and cinematic, slicking across the rim of your champagne flute, clinging to Max’s lashes like it has a favorite.

You breathe, but it feels staged. Like you’re performing breath rather than feeling it. Your hand is still curved loosely around the glass, wrist delicate against the dark wood bar, but your knuckles have gone taut. The bubbles in your drink have gone flat. Or maybe they’re still rising, but you’ve lost the ability to notice. Your ears are doing that strange ringing thing they do when something lands too heavy in the center of your chest. Not painful. Pressing.

He doesn’t look at you after he says it. He says it like he means it but doesn’t want to admit he said it. Like the words slipped out of his mouth because they’d been pacing there for weeks, starved of air, and now—there they are. On the bar between you. Heavy. Unwrapped. His voice didn’t wobble, didn’t go soft. It was casual. Quiet. Like an afterthought that somehow detonated under your ribcage.

You look at the side of his face instead of his eyes. The sharp line of his cheekbone. The little hollow under his jaw that always shadows first when he’s overtired. His lips are parted slightly, like there’s more coming, but nothing follows. He’s sipping his drink again now. The glass glints. The whiskey clings to the cut crystal like it wants to stay. He looks flushed, just a little, in that way Max always does when he’s said something that cost him more than he expected.

You inhale. Exhale. Try to say something. Nothing comes. Because what do you say to a sentence like that? Because part of you wants to reach for it. Wrap your fingers around it. Feel the heat of it on your skin. The you in that sentence feels too alive, too tender, too recent. And another part of you wants to pretend it didn’t happen. Because you’re not ready. Because your heart still sounds like it’s trying to knock its way out of your throat every time Lando’s name is said.

So you do what you always do when you’re circling a feeling too big to hold.  You whisper the truth, without looking at him. “Max… I’m not ready.”

It barely escapes your mouth. Like you’re ashamed of it. Like it costs something. It does. You expect him to flinch. Or worse—offer some perfect, gentle platitude about timing and healing and how “you don’t have to be.” Something warm but distant. Something that would leave you feeling more alone.

But he doesn’t. He just nods, like he already knew. Like he’s been rehearsing that answer in the back of his mind all night.

“I know,” he says, and his voice is low. Rough like gravel, but softer than he usually lets it be with you. And then, in Dutch—quiet, intimate, untranslatable in the way it sounds in your bones.

“De mooiste bloemen groeien langzaam.”

You blink. Look at him. He finally looks at you.

And you know. You know what he means. The most beautiful flowers grow slowly. Not flashy. Not fast. They take time. Pressure. Soil and silence and things unsaid. And suddenly your chest aches. Not in the way it did when Lando broke it.

This ache is different. Gentle, but deep. The kind that builds slowly, like heat under your skin. The kind that says: I see you. I’ll wait. Not because I have to. Because I want to. You swallow. Nod. Look down at your hand on the bar, your fingers just barely brushing his now. The contact is nothing. And somehow it’s everything.

Your fingers are still resting on the edge of his. Just barely. Just enough that you can feel the heat where your skin touches his—not a flame, not a jolt, just warmth. Lingering. Like he isn’t trying to move. Like he wants you to know he’s not going anywhere.

And then— buzz.

Your bag vibrates once against the side of your hip. You ignore it. Obviously. You don’t look away from him. Not yet. The moment’s too fragile. Like a ripple that hasn’t decided whether to become a wave. Like it might disappear if you breathe wrong. Then it buzzes again.

Max raises an eyebrow without moving his hand. His fingers stay where they are. Yours do too. You sigh. Pull back.

 Not dramatically. Not like you’re breaking a spell. Just gently. Like a page being turned before the chapter’s finished.

You slide your hand into your purse, thumb already unlocking your phone on instinct. The screen glows too bright in the low amber light, and it stings your eyes, makes the bar look colder than it is. You blink against it.

Alexandra

come say hi you little freaks 😘

charles said ur making max antisocial we have wine and gossip. and ice cream 🫶

You huff out something between a snort and a laugh.

“Alex,” you say aloud, shaking your head. You tilt the phone toward Max so he can see it, and his eyes flick down at the screen, then back up at you. He doesn’t say anything at first.

“Are you up for it?”

Max groans. Not with effort. With drama. His head tilts back slightly, his shoulders slumping like you’ve asked him to run a half-marathon in loafers. “God,” he mutters, already finishing his whiskey. “I just started enjoying myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So that’s a no?”

He looks at you. Eyes narrowed. Then downs the last of his drink in one smooth, sulky motion. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“…We’ll stay ten minutes.”

You laugh again, softer this time. “Ten?”

He nods. “Ten. Unless someone’s annoying. Then five. If Oscar’s eating ice cream with a fork again, we leave immediately.”

You stand. Max stands with you. And for the second time tonight, he doesn’t touch you. But he’s right there. Half a step behind. Ready. The walk back feels like threading a needle.

You and Max move through the crowd with just enough space between you to say nothing’s going on, but not enough to say we’re strangers. You feel him next to you in every breath, every shift of air. But he doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t brush your arm. Doesn’t soften his step. He’s already folding back into the shape of someone you’re not supposed to need.

You hate how well he does it. The booth is half-lit, washed in the kind of gold that makes everything look softer than it is. Alexandra spots you first, her smile blooming immediately as she tugs Charles toward the open seat beside her.

“There she is,” she sing-songs, already reaching for your wrist. “You took your sweet time, I was starting to think Max had dragged you away.”

You let her pull you in, your fingers grazing hers, your smile automatic. Controlled.

“God, you’re obsessed with me,” you say. Light. Teasing. The words fall easily off your tongue.

Charles leans in with a grin, his accent rounding everything he says like a warm hand. “We had bets. I said twenty minutes. Oscar guessed forty. Carlos said you’d never come.”

You raise your brows. “Carlos has no faith in me.”

“He has no faith in anyone,” Alexandra mutters, pouring you a splash of wine without asking. “Sit. You need a drink that isn’t whatever that neon gold shit Red Bull serves as champagne.”

You sit. You thank her. You drink. You’re performing. But you’re good at it. And Max—Max moves without ceremony toward the other end of the table, slipping effortlessly into conversation with Carlos, Oscar, and their dates. Of course he does. Of course he makes it look easy. The way his head tilts when he listens. The way he nods, hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, posture loose like he isn’t doing calculus in his brain every second he’s away from you.

It’s not personal. It’s strategy. Because if he sat beside you, now, if he looked at you like he just did at the bar, the whole room would notice. And they’d talk. And you can’t afford that.

So he doesn’t. And neither do you. You turn back to Charles. Let him ask you about next season. Let Alexandra pull you into a story about a dinner party in Paris that involved a flaming cheese wheel and an almost-divorce. You laugh. You ask follow-up questions. You sip your wine and try not to glance down the table. Try not to search for Max.

You feel it. The shift. The weight of a gaze before you even meet it. You turn your head. And there he is.

Lando.

Seated at the far end, next to Magui, but not with her. She’s focused on Carlos, on Max, something about a joke you’re not listening to. Her hand moves when she talks. Her laugh flutters too loud. She doesn’t notice that he’s not even looking at her.

He’s looking at you. Direct. Unapologetic. Unblinking.

His eyes drag across your face like a bruise being pressed. Slow. Unflinching. His jaw ticks once. A twitch of muscle like something about you hurts. His tongue swipes across his top teeth like he’s holding something in. Something sharp. Something too late. And still, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you. Your spine straightens. Your mouth is still parted from the sip of wine you were mid-taking. You don’t blink. You don’t move. The moment stretches—too long, too full, too familiar. And for a second, it feels like no one else is there. Like it’s just you and him and everything that was said and everything that wasn’t.

The others don’t notice. Alexandra is still laughing beside you. Charles is responding, his voice soft, affectionate. Their joy bubbles like champagne beside you, blissfully unaware that your ex is looking at you like he’s drowning in everything he threw away.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs. Press the stem of your glass between your fingers harder than necessary.

And still, Lando looks. Like he wants to say something.Like he knows he won’t. The longer he stares, the more absurd it becomes. Like a dare. Like a joke you haven’t been let in on. His jaw is tight, lips parted like he’s halfway through a sentence he doesn’t have the nerve to say, and his whole face has that stormcloud softness—like he’s confused. Like he’s wounded.

And suddenly it hits you. The audacity. The pure, blinding ridiculousness of the man who cracked your ribs open and danced in the ruin now looking at you like he’s the one grieving. You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Sharp. Short. It slips out before you can stop it—just a little huff of disbelief pushed through your nose like a gunshot. You don’t even mean to do it. But there it is.

He sees it. You don’t break eye contact when you do. That’s what makes it worse. You let him watch you laugh. Just for a second. Just enough.

Then, casually—too casually—you lean over and murmur something to Alexandra. Something vague about needing to step away. She barely hears you, still caught in the glitter of whatever joke she’s spinning for Charles, but she nods anyway, and you slide out of the booth like smoke under a door.

Your hand is steady on the table as you rise. Your glass is left untouched, wine lipsticked and sweating. Your dress shifts when you stand, the slit catching a breeze you didn’t know existed, silk hugging your hip like punctuation. You walk.

Not quickly. Not with purpose. Just out. Out of the booth. Out of the moment. Out of the weight of Lando’s gaze. But it follows you.

You don’t need to look. You know. You feel it like breath on the back of your neck. You disappear around the corner of the bar, into a hallway that leads toward the powder rooms, the private terrace, the less curated corners of the restaurant. Somewhere dimmer. Quieter. Somewhere you can exhale without an audience.  

You walk like you don’t hear him behind you. Like you’re not anticipating every echo of his footsteps. Like your spine isn’t buzzing with the awareness that he’s chasing after you like this is still his story.

The hallway is dim and narrow, padded with shadows and that expensive quiet—just enough ambient light from the sconces to illuminate the framed, abstract artwork that means nothing. Everything here smells like lemon balm and wealth. You hate how familiar it is. How your body remembers the scent. The pacing. The knowing.

You turn the corner sharply, pausing halfway down, just past the staff service door, just shy of the terrace entrance, right under one of those antique sconces that drips soft gold light like honey.

And then—he appears.

Fast. Breathless. Like he expected to find a locked door and instead ran headfirst into you.

He skids slightly into the corner, like he wasn’t sure where you went until he saw you stop. Like his whole body is trying to slow itself down and failing. He’s flushed, even under the low light—his collar slightly askew, hair messier than it was ten seconds ago, the top button of his shirt pulled undone like he needed to breathe. Like you took the air with you when you left the room.

He stops two feet from you. Staring. Just staring. Eyes wide. Jaw tight. Chest rising fast, then slower. Then fast again. Like he’s trying to regulate himself but doesn’t know what gear he’s in anymore.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Blinking. Breathing. Like you’re not a person but a fucking apparition. And you just stand there. Arms crossed.

Weight shifted to one hip. Head tilted slightly in that way that says you’re waiting for him to be less ridiculous than this. But he doesn’t speak. He just looks. Like he wants to say a hundred things but can't even get past the first.

And you—God, you can’t help it—you almost laugh again. Because this is insane. Because you look like this, and he looks like that, and the last thing he said to you before he shattered everything was some halfhearted apology followed by a soft, smug “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

And now he’s breathing like you just stabbed him. So you say it. Flat. Quiet. Weaponized.

“What the fuck do you want?” You don’t expect the first thing out of his mouth to be that. No—you expected silence. Maybe an apology, if he could stomach the shape of the word. Maybe nothing. Maybe the cliché—“You look good,” or “Can we talk?” or “I didn’t know you were coming tonight.” Something limp. Something boring. Something safe.

But not this. Not this flame to the chest. Definetly not, “Is there something going on with you and Max?”

You don’t speak. You can’t. The question lands like a slap, hard and stupid and echoing, and for a second all you can hear is your own blood pulsing through your ears. Hot. Viscous. Humiliating. It drowns out the ambient jazz leaking down the hallway, drowns out the laughter from the bar, drowns out the sound of him breathing like he just chased you out of the restaurant and into a goddamn memory.

He’s two feet away and wrong in every direction. Shirt half-untucked, hair damp at the temples. Sweat clings to the curve of his brow like guilt. His eyes are bright, too bright—reflective and glassy like they’re catching every ounce of gold light and making it ugly. He smells like spice and panic, like whatever cologne he started the evening in is already losing the war against whatever stress he’s been stewing in since you stood up from that booth. He looks beautiful, the way wreckage always does—ruined and breathless and sharp around the edges. Like something that can’t be touched without cutting yourself open.

You taste iron at the back of your throat. And you burn. Because this is what he opens with. This. After everything. After the cheating. After the silence. After the photo of him and Magui you had to see, not hear about. After the complete lack of apology—no explanation, no acknowledgment, no goddamn accountability. Just… you, gone. Him, louder than ever. And now he wants to talk about Max.

Now, he wants to stand in this hallway and pant like he ran a mile in the wrong direction and ask if your teammate is touching you?

You feel your forearm itch. Not in a physical way. In that deep, animal kind of way—like your body is rejecting the moment. Like your nerves are trying to crawl out through your skin. Your spine is too straight. Your fists curl too tightly. There’s sweat between your shoulder blades and your silk dress is clinging in places it didn’t earlier. The scent of citrus cleaner and soft musk from the air diffusers is cloying now, too clean for a hallway filled with this kind of tension. Your heel is slightly off-balance against the slate tile. Your teeth are pressing into the back of your tongue. Everything is wrong. Every sense is alive.

You speak before you mean to. Your voice doesn’t crack. It slices. “You’re actually fucking serious.”

He blinks. Like he doesn’t understand. Like you’re the one being unreasonable. His hands flex at his sides. He leans a fraction closer, eyes scanning your face like it’ll save him. “I just—he was all over you tonight.”

You laugh. You laugh. It’s a sharp, hot sound that doesn’t match the coolness of your dress or the control in your expression. You laugh like it hurts your ribs, like the sound might unhinge your jaw if you let it go too long.

“He’s my teammate,” you spit. “Are you fucking joking?”

Lando says nothing. His mouth is open. Like there are more words waiting. But none of them matter. None of them would make this better. You take a step forward, and he doesn’t move. Your voice drops. Quiet now. Controlled.

“You cheat on me. With her. You didn’t call. You didn’t explain. You didn’t look for me. You just let it happen.”

You pause. Your breath catches, hot and wet at the top of your throat, and you push through it.

“And now, months later, after pretending I don’t exist, after parading her around and you have the audacity to ask about Max?”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick down—mouth, throat, waist—then back to your face. And there it is. That old flicker. That low heat. Desire, curling like smoke from the ashes of what he burned. You feel it hit you like it always has—low in your belly, unwelcome but familiar. Like muscle memory. Like poison you used to mistake for love.

But you don’t let it win. You step back. One inch. Enough. And then, softly. Final.

“You don’t get to look at me like that anymore.”

You say it softly. Not a whisper. Not a scream. Just truth, delivered like a blade left cooling on marble. Final, but not loud. And you mean it. You fucking mean it. You mean it even though the second the words leave your mouth, you feel the heat behind your eyes, that stupid low ache blooming in your stomach, crawling beneath your ribs like a bruise forming in real time.

Because he’s still looking at you like that. Like you’re his. Like none of it ever happened. Like you weren’t the one left with ash in your lungs and his fingerprints still clinging to the parts of you he never earned in the first place.

He blinks once. Breathes harder. His chest rises like he’s trying to say something, but the words get caught on his tongue. And then he moves.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just one step. A single fucking step that shouldn’t mean anything but sends a bolt through your spine so sharp you almost forget how to breathe.

He’s close now. Close enough that you can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip. The way his jaw is flexing too tightly. The pulse at his neck, visible now. Racing.

He smells like whatever he sprayed on three hours ago—something expensive and leathery and sharp—but now it’s been overtaken by something else. The smell of panic. Of want. Of a body trying to hold itself still while everything inside it starts to burn. You’re still standing there, not backing down, not giving him the satisfaction. But your skin is doing things. Twitching under your dress. Tingling at the tops of your thighs. That heat low in your belly is turning into something worse. Not romantic. Not hopeful. Worse.

Familiar. He reaches for you. Slow. Like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. Like he knows he shouldn’t. But he does anyway. His hand lifts, then hovers, just at your arm. Just at the place where your shoulder meets your bicep.

“Don’t,” you breathe.

But you don’t move. He breathes out, ragged now. He doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets his fingers hang there, so close you can feel the ghost of it. And that’s worse. That’s so much fucking worse.

“You look so good,” he says, and his voice is strained, quiet, like he hates himself for saying it but hates himself more for not saying it sooner.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

You mean it. But your thighs are pressed together now. Tight. Your eyes flick to his mouth. Just for a second. Just enough. He sees it. His lips part like he’s about to say something else—an apology, a confession, maybe a lie he’s trying to turn into something beautiful. But nothing comes.

His hand finally lands. Light. Careful. The heat from his palm sears straight through the fabric of your dress. And that’s it. That’s the mistake.

You exhale like you’ve been punched. You step back again, not because you want to—because you have to. Because if he touches you like that again, you’re going to let him. And you can’t. You fucking can’t. You spin away. Your back hits the wall. It’s cool, textured, but it doesn’t help. Your breath is shallow. Your thighs are shaking.

He watches you like a man unraveling. Like he knows he lost you the second he looked away months ago, and now he’s standing in the aftermath, trying to pick through the ruins for something salvageable.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he says, finally.

You laugh. It sounds more like a gasp. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks down. Then back at you. Then down again. There’s silence. There’s too much fucking silence.

You’re thinking about the last time he touched you. The last time you let him. The way his mouth felt on your neck. The way he used to say your name in the dark, like it tasted good. Like he earned it. Your hips shift against the wall. You don’t mean to.

His eyes flick there. It’s the worst thing you could’ve done. He steps forward again. And you don’t stop him.

“Tell me to go,” he says. Right there. Right in front of you. So close now that your noses could touch if you tilted your head. So close that you can feel the warmth radiating off his chest like a furnace, like punishment.

His voice drops. “Tell me you don’t think about me anymore.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes. He looks at you like he’s drowning. Like you’re the only oxygen left in the room.

“Tell me,” he breathes, “and I’ll leave.”

And that’s the problem. You can’t. You don’t say it. You try. You really try. Your lips part like they’re about to shape it—Go. I don’t think about you. I’m fine. I’m better. But nothing comes out. Just breath. Just the taste of his cologne and regret and the electric press of skin that isn’t touching but is too close anyway.

Lando knows. The bastard knows. You feel it in the way he softens, just a fraction. The way the fight drains from his eyes and something hungrier slips into the cracks. Like he’s starting to believe this might not be the end. Like he’s seeing a window instead of a door.

Your throat burns. Your chest pulls tight, like something’s trying to claw its way out. Your hands curl against the wall behind you, searching for texture, for anything to ground you before your knees give out.

“Two years,” you whisper. It’s not loud. It’s not sharp. It’s just wrecked.

He stills.

“Two years,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks—splinters straight down the middle. Your head tilts back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut like it hurts to look at him. “For what? For who? Some girl who can’t even look me in the face?”

You open your eyes. He’s right there. You could kiss him if you wanted to. His jaw is tense, shoulders drawn in like he’s bracing for impact. His hands are fisted now. He looks like he wants to say it wasn’t like that. Like he wants to explain. But he can’t. Because it was. Because he did it.

Your chin trembles. He sees it. And then—slow, agonizingly slow—he leans in. His hand lifts again. This time it lands on your hip. Just barely. Just his fingers against the edge of your dress, the soft fabric caught between you. He doesn’t press. Just rests there. Warm. Steady. 

“Don’t,” you say, but it’s air.

It’s not real. It’s not no. He dips closer. His nose brushes your cheek, soft and maddening. You can feel the heat of his breath against your jaw. You smell him—you smell him. That mix of cologne and skin and sweat and everything you’ve tried so hard to forget. Your head spins. Your mouth goes dry. Your thighs press together, unthinking, desperate for friction.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

It’s not fair. None of this is fucking fair. You squeeze your eyes shut, but he’s still there, lips just above your skin, not kissing, not yet—just hovering. Like he’s waiting for you to move first. Like he’s giving you control, when you both know he took that from you the second he opened his fucking mouth.

His mouth brushes your jaw. Once. Soft.

Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s testing what he can get away with.  Your breath catches in your throat, too high, too raw. Your whole body arches forward before you can stop it—just slightly. Just enough. He kisses it again. Lower this time. Firmer. Right where your pulse sits.

You gasp. It’s quiet. Humiliating. So utterly humiliating.  You don’t think— instead, your fingers dig into the wall behind you, the plaster cool under your nails. Your knees do buckle now, just a little. Just enough that his other hand rises to your waist to steady you. And now he’s holding you. Lightly. But fully. His chest against yours. His mouth still ghosting your skin.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He nods against your jaw. “I know.”

You breathe him in. And it’s the worst decision you’ve made all night. Because he still smells like yours. Because your body still remembers this. Because you haven’t touched him in months, and now your hands are twitching at your sides like they need somewhere to go.

He kisses your jaw again. Then your cheek. Then lower.

And then he pauses—mouth at the corner of your lips, your pulse a fucking drumbeat in your throat, your body trembling with anger and ache and everything you never got to say.

“You still want me,” he says.

Your eyes don’t close when his mouth brushes yours. They flicker. Twitch. A full-body glitch, like your nerves just remembered how this ends and still can’t stop you.

Your fingers are still splayed behind you against the wall. You could push him. You should push him. Your knees would give out anyway. You tilt your chin. Half a millimeter. He crashes into that space like he was waiting for it.

His mouth—god, his fucking mouth—lands on yours not soft, not slow, not even hungry. Starved. He kisses like it’s a punishment. Like every inch he claims is revenge for something you never did. Your teeth knock, your lip catches, and there’s a hiss between you that might be pain or might be something worse. He tastes like whiskey and ash, like every “I’m sorry” you never got. And yet, you still fucking kiss him back.

You hate yourself for it. You hate how your hands leap from the wall to his shirt like they were made for this. One fist curled in the fabric near his chest, the other sliding—grabbing—his jaw like you’re trying to break it or memorize it. Your nails scrape down his neck and he groans into your mouth, low and guttural and needy, and that’s when it slips.

That thing inside you. The part you swore you buried. You bite him. Right on the lip, sharp and vengeful, and he stumbles into you with a grunt, palm flattening hard to your waist, the other flying to the wall behind your head. You’re pinned. You’re caged. And for some reason you don’t fucking care. You don’t even think. 

“Fuck,” he growls, mouth slick against yours, and you can taste blood now—his or yours, you don’t know.

“Don’t talk,” you snap.

He laughs. It’s breathless, bitter. “You came out here so I’d shut up?” You shove your hips forward just enough to make him hiss.

“Didn’t come out here for you,” you lie, panting.

He tugs at your waist like he’s going to break your spine in half. “Then why are your legs shaking?”

You snarl. “I hate you.”

“I know.” And then he does it—he drags you. Literally, hand on your arm, spins you with a snarl toward the door next to you. Unmarked. Employees Only. Doesn’t care. Doesn’t check. Just kicks it open like he owns the fucking hallway, shoves you through it, slams it shut behind him.

Click. Lock. It’s dark. It’s tiny.

Some storage closet or wine room or who gives a fuck. Shelves line the walls. A faint overhead bulb hums to life, flickers. Lando’s silhouette is massive in the door’s amber spill. He steps in like you owe him something.

“Say it,” he breathes, one step closer, “Say you hate me again.” You backpedal into a rack of coats and uniforms and god knows what. His hand lands next to your head.

Your voice wavers. Just barely. “I fucking hate you.”

He exhales, forehead lowering to yours, lips barely apart. “Then say you don’t want this.”

You don’t. You can’t. You won’t. Instead, you lunge. Mouth to his. Harder this time. Deeper. This kiss isn’t just hate—it’s grief. It’s betrayal. It’s every sleepless night you stared at your phone, knowing he wasn’t coming back. Your hands fly to his belt like a threat. His go for your thigh—no grace, no hesitation, just grab, yanking your leg up around his waist, and he groans into your mouth like you’re the first clean breath he’s had in weeks.

It’s clumsy, wet, desperate. He shoves your dress up like it’s insulted him. His hand slides under, hot and rough, fingers digging into the softness of your hip like he’s trying to erase what he did with her. You jerk his belt open, pop the button on his pants without finesse. Your breath catches on a sob that doesn’t get out, and he eats it with his tongue, one palm cupping your face now, tilting you where he wants you.

“You gonna cry for me, baby?” he pants, lips dragging along your jaw. You shove your hand down his waistband.

“Only if you come too fast.”

He snarls. Fucking snarls. Your back hits the wall with a thud. He’s fully holding your leg now, spreading you open. You’re soaking. He can feel it through your underwear, and the way his jaw clenches tells you he’s about to ruin you for that.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he mutters, thumb dragging hard over the soaked seam.

“And you’re a fucking cheater,” you shoot back, voice sharp, broken. And then—finally—he sinks to his knees.

You're not even sure how you got to this point. One minute you were hissing fuck you into his face like it was a spell, the next you’re hoisted onto a supply shelf in some hidden back hallway, dress yanked up, panties shoved aside, and Lando’s on his fucking knees. Hands tight on your thighs, fingers bruising, tongue deep in your cunt like he’s trying to crawl inside and live there.

The room’s humid with breath and sex and whatever this filthy, unholy thing is that still pulses between you like it never died. And God, it’s good. You hate that it’s good. You hate that you’re gripping the back of his head like he’s oxygen, thighs quaking every time his tongue circles your clit in that slow, cruel swirl.

You throw your head back, eyes fluttering— and that’s when you see him.

Max.

Just a flash. That quiet steadiness. That strong grip at your back. His voice in Dutch, low and constant, telling you he’s got you. And for a split fucking second, your body clenches in reflex to a man who isn’t even here.

What the fuck. Your brows twitch. Your throat burns. You’re on the edge of an orgasm with Lando's face buried between your legs, and you’re thinking about Max.

Not for long. Just a flicker. But it’s enough. You feel guilty. Not for Lando. Not for the cheating. But because Max—Max didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve to be in your head while you’re getting your pussy eaten by the man who shattered you.

Lando doesn’t notice. Hes lost in it. He groans into your cunt like your taste just wrecked him, hips grinding into the air like he’s fucking you with his face, tongue flicking fast, fingers now inside you. Two thick ones curling up like they know where that sweet spot is, and—

You break. Your thighs clamp around his ears and you’re coming, spasming on his tongue with a scream torn raw from your lungs.

“Fuck— Lando—fuck— you fucking—cheating bastard—”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, dragging that orgasm out like it’s punishment. You’re sobbing now. Half in rage. Half in bliss. Your nails dig into the shelf behind you, the world blurred through wet lashes. He pulls back, chin and mouth glossy with you. He’s panting. Eyes fucking wild.

“You taste so fucking sweet when you’re mad,” he growls. “I missed that cunt. Missed this fucking pussy so bad I was getting hard looking at your goddamn photos.”

You slap him. Not hard. Just a stinging smack across the cheek. His head snaps sideways He smiles.

He fucking smiles.

“Still wanna hit me? Do it after I ruin this pussy.”

Then he stands. His cock’s already out—veiny, hard, flushed at the tip. And so thick. You’re drooling at the sight of it, even as you grit your teeth like you’re not. He fists it once, slow, the head smearing pre-cum across your inner thigh as he lines up.

“Say you want it.”

“Go to hell.”

He slams in. No warning. No slow. Just full tilt, no condom, raw and brutal. Your scream bounces off the walls, drowned in his growl.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight. Like this pussy missed me too.”

Your arms fly around his neck, legs locking high around his waist, and he starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Every motion sending your ass crashing back into the wall, the shelf behind you rattling with every wet slap of his cock inside you.

“Say it,” he snarls into your neck. “Say this cunt still fucking belongs to me.”

You sob.

“No.”

He fucks you harder. Your dress is soaked. His shirt’s half off. Your tits spill free and he bites one, groaning as your pussy clenches around him.

“Fucking liar,” he pants. “You love this dick. You need it. You’re dripping on me, babe—you��re soaking for the man who ruined you.”

Your head hits the wall. Your eyes roll back.

“God, fuck, I hate you—”

He laughs, breathless and wrecked.

“You hate this cock too? Huh?” he grunts, pounding into you. “You hate this fat cock splitting you open like it never left?”

Your orgasm crashes over you without warning. Your scream echoes, thighs shaking, cunt spasming around him so hard he chokes. He loses it.

“Shit— I’m gonna cum—fuck—I’m gonna fill you up, yeah? Gonna fucking—paint this pussy, remind you who fucked it best—”

And he does. Buries himself to the hilt, slams his cock deep one last time, and moans. Hot and broken, like he’s falling apart inside you. Cum spilling raw and endless, thick and messy as he pulses into your cunt with a strangled groan. Your head lolls against his shoulder. You’re trembling. His grip is the only thing keeping you from sliding off the shelf in a pool of sweat and cum and sin.

You breathe. Once. Twice. And then his mouth finds yours again. Slower this time. Hungrier. Wrecked. Like he’s still not done.

You’re still full of him. Still trembling from that first, frenzied, hate-fueled high. His cum is leaking out of you, warm and slick between your thighs, your legs trembling around his hips.

He hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s still inside you. His forehead is pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged, and everything’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that feels like it’s daring you to speak.

You don’t. You can’t.

Because suddenly his hands are gentle. One smoothing up your back. The other trembling against your jaw. His thumb traces the corner of your mouth like he wants to kiss you there—not to shut you up, but to taste the things you’re not saying.

Then he does. Soft. Too soft. A kiss so careful it hurts. His lips press into yours like an apology, like a confession, like he still thinks he has the right to be tender. And it shatters you.

Because that’s not what this was supposed to be. This was supposed to be violence. Payback. Carnage. But now he’s rocking into you slow. Steady.

His cock’s still hard—buried inside you like he’s home. Each thrust now is long, deep, aching. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you higher, cradling you like something breakable. Like something he wants to keep.

“God,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “I missed you.”

Your heart jerks. Don’t you fucking say it.

“Missed this pussy,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “Missed how you sound. How you breathe. Missed your fucking body—”

He chokes. Like it’s too much. Because it is. Because outside this door, his girlfriend is laughing. With Carlos. With Charles. With Max.

You see Max’s face again. His steady eyes. The quiet way he said I’ve got you without ever touching your skin. His voice still echoing in your chest when you close your eyes.

Your eyes sting. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound. Lando kisses you again. Softer now. His hips move in slow, deep rolls, cock dragging inside you like silk through an old wound.

It hurts. Not from pain. From how good it feels. How slow. How full. He thrusts like he’s still tasting your moans in his mouth. Like he’s trying to memorize what forgiveness would feel like if you gave it. Each grind of his hips presses deep into your core, filling you so completely you swear you can feel the shape of his regret curling around your womb. He noses at your jaw. Kisses your cheek. Doesn’t speak. Not yet.

You’re not moaning anymore. You’re not even crying. You’re just letting him. Letting him move inside you. Letting him pretend. His hand drags along your ribs, fingers splayed, like he’s never touched you before. Like he forgot how soft your skin was. Like it kills him to remember.

And then—quiet. He murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I don’t want to see you this season.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His hips still don’t stop. The rhythm stays the same—deep, slow, like fucking in molasses.

“I mean it,” he whispers. “If I see you in the paddock—on the track—fuck, I’m gonna fall apart.”

Your brows knit. Confusion tangles with disbelief. “You’re fucking serious?”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut. You can feel how hard he’s clenching his jaw.

“I can’t watch you,” he breathes. “Can’t see you with Max. Laughing. Acting like this—” his thrusts get harder now, more insistent “—like this— we didn’t fucking happen.”

You bite back a sob. “You fucked someone else.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just groans, deep and wrecked, and sinks in again—slow, grinding, like it’s punishment.

“I know. I fucking know. But I didn’t feel anything. Not like this.” His hand slides up your side, thumb brushing the curve of your breast. “I never stopped feeling this.”

You close your eyes. Because if you look at him, you’ll scream. He pulls out halfway, then pushes back in so deep, your breath stutters. You gasp, nails digging into his back, and he moans.

“You still feel like mine,” he whispers. “Still fucking perfect. Still so fucking warm and wet and—fuck—tight.”

He kisses you. This time it's desperate. Open-mouthed. Lingering. He fucks into you with long, dragging strokes now, slower still, like he’s trying to come without ever leaving you.

“I dream about this pussy,” he grits out. “Wake up hard. Fuck her from behind and still pretend it’s you. Every fucking time. I see your face.”

Your body twitches around him. Reflex. Your core tightens, clenches. His breath hitches.

“Do that again,” he whispers. “Please. Fuck—squeeze my cock just like that.”

You do. Unintentionally. Because your body still remembers him. Still responds. Even now. 

“Jesus,” he groans, hips faltering. “You’re gonna make me cum already.”

You shake your head, voice hoarse. “Not yet.”

He swears under his breath. His hands shift under your thighs, lifting you higher, adjusting the angle, and then—oh god—he starts again. Long, slow strokes. Every inch dragging, pulling, teasing. Your slick coats his cock like honey, and he’s fucking you with the patience of someone who knows this is the last time he gets to.

“Let me watch you,” he begs. “Let me see your face.”

You do. You look. And he looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, mouth slack, sweat-damp curls falling over his forehead as he thrusts into you like he wants to stay there forever. And then—his pace changes. Just slightly. More focused. More intentional.

“I should’ve picked you,” he says. It’s not a whisper this time. “I should’ve fought for you.”

You want to scream. Instead, your nails score down his back. “You didn’t.”

He groans. “I know.”

His forehead presses to yours again, thrusts slowing to a torturous rhythm, cock sliding deep and so warm, and his voice breaks when he says:

“I don’t know how to let you go.”

You do. You do. You just haven’t done it yet. You kiss him again. And again. And then you fuck him like it’s goodbye. Because it is. Even if you don’t say it. Even if he can’t. He’s thrusting again—slow, rhythmic, chasing the high you gave him once, twice, now desperate for a third like it might rewrite time. Your body’s caught in it, hips rolling to meet him, lips parted, moans dragging low from your throat that sound too much like regret.

He’s buried to the hilt, forehead on your shoulder, fingers digging into your ass like he’s afraid you’ll float away when he cums. And maybe you will.

“Don’t want to leave,” he breathes. “Just want to stay like this. Stay in you.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes “Of course you do.”

He groans. A low, needy sound in your neck. “You feel so good. Still perfect. Still fucking—fuck—made for me.”

“No,” you breathe, voice tight, cunt fluttering around his cock because your body hasn’t caught up to your head. “You gave that up. You gave me up.” He thrusts harder. Once. Twice. Deep enough your vision blurs.

“Let me fix it,” he pants. “I’ll end it with her. I swear to God, I’ll fucking drop everything.”

You look down at him, eyes burning. “You already did.”

His face crumples. The rhythm falters. His hips still, cock twitching deep inside you.

“You said it was a mistake,” you whisper, voice shaking. “But it wasn’t a moment. It was months. You kept her. You chose her. And you only came running when you saw me with Max.”

His head falls against your shoulder. His arms tighten.

“I was scared.”

You shake your head. “You were weak.”

He tries to kiss you. You turn your face. “I still love you,” he chokes.

You bite your lip, feel the sting of everything behind your teeth—and push your hips against his, hard.

“Then remember this,” you whisper, breath trembling, “because it’s the last time.”

That pushes him over the edge. He cums with a broken groan, face buried in your neck, cock jerking inside you, hot and thick and wrong. You feel every pulse, every desperate spasm of a man trying to hold onto something he already lost. He’s panting when he slumps against you. Soft now. Dripping down your thighs. Sticky with remorse.

You press your palm to his chest. Push. Harder. He finally pulls out, groaning as your cunt lets go of him with a wet, final pop. You slide off the shelf, dress falling back into place. You don’t wipe the mess. You don’t fix your hair. You just look at him—shirt half-off, flushed and fucked and wrecked—and feel nothing but clarity.

“I’ll see you on the track,” you say, smooth, even. “And nowhere else.”

He opens his mouth. You’re already at the door. Your hand’s on the handle when you stop. One glance over your shoulder.

“I hope she tastes it,” you say. Quiet. Deadly. “Every time you kiss her.”

Click. You walk out. And the door doesn't close behind you. It slams. The hallway’s cooler than it was ten minutes ago. Or maybe it’s just you. Skin still humming, thighs still slick, the ache still fresh between your legs. You walk like you’re made of marble. Slow, deliberate, like every part of your body was poured back into its mold and polished to a high-gloss finish. Your dress falls back into place effortlessly. Your lips are swollen, but only if someone’s looking. And no one’s looking. Not like that.

You reenter the restaurant like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just fuck your ex in a dark back room while his girlfriend sat ten feet away laughing at a story Max was probably pretending to care about.

Your heels kiss the tile. Your posture doesn’t waver. The moment you step back into the dim glow of the dining space, it’s like a veil drops. The laughter. The sparkle of glasses. The low murmur of Monaco’s elite pretending they don’t breathe the same air as the rest of the world. The weight of your entrance is lighter this time, almost lazy. As if you were just reapplying your lipstick. Not rearranging your soul.

You don’t go back to your seat. You just stop by the edge of the table, where the laughter is loudest now. Oscar’s flushed. Alexandra is howling at something Charles just whispered in her ear. Even Magui is smiling, relaxed, her hand curling around her wine glass in that curated, influencer way. She looks at you and doesn’t know. None of them do.

That’s the power. You lean forward slightly, voice soft and cool. “I think I’m gonna head out,” you say.

Alexandra pouts. “You just got here.”

You smile. “I know.”

Charles nods, easy, warm. “Send me that song you mentioned earlier.”

“Of course.”

Your eyes flick sideways. Max is already looking.  He straightens, barely. Sets down his glass with a soft clink. Adjusts the cuff of his shirt. Like he knew. Like he always knows. He pushes off from the booth, smooth and unhurried, nodding politely at Oscar, at Carlos, at someone’s girlfriend who says something about next week’s race. He doesn’t look at Lando. He doesn’t need to.

You don’t wait for him. You just turn. He follows. As if nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just made the worst, most intoxicating mistake of your season. The cool night air hits your skin like absolution. Not quite enough to erase what just happened, but enough to start dulling the edges. The breeze lifts the hem of your dress, tangles in your hair, kisses your neck like it doesn’t know Lando was just there. Like it wants to claim that space for itself.

You stop just short of the valet station, eyes scanning the street like you’re pretending to orient yourself. Like you don’t already know exactly where you parked. Max walks up behind you a beat later, slow, quiet, like he’s learned how to match your rhythm.

You glance at him. Just once. His tie’s loose now. His eyes are still flushed with champagne. The good kind. The kind you can feel in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. The kind that makes your teeth feel warm and your tongue too honest.

“I fucked up tonight,” you say.

Max’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t interrupt. He waits. You turn to him, slowly, the streetlight catching the curve of your shoulder, the shimmer still left on your lips. And then, softly you say.  “Wanna come back with me?”

He pauses. Just a blink. Then he smiles. Small. Crooked. Devastating.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.”

You don’t look at him again as you hand your ticket to the valet. You don’t need to. He’s already there, standing just a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them to himself. Like he knows. The Porsche rolls up a minute later, clean and white and sleek like nothing dirty has ever happened inside it. You get in without speaking. Max follows.

The doors shut. The engine purrs to life. And then—you drive. You drive like you’re trying to outrun the memory of his hands. Of Lando’s breath in your ear. Of the sob that nearly broke out of your throat when you came and he said I miss you. You drive like you’re chasing down silence. Like speed might bleach the shame from your skin.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches the city blur past his window, one hand braced against the center console, the other relaxed over his thigh.

The roads are mostly empty. You take the turns sharp. Not dangerous. Just fast. The wind slips into the car through the barely-cracked window, pulling your hair into your face, cooling the sweat at your temples. Your foot presses down harder. The speedometer ticks up.

You feel free. Then terrible. Not all at once. Just in pulses. Like your body can’t decide if this is survival or self-destruction. You don’t know what this looks like from the outside. The white car, the woman driving too fast, the man in the passenger seat who doesn’t flinch. The way his knuckles brush the edge of the gear shift sometimes, like he’s holding back from reaching for your knee. You don’t say a word until the city lights start thinning out behind you.

And even then—you just exhale. Quiet. Like the part of you that still wants to scream finally gave up. The roads curl as you climb. Sharp turns and silver lights and the sea flickering below like a memory you can’t quite shake. The kind of drive that would feel lonely if it weren’t for the warmth humming between the seats. Monaco thins out as you rise, the glamor traded for silence, for altitude, for real estate so expensive the trees are pruned to match the neighborhood’s collective ego.

Through it all—Max. Still. Watching you. Not in a way that demands your gaze. Not like Lando. There’s no performance in it. Just that quiet, relentless Maxness. Like he’s looking at a storm he’d rather walk into than run from. Like he knows it might break him but he’s choosing it anyway. You glance sideways. Quick. Just a flick of your eyes. But it’s enough to catch it. 

That look. The one that doesn’t belong here. Not tonight. Not after what you did. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s worse.

It’s hope. That wide, open, dangerous look like he’s seeing a version of the future where this ends differently. Where you don’t break. Where he’s the one who gets to hold what’s left of you.

Your throat closes. You want to say something. To ruin it before it becomes real. To rip it out of his hands before he gets comfortable holding it.

But you don’t. You just keep driving.  Keep pretending you don’t feel your heart curling in on itself like paper in flame. Keep pretending the thought of Lando’s whisper and falls promises doesn’t linger in the back of your head. 

[woso-story]

Better Boyfriend Than Him - Part Twenty-One

Alexia Putellas x Reader - Other Parts

The apartment feels different when you come back from the weekend with Alexia’s family. It's not bad—just quieter. You drop your bag in the hallway, shrug out of your coat, and glance over at Alexia, who gives you a tired smile as she heads toward her room.

“I'm going to rest for a bit,” she mumbles.

You nod, even though she's already disappeared.

The weekend had been wonderful. Cozy, loud, filled with laughter and teasing and long dinners that stretched late into the night. Her family welcomed you like one of their own, and there were moments—so many little ones—where you looked at her and thought: This is it. This is where I want to be.

But now, back in your shared apartment, everything feels just a little… off.

You try to sleep that night, but it’s useless.

You toss and turn under the covers, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The last two nights, you’d slept next to Alexia. Her body close to yours, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing soothing you to sleep. You hadn’t realized how much that mattered until now—until the absence of her beside you made the bed feel too big, too cold, too empty.

You think about getting up, about knocking on her door, but she has training in the morning. You don’t want to wake her, don’t want to seem needy.

But after another half hour of tossing around and sighing into your pillow, you can’t take it anymore.

You slide out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to her room. Your hand hovers in front of the door for a second, ready to knock—but you don’t. Instead, you slowly twist the knob and open the door as silently as you can.

It's dark inside. You can't really see where you're going, and you’re not even sure what you’re doing. Are you seriously just going to lie next to her? That feels weird… right?

You take one cautious step inside, then another—until you trip over something on the floor, probably her gym bag, and stumble, nearly falling flat on your face.

The noise jolts her awake.

“¿Qué pasa?” Alexia mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.

She clicks on the lamp and blinks at you, eyebrows drawing together in confusion as she sees you standing awkwardly in the middle of her room.

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say quickly, already backing toward the door. “I couldn’t sleep. Just—go back to bed, sorry.”

“Wait,” she says softly, sitting up a little straighter. “What’s wrong?”

You look at her for a moment, cheeks burning. “I just… I couldn’t sleep. I thought maybe… I could sleep in here. With you. But you have training tomorrow, and I didn’t want to be a burden or wake you up…”

A small smile pulls at her lips—sleepy and warm.

She pats the space beside her. “Come here.”

You hesitate just a second before walking over and sliding under the blanket she lifts for you. You leave a gap between you, unsure of the rules now that you’re not tangled up in a holiday weekend bubble.

Alexia gives you a look and raises an eyebrow. “Do I smell? Or why are you all the way over there?”

You laugh, relief washing over you, and scoot closer, cuddling into her side. She switches the lamp off and wraps her arm around you, pulling you even closer. Then she presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Buenas noches,” she whispers.

“Buenas noches,” you mumble into her shoulder, already feeling sleep settle over you.

And just like that, you're out. Peaceful. Safe.

You wish it could be like that more often.

But something different happens instead.

In the days that follow, you start to feel like Alexia is drifting away from you.

At first, you tell yourself it’s just the busy schedule. It’s early December, after all. Champions League, Copa de la Reina, league games, media duties—there’s so much going on. But slowly, you start to feel like it’s not just that.

She doesn’t call anymore when she’s away. When she’s home, she’s busy with other things, or she comes back late and heads straight to her room. She still talks to you, still smiles, but there’s a weight behind her eyes now, like she’s far away even when she’s right in front of you.

And you miss her.

You miss how things were—how easy it felt. How close. And now, you don’t understand what’s changed.

What you don’t know is that Alexia doesn’t see it. She’s been so in her head, thinking about you—about what you mean to her. Thinking about whether she should ask you to be her girlfriend. Whether you’d even want that. She doesn’t notice how her overthinking has turned into distance.

She talks to her sister one afternoon after training, telling her everything.

Alba just looks at her and says, “Just ask her. You already know she wants to be with you.”

One evening, Alexia comes home after a long, grueling training session. She kicks off her shoes and shrugs out of her coat, exhausted. The apartment is quiet. Then she sees you on the couch—wrapped in a blanket, staring into space.

She sits beside you.

“Todo bien?” she asks.

You glance at her and nod. “Yeah.”

But you’re not fine. You’re so deep in your head, wondering what you did wrong. Wondering if she’s regretting letting you get too close.

Alexia doesn’t push. But then she sees it—a tear sliding down your cheek, and you quickly wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Hey,” she says gently. “What’s going on?”

You hesitate, then quietly answer, “Nothing.”

She gives you a look. “I don’t believe you.”

You’re quiet for a long time. Then you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper, “Did I do something wrong?”

Alexia blinks. “What? No—what do you mean?”

You turn to her now, really looking at her. “The last two weeks, it feels like you’re pulling away. Like… like everything was so good, and now it’s not. And I don’t know what I did to make that happen.”

She looks at you, stunned. She hadn’t realized. Not really.

Her voice is soft. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She takes your hands in hers.

“I’ve just been… thinking so much. I didn’t notice that I was making you feel like something was wrong. And I’m sorry. Because nothing is wrong. At all.”

You look at her, searching her eyes. “Really?”

She nods. “Really.”

She smiles, small and sincere. “And tomorrow, I have a day off. I want it to be just us.”

---

The next day, you have breakfast together at home. For the first time in two weeks, things feel normal again. Comfortable.

You spend the day wandering around Barcelona, bundled up in coats and scarves. You visit Christmas markets, share warm food, laugh at the ridiculous decorations. Alexia asks about your Christmas plans, and you tell her you’ll be going to Zaragoza with Mapi to spend the holidays with both your families.

She tells you she’ll be with hers, and she’s looking forward to a bit of peace.

Later, you’re walking along the beach promenade. The sea is calm, the breeze cool against your cheeks. From time to time, your hands brush. She’s quiet, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

That look again. Like she’s somewhere else.

You stop and brush your fingers against hers to get her attention. “Hey,” you say softly. “Is everything okay between us?”

She blinks, surprised. “What do you mean?”

You sit on a nearby bench and look up at her. “I just… I still feel like something’s changed. And I know things are busy, but it feels like it’s more than that.”

Alexia sits beside you. Her fingers find yours again.

She hesitates, then finally speaks.

“I’ve been in my head a lot. Because… I’ve been thinking about how happy you make me. How you brighten my whole day just by being around. How, in the middle of all the chaos, you feel like the calm.”

You hold your breath.

“I didn’t mean to pull away. I was just scared. Of messing it up. Of asking too soon. But the truth is… I’ve fallen for you. And I know you already know that, but I want to say it out loud. I want you to hear it. And I want to ask you—” she smiles, eyes soft and shining— “if you’d be my girlfriend.”

You stare at her, heart pounding, tears forming again—but this time for a different reason.

All this time… all the distance… it wasn’t rejection. It was love.

You wrap your arms around her neck and pull her into a hug.

When you finally pull back, you grin and say, “Of course I want to. You idiot.”

She laughs, and you kiss her. Again. And again.

You stay on that bench for a long time, wrapped in each other, kissing, smiling, breathing it all in.

Alexia Putellas is your girlfriend now.

And somehow, that still doesn’t feel real.

But it is.

[fellominaarcher]

then you're the best part — Giselle x fem!reader

↳ Fic type: oneshot

↳ Content warning: FLOOOFYY & healthy relationship & maybe a little boring

↳ main m.list | æspa m.list

Beep.

The front door chimed softly—someone had just keyed in the passcode. A click followed, the door unlocking, then the motion sensor light flickered on as someone stepped inside.

Pink-haired and exhausted, Aeri Uchinaga toed off her sleek YSL boots at the threshold, sighing as she sat for a moment on the step just past the genkan. The weight of the day—rehearsals, meetings has finally slid off her shoulders. What time was it now? She checked briefly. 1:03 AM. Too late to be out, but too early to sleep on an anniversary night like this.

Boots off, bag down, she stood and stretched, already hearing faint sounds from the kitchen—pots clinking, water running, familiar domestic noises that belonged to her girl. Y/N was still up, naturally. She was always the night owl of the two, often awake until 3 or 4 AM, either cooking, dancing in socks, or binge-watching some horror show she’d rewatch a million times.

"I'm hooomeee," Aeri called out in a sing-song voice as she passed the kitchen, waving lazily even if she wasn’t sure Y/N saw it. She headed straight to their shared bedroom.

From the kitchen, Y/N’s voice rang out, playful and warm, “Okay-ieee, go shower, lady!”

Aeri chuckled under her breath, already feeling lighter.

Outside, a gentle midnight rain fell. Not heavy. Just that calm, rhythmic kind—the kind of rain that makes you want to curl up in bed or slow-dance barefoot in the living room.

Soft footsteps pattered against the wood flooring behind her. Then, two excited barks.

Aeri smiled without turning around. “Cooper!” she cooed, kneeling just in time for her beloved Sheepadoodle to crash into her arms, tail wagging so hard it thumped against the walls.

“Someone missed me,” she giggled, letting the dog lick her cheeks and chin as she scratched behind his ears. “You’re such a good boy, huh?”

She puckered her lips for a kissy face, and Cooper gave her a dramatic, wet lick right across the mouth. Laughing, she stood up again. “I gotta shower, bub. It’s way past your bedtime.” She tried to sound motherly to a dog.

She puckered her lips for a kissy face, and Cooper gave her a dramatic, wet lick right across the mouth. Laughing, she stood up again. “I gotta shower, bub. It’s way past your bedtime.”

She gave him one last pat before grabbing a towel from the closet, already peeling off her shirt and jeans as she stepped further into the bedroom. Bare-shouldered and flushed from the heat inside the apartment, she padded into the bathroom after removing her makeup in a quick routine. The mirror fogged up fast as she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water hit her tired muscles and wash the day away.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Y/N was focused. Her hands moved with practiced ease, slicing tofu into perfect cubes, then pushing them gently into a bubbling pot of kimchi jjigae. The soup was thick and red, made with love—aged kimchi, green onions, tofu, thinly sliced pork belly, and a dash of sesame oil for extra depth.

The rice cooker dinged in the background. Hot steam poured out as she opened it, scooping fluffy white rice into matching ceramic bowls. Everything was almost ready.

This wasn’t just a late-night craving. It was their third anniversary. Three years of being together—through comebacks, rumors, camera flashes, and stolen vacations. And though Aeri had been booked all day and couldn’t make it home until now, Y/N didn’t mind. She never did, not when it came to Aeri.

Sipping her Coke from a wine glass just for the vibe, Y/N started plating the side dishes with care.

And then enter Cooper.

The Sheepadoodle padded into the kitchen like he owned it, blinking up at her with that innocent, curious look he always wore. Y/N paused, mid-reach for a spoon, and blinked back. It was a full-on staring contest.

And just like that—like a light bulb clicking on—Y/N grinned.

A mischievous little idea formed in her mind, curling up like steam from the soup. “Come here, Cooper,” she whispered, crouching down and motioning to him like a cartoon villain who’d just hatched a plan. “Let’s do something before your mommy comes back.”

Fresh out of the shower, Aeri felt like a brand-new person. Her long pink hair was loosely gathered with a claw clip, some stray bangs falling around her face in soft, messy waves. Dressed in an oversized tee and pajama shorts, she padded barefoot to the dining area, the scent of something spicy and savory drawing her closer.

The lights were dimmed just right. It was cozy, warm and the table was already set with utensils, drinks, and a small Post-it note placed neatly on one of the chairs.

“Have a seat, Ms. Uchinaga.”

Aeri chuckled, the corner of her lips tugging up in fond amusement. “Y/N, you’re so dramatic,” she muttered to herself, but she obeyed, pulling out the chair and sitting down with a soft sigh.

Right on cue, Y/N emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray like a proud little chef at her Michelin-starred restaurant. “Welcome to Y/N’s Restaurant. Hope you enjoy your supper, ma’am,” she grinned, placing the tray on the table and beginning to arrange the plates with care: steaming kimchi jjigae, warm rice, pickled radish, and side dishes arranged with love.

“Hmm, thank you. I’d like one serving of hot food and one serving of you for supper,” Aeri replied with a wink, locking in with Y/N’s playful bit.

Y/N raised a brow and tilted her head dramatically. “Cannibalism? Ma’am, you want to eat me for supper?” she whispered in mock horror before snickering as she placed the kimchi bowl and radish pickles in front of her girlfriend.

Aeri leaned in slightly, the atmosphere suddenly shifting from play to something more tender, her voice softer. “Not when you look this cute.”

Y/N sat down across from her, resting her elbows gently on the table, her chin in her hands as she watched Aeri fondly. “Happy third anniversary, baby. I love you,” she said, her voice warm, eyes glowing with that look, the one that only ever belonged to Aeri.

Aeri’s eyes met hers. A quiet smile formed before she exhaled softly. “Thank you, Y/N. Happy third anniversary to us, cutie. I love you more.” She reached out to take Y/N’s hand, interlacing their fingers naturally, like breathing.

They stayed like that for a moment, letting the silence settle between them. Not awkward, not forced. Just full.

“…And you still owe me a slow dance,” Y/N added, lips curling into a sly smile as she raised a brow.

Aeri laughed under her breath, nodding with a hum. “I haven’t forgotten. A deal’s a deal.” She winked teasingly at Y/N.

Y/N turned her head, then gave a gentle whistle.

Within seconds, Cooper came bounding in from the hallway, except this time, the Sheepadoodle was wearing a birthday cap slightly lopsided on his head. Taped onto the hat was another bright yellow Post-it, clearly written in Y/N’s handwriting.

It read: “From your son, happy 3rd anniversary mommy.”

Aeri burst out laughing, nearly tearing up from the sight. “You didn’t—Y/N!” she squealed, covering her mouth as she watched Cooper sit proudly in front of the table, clearly oblivious to the paper hat flopping over one eye.

“Had to include the real MVP,” Y/N grinned, leaning back with pride. “He helped with the plan.”

Cooper barked, tail wagging like a metronome of joy, and Aeri gestured for him to come closer. “C’mere, baby,” she cooed, pulling out the chair next to her. With a proud little hop, the Sheepadoodle climbed up and settled beside her, sitting tall like he belonged there.

Across the table, Y/N was already laughing, full belly, full heart. “He looks like he’s about to file taxes,” she joked, pointing at the lopsided birthday hat barely hanging onto Cooper’s head. Aeri laughed harder, pulling off the yellow Post-it.

She gave it a quick glance, then let out another giggle, the kind that made her eyes crinkle and her dimples pop. Before she forgot, she pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of Cooper, committing this ridiculous moment to memory.

Dinner was filled with warm bites of kimchi jjigae, comfortable conversation, and lots of "here, try this one" across the table. The soup was just spicy enough to fight off the cold rain outside, and Y/N's cooking, while humble, was always her love language, always just what Aeri needed.

Later that night, the two of them settled into the living room, their hands brushing, laughter trailing behind them like perfume. The city was quiet beyond the windows, and the rain hadn’t let up, still drizzling gently, like the sky itself was sighing with them.

And then, another surprise.

Aeri blinked. “What…?”

The lights were dimmed, but in front of them, strung across the living room wall, was a 3-meter-long trail of Christmas tree lights, glowing gold, green, and red, throwing soft shadows across their features. The same ones they’d packed away in January, the ones that made the room feel like a home.

From the corner of the room, the Bluetooth speaker came to life—click, a small buzz—and then, soft and low, the opening chords of “Best Part” by Daniel Caesar ft. H.E.R. played.

Y/N turned to her with that signature grin, that confident little tilt of her head. “Dance with me.” She invited Aeri with a hand extended out.

Aeri didn’t even hesitate.

They met in the center of the living room, arms slipping around each other like they were molded that way. Y/N’s hands found Aeri’s waist; Aeri's arms wrapped gently around her neck. The lights cast halos across their faces, catching on lashes, lips, pink hair and sleepy eyes.

“You don’t know, babe…” the lyrics melted into the room like honey.

Y/N leaned in slightly, whispering in Aeri’s ear, “I forgot to say earlier... congratulations, baby. To you. To aespa. Billboard Women in Music? That’s insane. I’m so proud of you.” Her eyes bored into Aeri's dark eyes.

Aeri exhaled a laugh, shaking her head bashfully. “Thank you… that means a lot coming from the prettiest girl in this apartment.” She responded with a grin on her face.

“Well, Cooper’s very flattered,” Y/N teased.

Right on cue, the Sheepadoodle spun in circles around them, yipping with joy and tail wagging furiously. His little hat had finally fallen off. The couple broke into laughter, their bodies swaying with the music.

“You’re the coffee that I need in the morning…”

Aeri leaned in and pressed her lips to Y/N’s. It wasn’t showy or rushed, just a soft kiss that tasted like comfort and rain and love in its purest form. She didn’t let go. She buried her face into the crook of Y/N’s neck, breathing her in.

“I’m such a lucky girl,” Aeri whispered against her skin.

Then she bent down, scooping Cooper up in her arms, the cute dog wiggling excitedly as she brought him back to their little dance floor.

“Okay, come on, you too,” she said with a giggle. “Family dance.”

And so, under the golden glow of borrowed Christmas lights, while the rain kept singing to the windows, Aeri and Y/N slow danced in their pajamas—arms wrapped around each other, and Cooper sandwiched between them, tail wagging in time with the music.

It was perfect.

æspa m.list | main m.list

[jesuistrestriste]

death with no dignity; patrick zweig

“ amethyst and flowers on the table

is it real or a fable ?

well, i suppose, a friend is a friend

and we all know how this will end ” - sufjan stevens

cw (18+) : mentions of depressive symptoms, masturbation, and heavy yearning.

wc : 1.9 k

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

It was an accident, it truly was, in every sense of the word. 

He had been driving home from Art’s house around 11 PM and had been playing some stupid song on the radio. He’d thrashed his head and slapped his palms against the leather steering wheel to the stupid beat, carefree and unassuming. It had been so dark, and he was distracted, and then suddenly the deer was in the center of the road. Big, black, shiny eyes and pointed ears and a deep brown coat. She was beautiful. For the split moment that he had before the impact, that’s all he could think about. 

He didn’t have enough time to swerve and avoid her because he’d been speeding, and everything afterwards happened in slow-motion. The skidding squeal of his tires against the asphalt. His heart lurching in his ribcage, almost enough to make him feel sick. The harsh jolt of the car and the brutal sound of metal hitting muscle, followed by the animal being sent hurtling a few feet forward and onto her side, accompanied by the painful sting of the seatbelt digging into his chest. When the car finally came to a stop, Patrick froze. His hands stuck to the wheel, shaking, and his eyes were peeled open wide as he stared through the windshield at the lifeless creature he’d just hit with his car. He was practically panting. He didn’t quite recall ever being so scared in his entire life, not even when he’d played his first professional match. Not even when he’d nearly drowned one summer years ago when he and Art were swimming in a lake upstate. 

He’d never killed anything before. Not like that. 

The aftermath was a blur. He almost called the cops to let them know that there was a large, dead animal in the road on so-and-so street, but he didn’t. To this day, he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it was all of the adrenaline. Maybe it was all of the guilt. Regardless, he’d mumbled a soft, “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” and then slowly pulled off and around it. He never told his parents, or anyone for that matter, that he had cried so hard on the rest of the drive home that he felt lightheaded by the time he was in the driveway. 

Mommy and Daddy Zweig offered–no, begged–to get him a new car the next evening (when they got back from Greece) because his hood and bumper were horribly dented, but Patrick had refused. He’d laughed off the incident in front of them, and then waited until they went to bed to slink into their massive garage and pick all of the little tufts of fur out of the vehicle’s grille.

He’d traced his fingertips along the indentations and the scratches in the paint and blinked away the wetness clouding his vision. Tried to mentally retrace his steps that night, too. What if he hadn’t been listening to that stupid song? What if he hadn’t left his best friend’s place so late? What if he’d been quicker? Smarter? Luckier? 

Could things be different? Could he have spared a life? 

Could he have spared the victim, and himself, the pain?

Patrick’s twenty-one now, and he does a lot of retracing his steps these days.

Tennis is his priority; he’s always on the court, or in a car or a bus that’s traveling to a court of some kind. Forehands, backhands, volleying, serving, smashes–it’s all he lives and breathes. And, of course, it’s easier now to focus on tennis when he no longer has friends. 

Art and him haven't talked in many months (has it really been years?), not since Tashi’s knee had gotten injured during that match at Stanford. 

Fuck that fucking match. And fuck them. 

He didn’t need them, he was doing just fine on his own. 

If his best friend of over a decade wanted to kick him to the curb like he was nothing more than a dog that had bitten him a smidge-too-hard to be loved, then whatever. If his grotesquely-talented girlfriend wanted to break up with him because he didn’t want to be treated like a lesser athlete nor sit in her shadow, then fine. He’d enjoy his tennis career and roll freely in the expendable income he was sure to continue collecting.

But that’s not really who Patrick is. 

And so he can’t help but lie awake at night, trying to pin-point where things went wrong–what he could have done to prevent this outcome–and tracing the indentations and scratches in his relationships that surely were only indicative of his faults. Compulsively picking at the tufts nestled in the wreckage. Eyeing the bloody brutalization, punishing himself by reliving the sting.

Sometimes he drags his fingertips over some of his old, banged-up rackets that he can't bear to get rid of, and he thinks about all of it. Tennis academy days with the shy, funny blonde kid that he became close with from day one. Learning and teaching and discussing with him all of the typical adolescent lessons that gave way to life outside of the bubble. Doubles matches–so many doubles matches. So many wins. First beers, first girlfriends, first cigarettes, first kisses. They shared everything with one another and they (almost neurotically) timed their experiences to happen around the same time so that they'd be able to talk to each other about them afterwards. As they got a bit older though, Patrick began to realize that he was feeling things for Art that he probably wasn’t supposed to tell him about. And he usually told Art everything.

That was his first mistake, he thinks, like when he hadn’t heeded the speed limit that night. Or, maybe, that was like playing the stupid song on the radio and going home late. It was the start of their untimely end. 

When he’s in one of his usual depressive spirals, the kind in which he can’t seem to find his appetite and he forgets to shower and he ignores his manager’s texts, he argues with himself about what exactly could be considered the “impact”. Was it when he had cheekily served like Art during that one casual training session, ball to the neck of the racket, confirming that he had slept with Tashi and thus beginning the festering of that awful jealousy in his friend? Or was it when he praised her in front of Art before her match in the singles tournament that fateful afternoon, igniting his friend's interest? Patrick remembers the look that glossed over Art’s eyes when he first caught sight of her; he had looked at her and suddenly Patrick felt like he’d been forgotten–like he’d melted into those bleachers and disappeared. He can’t really blame him, Tashi was talented and beautiful and ambitious and confident and mature–she was everything that Art steadfastly admired in a person. She was twice the person that Patrick had been back then.

Usually though, he comes to the painful conclusion that the impact was certainly the day of the Stanford match. More specifically, it was when Art had yelled at him for the first time in the entirety of their friendship. 

“Patrick, get the fuck out!” 

Those four words ring through his head on the worst of days.

He knew he’d fucked up by not pushing aside his pride and going to support Tashi after their fight, so he could pretty easily swallow down the discomfort that came with being yelled at by her. They yelled at each other pretty often when they got into their little spats, it was relatively normal. But god.. It was so much different when it was him. Patrick's muscles had locked up; he was shaking and breathing hard like he’d just run a marathon, able to see nothing but that pair of angry, familiar eyes. The vitriol that came spurting from the blonde’s mouth was like the worst toxin he’d ever known. It paralyzed him and began to rot his insides from that very moment on. And then all of the suffocating memories came flooding back as he turned and walked out of that campus health center. 

Giggling under blankets with a flashlight, reading comics until the sun started to come up. Practicing for hours on the courts at the academy, sometimes until they both got sunburns and heatstroke. Sleeping in the same bed on summer nights at Patrick’s house–tiredly watching the way Art’s chest rose and fell with each of his breaths and trying not to look at his lips. Holding each other when Art’s parents got divorced and he cried so hard that he got a nosebleed. Bandaging each other’s blisters. Wearing each other’s clothes. Having each other's back.

He doesn’t understand what he did to truly deserve being treated like that in the end by Art.

He’d been a good decent friend, hadn’t he? 

How could Art’s infatuation with her be enough to snuff out everything that they built together? It was supposed to be the two of them for the rest of their lives. Sure, they could each get married, pursue a career, have kids, but at the end of the day it was always meant to be them, wasn't it? Fire and Ice? Did he get that part wrong?

He habitually questions how much he really meant to him.

When Patrick does muster up the strength to drag himself to the shower, he generally stays in there for at least an hour. “Waste of water” be damned. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth run over his hair and his naked body. He presses his back to the cold shower wall and rubs his eyes until he sees white flashes dancing in the darkness. It’s not uncommon for his mind to wander back to you-know-who. In fact, that’s who’s usually on his mind whenever he’s not trying harder to forget. And it’s easy for Patrick to fixate on those blurry white flashes and suddenly see yellow curls, bright blue irises, deep smile lines, flushed cheeks. Breath smelling of that peppermint gum he always chewed. The sound of his nervous laughter and joyous cheers. Patrick would know him even if all of his senses were somehow dulled or taken from him. He would know Art by the feel of his soul breathing life into his own. He would know him, surely.

And maybe it’s an act of pure filth and desperation, or one of flesh-tearing grief, but many times Patrick winds up touching himself. Slow, steady, tender–the way he assumes Art touches Tashi. The way he had always wanted to touch Art, though he never even gathered the courage to try to hold his hand. He thumbs his weeping slit and keens as he feels the sadness and arousal roiling in his gut. He chokes on little moans that sound like sobs that sound like screams. He’s starved. How is it possible to miss someone when they’re everywhere? He thinks it’s funny that he’s forgotten what Art’s speaking voice sounds like but also refuses to watch any of his latest interviews on TV. He doesn’t want to see if there’s a ring on his finger, and he certainly doesn’t want to think about all of the ways Tashi gets to keep him as her own. He was mine, he unfairly thinks as he strokes himself under the scalding water, he was mine and I loved him and you lured him in and then he was gone.

The orgasm usually comes quick, spurred on by the near-lethal dose of petulant thought. He feels his thighs tremble and then his hand starts to lose its rhythm and then he’s crying out as he comes hard over his curled fingers. Sticky, clotted, putrid evidence of his lack of control. When he finally opens his eyes again, salt spills down his ruddy skin from wet lashes. He gets dizzy from the heat and the steam, he feels like he’s choking on all of it. He brings his dirtied hand under the showerhead and watches as his mess is rinsed away, down the drain in a gurgling spiral. It takes everything in him not to collapse.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” he whispers, before he forces himself out of the bathroom and collapses in a wet heap over his bed. His skin sticks to the sheets and makes him feel like some sort of dirty, beastly thing that crawls out of swamps and swallows up all of the good it can touch. He figures that the feeling is not far off from the truth.

When Patrick was eighteen, he killed a doe. 

And that doe followed him for the rest of his life.

note : to anyone who's ever had a childhood crush on their best friend. to anyone struggling with the grief.

This was intentionally written to be a bit "all over the place"; I wanted to show how scattered Patrick's thoughts can be. Also I love, love, love Tashi, I just think Patrick maybe sometimes (early on, before they reconnected) blamed her for his and Art's split for unjust reasons.

tags : @venusaurusrexx @tashism @grimsonandclover @diyasgarden @weirdfishesthoughts @gibsongirrl @newrochellechallenger2019 @jordiemeow @artstennisracket @cha11engers @fawnnpaws ♡

[missmaymay13]

dont forget me - l.hughes

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

l.hughes x fem!oc | TEASER

summary: Years after leaving Michigan—and her—behind, Luke Hughes is living the NHL dream. But when a familiar voice comes through the radio, singing the last words she ever said to him, he’s thrown back into a world of late-night rehearsals, unspoken promises, and a love they never got to finish. Maggie Sommers was once his melody, and now she’s everywhere. All he can do is remember—and hope she hasn’t forgotten. -based on the song by maggie rogers

a/n: hi guyssss... i was so excited with how this story has been going, i decided to give you a teaser!!! expect the full version to come out in the next few days!!

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The rain hadn’t let up all morning. It dripped in steady patterns down the windshield, like the sky was mourning something too, and maybe Luke Hughes found a little comfort in that. Silence stretched between him and Jack as they weaved through downtown traffic, the early grey of a Jersey morning casting the world in a dull, wet light.

Luke leaned his forehead against the cool window, hoodie drawn up, his eyes half-lidded. The kind of tired that wasn't about sleep. The kind of tired that lived in your chest.

Jack hummed to himself from the driver’s seat, fingers drumming the steering wheel. "Devils practice at eight and you're already acting like we lost the cup," he joked lightly, glancing sideways.

Luke didn’t answer.

The radio, left low and forgotten in the background, crackled as the static faded into a soft guitar intro. A voice spilled through the speakers a second later—

"Take my money, wreck my Sundays, love me 'til your next somebody..."

Luke blinked.

"Oh but promise me that when it's time to leave... don't forget me, don't forget me."

His whole body stilled.

It was like someone had grabbed the air from the car and twisted it, squeezing the breath from his lungs. That voice. That voice. He would know it anywhere—even wrapped in reverb and studio polish, even if it had been years. There were ghosts in that voice. Every word she sang pulled at an old wound that never quite closed.

He sat up straight, the seatbelt tugging across his chest. His fingers curled into fists in his lap.

Maggie.

Jack tilted his head. "That voice sounds familiar. Doesn’t it?"

Luke didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

He nodded, barely.

Jack kept talking, something about how maybe she was local or new or something, but Luke wasn’t listening. The rain hit harder now, a heavy percussion on the roof. Maggie’s voice echoed through the small cabin of the car, and it didn’t feel like music. It felt like memory.

It had been years. Years since Michigan, years since that rainy October night when she said those exact words to him. Not in a song. Just in a whisper, voice breaking, eyes glassy, back turned toward the door she never wanted to walk out of.

Don't forget me.

He thought he had done the right thing. He thought letting her go meant protecting her from the chaos of his life, from the spotlight, the moving cities, the uncertainty. But hearing her now? She hadn’t forgotten. Not him. Not them. Not the promises they never got to keep.

And fuck, maybe he hadn’t either.

She sounded older. Fuller. Like she had lived a few more lives since then. But the pain in her voice—that ache underneath every note? That hadn’t changed.

Neither had the way it ripped him apart.

Jack turned the volume up a little, oblivious.

Luke closed his eyes.

Time folded in on itself. It wasn’t 2025. It wasn’t New Jersey. It wasn’t his NHL career and postgame interviews and life in a high-rise downtown.

It was fall in Ann Arbor. It was late nights in the music building with Maggie singing half-finished lyrics and laughing when her voice cracked. It was hands held under cafeteria tables, sweaters traded back and forth, the quiet knowledge that what they had might not last but God, it was real.

And now she was singing on the radio.

And Luke Hughes was remembering everything.

The sound faded into a commercial, and Luke stayed quiet. Jack reached for the dial.

"That was 'Don't Forget Me' by breakout artist Maggie Sommers," the DJ announced. "Word is she wrote it about someone she knew in college. Brutal, right?"

Luke swallowed hard. His chest felt like it was caving in. He didn’t need the reminder.

He had never forgotten her.

He never could.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Congratulations on 1,000 followers! Can you please do Michael Kesselring + “I'm sorry I was so grumpy last night.” can I also request that the reader is pregnant in this prompt?

Dad!Michael makes me happy <3 He's also looking so good lately...don't tell Clayton. 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 (please read the rules) Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You wake to kisses being pressed across your face; little pecks to your cheeks, your nose, your chin before Michael's hand grasps your chin and pulls you into a kiss. It's the sort of wake up that has you smiling even as your back hurts and your baby kicks you like she's trying to decide whether to be in the NFL or Rugby Union.

"Morning, baby," He mumbles against your lips, sugary sweet, as you blink your eyes open to take him in. He's gorgeous in the mornings; curls across his forehead, chain swinging towards you, chest bare and tattoos on display.

"Morning..." You sigh as he leans over you, waking up a little more, smile dropping as you remember that night before, how grumpy you'd been, how snappy. “I'm sorry I was so grumpy last night.”

Michael helps you to sit up, pillows being plumped behind your back to support you as you move. Your belly making everything 10 times harder as you get closer and closer to your due date.

The grin he gives you is a little goofy, forgiving and sweet as he pulls one of your ankles into his lap, long fingers massaging the swollen area without being asked, without being told.

"'s okay, baby...you're kind of carrying an entire human in you right now. I'd probably be grumpy too." If anything his forgiveness and understanding makes you feel guiltier, like you need to explain your behaviour because you were a real terror last night and Michael's been nothing but wonderful the entire pregnancy.

"I just... she was kicking real hard last night and I was tired and hungry but I can't have half the things I'm craving because it makes me sick..." Your favourite foods had become inedible, even the smell of some of them made you queasy. An unfortunate symptom of your pregnancy and Michael had promised to bring you all your favourite foods for your first meal after giving birth.

Your eyes shift away from him out of guilt, Michael's hand stills on your ankle, "Hey, look at me."

You flick your eyes back to him, rewarded with your ankle massage ongoing, pressing into the tightness there, "You don't have to explain, I get it. I mean, I don't get it because I'm not pregnant, but I understand. You feeling better this morning, mama?"

"A little...I'm just really tired." You feel like staying in bed all day, not moving, just curling under the covers for an entire day until you feel like maybe you have some energy again.

"I know, but you've got to get your body moving, baby, the doctor said you can't be lying down too much."

"I know..." You hate that he's right. You'd been told to stay active, that not moving would make birth ten times harder on your body, but it didn't make it any easier to keep active when you were so goddamn tired all the time.

"What if you came to the rink with me? To see the boys?" He's pulling out the big guns because Michael knows you love going to the rink, you love watching practices and most of all you love the team. The guys treat you so well that sometime Michael has to remind himself that you're married to him, that he doesn't need to worry.

"Yeah?" He considers it a victory the moment you start smiling at him even if you haven't agreed yet.

"Mmm, and after at least 5 of 'em will try to buy you lunch but I'll do it because I'm your husband and that's my job," You can already imagine the scramble to pay for your lunch, the rush to hold doors for you. Each of the guys has been overly considerate of you since your pregnancy was announced, attentive to the point of overbearing like having a hockey team of brothers, uncles and fathers.

"Yeah? Subway?"

"If that's what you want or Wendy's or Taco Bell or anything you want." Michael scoots up nearer to you at the head of the bed, hand reaching out to cup your cheek and brush a few strands of your hair behind your ear.

"Do you think Logan will wear those stupid sunglasses for me?"

"Do you want him too?"

"Yeah, he looks silly in them, makes me smile."

"Give me a sec..." He's already reaching for his phone, shooting off a text message to Cools to demand he wear those ridiculous shades to make you smile. The response is quick, one word, a simple yes because Logan Cooley has no issues having a bit of fun if it makes you smile.

Michael grins at you, thumb brushing against your jaw, "Yeah, he's gonna wear 'em for you...should I be concerned that you have my entire team wrapped around your pinkie?"

"No, cause I only want you." You try to lean over to kiss him but barely move before Michael's doing the leaning for you, to ease the strain on your neck and back. You kiss him brief and soft, barely moving away, just enough so both of you can talk.

"Yeah?"

"Mmm, love you the most." You do love the entire team, but it's different, oh it's different. They're the mad group of gremlins who make you smile but you're not in love with them like you are Michael. You'd pick him any day of the week.

"Uh, so you love them?" There's that little jealous pout that brushes your lips, a reminder that Michael ultimately loves you so much that the idea of you loving anyone else even platonically sets his hackles rising.

"Well, they do buy me food..." You tease knowing he'll bite, he always does.

"Okay, but you love me most, right?"

"No doubt about it."

"Good, cause I love you the most too,"

"Even more than Logan and Josh?"

"Oh, fucking 100% more than those two idiots."

[pukefactory]

After the latest Welcome Home update and the character development we received for Julie, I’ve felt a strong urge to write something about her—and this is the result of some frantic typing, haha! I really enjoyed working on this and have an idea to possibly turn it into a multi-chapter x-reader fanfiction, but I’ll only move forward with that if there’s enough interest. Feel free to let me know if you’d be interested. In the meantime, enjoy this little piece featuring our favorite monster.

-RUSH

❀𖤣𖥧𖡼⊱ BABY, WHY DO YOU LOOK SO SCARED? ⊰𖡼𖥧𖤣❀

❀ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Julie Joyful Who Slowly Becomes Obsessed With The Reader

❀ Character(s): Julie Joyful (Welcome Home)

❀ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

❀ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

❀ Image Credits: @Partycoffin

✿ At first, it’s cute. She’s bouncing up to your doorstep every morning with a bright grin and a new game idea. “Wake up, Silly! The flowers said your face needs fresh air! I brought dice and lemon tarts and a spoon! Now we just need a blindfold!” You play along—how could you not? But over time, her visits start earlier. Then earlier. One day, you find her waiting outside your window before the sky has turned blue, waving and tapping her paw against the glass like a metronome. “Couldn’t sleep! I thought of a game! I call it Twilight Breakfast Tag!” She doesn’t blink.

✿ She gives you gifts. Lots of them. Handmade, glitter-caked, often vaguely resembling you. A sock puppet named after you. A spaghetti drawing of your house. A flower crown woven from plants you never planted. “The garden told me your dreams last night were blue. So I made you this! It’s a BLUE-DREAM BONNET!” You smile, say thank you. But later, you notice some petals in the crown are from Frank’s private garden—and he never lets anyone pick from there. “Don’t worry,” she says, when you ask. “Frank doesn’t mind! He just doesn’t know yet!”

✿ Julie always loved making up new games. But lately, the rules have been getting strange. You’re “It” now. Forever. No one else can be “It.” Even when you stop playing. Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re crying. “Oopsie daisy! You can’t quit! You’re the STAR of the show! If you don’t play, the Neighborhood goes dark!” Her smile twitches at the corners. She’s still cheerful. Too cheerful. But her eyes don’t sparkle the same way anymore.

✿ You used to hang out with Frank. With Eddie. With Wally. Now? Every time you try, Julie just… appears. She plops between you and Frank with an exaggerated huff. “Awwwwww, Frankie! You’re not keeping my favorite neighbor to yourself, are you?” Then she throws her arms around you and laughs so loud it drowns out anything Frank tries to say. “I’m just sooooooo jealous! We never play anymore! Let’s fix that! RIGHT NOW!” Her grip doesn’t loosen, even when you pull away.

✿ You tell her you’re busy one day. That you need time alone. Julie goes quiet for the first time. Her head tilts just a bit too far. “…Alone? Without me?” A beat. Then she smiles. “Well, that’s just silly! You can’t spell ‘JULIE’ without ‘U’!” That night, when you get home, your bed’s been made. Your fridge is full of peanut butter and honey sandwiches. There’s a flower tucked in your pillowcase. You never gave her a key.

✿ The neighbors whisper now. You hear Sally mutter something about “Julie being Julie again.” Frank’s been quieter, distracted. He asks if everything’s alright. You lie. But Julie’s not blind. The next time you try to talk to someone alone, she drags you off mid-conversation. “This is OUR Special Time! We can’t let the others get in the way of our bond!” Then she smiles so wide you swear her cheeks might split. “They’re just jealous! They don’t understand the RULES of this game!”

✿ Julie starts wearing pieces of your clothing. “You left this at my house!” she says, even when you know you never visited. “Smells like YOU! So warm and comfy and YOU!” She twirls around in your shirt, giggling like it’s the punchline of the world’s best joke. Later, you notice a cup missing. Then another shirt. Then your spare toothbrush. Julie’s room starts looking eerily familiar. You ask about it, and she says, “Well of COURSE I’m building a YOU corner! Every queen needs her co-star!”

✿ One day you find your name scribbled on the pavement outside your house. Over and over. Hearts around it. Smileys. “Julie + You = Forever!” in bold sidewalk chalk looping endlessly around your front steps. It wraps around the base of your home. Up the mailbox. Even over the windows. “It’s a Surprise Sidewalk Spectacle!” Julie sings, arms flung wide. “I wanted to see your smile first thing in the morning!” But her eyes don’t match her voice. They’re desperate.

✿ She starts talking to your reflection. You catch her giggling into the mirror in your hallway. “Oh! You’re such a card! We’re so perfect together! Aren’t we? Aren’t we?” She’s holding one of your shirts, petting it like it’s alive. You freeze. Julie sees you, but doesn’t flinch. “Shhh. Don’t interrupt! You were telling me all your secret secrets!” Her expression turns serious and her tone flattens. “And you said you’d never leave me.”

✿ The last straw is when you try to go. She catches you at the edge of the Neighborhood. Breathless. Still smiling. “You can’t leave yet! The game’s not over! Don’t you remember? You’re It!” You run. You don’t get far. The trees around the place are strange. Too twisty. Too bright. The sky doesn’t move right. Julie’s voice echoes everywhere. “Come back, come back, come back! I’m sorry, just—!” Then silence. When you open your door the next morning, she’s sitting on your porch. Covered in glitter and dirt. Cradling a piece of your torn clothing, whispering to herself “I’ll give them everything they want. I don’t understand why they keep running. Am I not enough?...” You had never heard her voice drop so low. Now you know that all her blunder, all her cheer, it’s just a facade and the Julie Joyful who was sitting in front of your house, back turned, was the real deal.

[epsdoll]

Do you do imagine posts? Id like to hear what being Elvis wife would be like

Hii angel !! Thanks for your request <33 I just wanted to clarify that since you didn't give a specific era like 50s, 60s or so, I chose late 70s Elvis (my baby) but you can totally imagine whatever era you want or ask for another era. also this the first imagine i've ever wrote so y'all tell me if it's good !! xx

𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐈𝐒' 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 ?

It’s not what people think.

It’s not rhinestones and flashbulbs and screaming crowds.

It’s soft lamps at 3AM.

It’s his fingers brushing against your spine while he hums something you can’t place, lying awake beside you while the world sleeps.

Elvis doesn’t sleep at night—he never has, not really. His world comes alive under dim lighting, when the air is quiet and everything feels suspended. He’ll wake up after dark, hair messy, voice raspy, moving slow as honey while he finds you. Always looking for you first. Doesn’t matter who’s in the house. Doesn’t matter what the schedule says. His day starts when he sees you.

Some nights, you find him in the den, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with his nose in a book about chakras or ancient prophecies, incense burning low beside him. Other times, he’s pacing. Deep in thought. Rambling about something he read, or a dream he had, or how everything’s connected. He’ll talk until his voice gets hoarse, then just sit with you in silence, letting his hand fall into yours like it belongs there.

You’ve learned to follow his rhythm. Late-night peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the kitchen. Midnight drives. Curtains drawn during the day so he can sleep peacefully, your body curled against his under the heavy sheets. You’re his peace. His anchor. You didn’t ask to be, but he gave you that place without question. Like he just knew.

Some days are harder than others. You see it in his hands when they shake just a little trying to open a bottle. In the way he leans on you more than he lets anyone else see. The meds slow him down. Some of them make him tired, foggy, forgetful. But he tries—for you. He tries to take less, or take them later, or ask the doctor about changing things up. Because he sees the worry in your eyes, and it kills him. He says it doesn’t bother him, but you know it does. He doesn’t feel like himself sometimes, and that makes him feel like less of a man.

In the beginning, he was scared. Scared you’d want someone younger, stronger, someone who didn’t flinch at mirrors or dread mornings. He couldn’t touch you the way he used to touch women in his younger years. He couldn’t always feel what he used to feel. He cried once, thinking you were asleep—held your hand to his chest and whispered that he was sorry he wasn’t enough.

But you stayed. You didn’t need him to be the man the world saw. You just needed him to be yours. So now he kisses you softer, slower. He holds you longer. He asks if you’re happy and believes you when you say yes. Because happiness here looks like coffee at midnight. It looks like his head in your lap while you play with his hair. It looks like soft pajamas and gospel records and half-finished conversations at sunrise.

The boys—the Memphis Mafia—thank God for you more than once.

They don’t say it outright at first, not when it’s new and Elvis is still pretending everything’s fine. But over time, you catch it in the way Jerry’s voice softens when he says, “He’s been lookin’ better lately.” Or how Joe gives you that knowing nod when Elvis eats a real meal or skips a pill because you asked him to. Red jokes that he used to have to drag Elvis outta bed, but now? He gets up for you.

They see the way he tries. The way he holds himself a little straighter when you walk into the room. The way he reaches for water instead of another handful of pills. He still struggles, of course. Still has those days where the weight of everything gets too heavy. But they’ve seen what he was before you—how he let himself slip deeper into the dark. And they see now: he wants to stay in the light, if only to be the man you deserve.

Some nights are soft and sacred. You don’t need fireworks or grand gestures. Just him. Just the two of you. Sometimes, the world feels far away—shut out by blackout curtains and whispered “I love you”s under breath. You’ll make love slow and quiet, like you’re trying not to wake the house. Like time’s frozen around you. And afterward, he’ll tuck you against his chest, bury his face in your hair, and sleep through the whole day with your body wrapped in his arms. It's not just passion—it's safety. It's home.

Other nights, he’s all wide-eyed and playful, coming into the room with a sly grin and that little bounce in his step that only means one thing: he’s got a plan.

“C’mon, baby. Get dressed. We’re goin’ out.”

Out means he's rented out an entire movie theater in the middle of the night just so you and the boys can watch some old western or kung fu flick. Popcorn for everybody. Blankets just for you. He watches you more than the movie—smiles every time you laugh, kisses your temple during the boring parts. For him, your joy is the main event.

And then there are the quiet, thoughtful things he does that no one else sees.

Like the time he went into a little church while he was away—just wandered in after a long day. He found a rosary in the gift shop, held it in his hand for the longest time. Later that night, he gave it to you, eyes low like he wasn’t sure if it was silly or not.

“I figured… when I ain’t here, you could hold it while you pray. Think ‘bout me. That way I’m always with you, baby.”

You cried, soft and quiet, and he held you like the world could end right there and he’d still be content, as long as you were in his arms.

Being his wife means learning how to love a man who's seen too much and felt too deeply. It means patience when he's quiet, comfort when he's overwhelmed, and laughter when he forgets how to smile.

But in return?

You get a kind of love that’s rare. The kind that fights for you, even when he's tired. The kind that shows up at 2AM with a peanut butter sandwich and a kiss. The kind that holds your hand during gospel songs and stares at you like you’re something holy.

He’s not perfect. But he loves you like it’s the only thing he’s ever done right.

And maybe, in a way, it is.

Being Elvis’ wife means living in a world that turns upside down—where night is day, and love is whispered in the quiet hours.

It means seeing the man behind the myth: soft-hearted, haunted, trying his best. It’s devotion wrapped in silk sheets, gospel records at dawn, and a hand reaching for yours even in sleep.

It’s not always easy. But it’s real. Raw. Sacred.

And in the end, it’s this:

Loving him in the dark, and being the light he always comes home to.

[wonyyyyluvs]

The weight of words

part 11

-enhypen

● how they try to apoligize

pairing: enhypen x gn!reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, emotional vulnerability, soft reconciliation

warnings: mentions of crying, emotional arguments, hurt feelings, not proofread, lowercase intended, heavy themes of regret and emotional tension, all ends softly but with realistic emotional weight

a/n:

this is part two to the angst fic where the reader has a big fight with each member. this time, it’s about how they try to make things right. each apology is quiet, a little messy, and very human. it’s not instant forgiveness, but it’s a step. hope it feels like a soft exhale. thank you for all the love on part one!! I suggest you read part one before this one.

heeseung:

he hears the door click open—quiet, hesitant. you step in, still wearing the hoodie from earlier, head down, and his heart sinks. the puffiness around your eyes says everything he’s been trying not to think about. you don’t say a word. just toe off your shoes slowly and walk past him. heeseung doesn’t stop you. doesn’t know how. he’s not angry anymore. he’s just… tired. hurt. scared of how far you had to go just to escape him. he watches you disappear into the bedroom and stares at the floor, jaw clenched. he’s never hated silence more.

you’re in the kitchen, barely looking up as you make tea, and heeseung lingers at the doorway. he’s been trying to find the words for hours, but they all feel too small. finally, he steps behind you—arms slow, unsure—wrapping you into a loose hug from behind. you pause. “i didn’t mean it,” he whispers, voice rough. “i didn’t mean any of it.” your hands still tremble around the cup. he doesn’t ask for forgiveness, not yet. he just stays there, hoping you’ll let him hold on a little longer.

jay:

the key turns slowly in the door and jay immediately sits up straighter. the anger in him burned out hours ago—now replaced by guilt and something hollow. you walk in like a ghost. like your soul was somewhere else for hours and your body is just catching up. you don’t even glance at him. you go straight to the sink, grab a glass, and stand there in silence. he watches the way your hands shake slightly. the way your eyes are still a little red. he opens his mouth to say something. anything. but the words die in his throat. he’s too late.

he finds you sitting on the couch, knees tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. his voice is soft when he speaks. “i was wrong.” you don’t look at him. not right away. but he kneels beside the couch, gently placing his hand near yours—not touching. not pushing. just waiting. “i didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he adds. “i just… got overwhelmed. but that’s not your fault.” your eyes flick toward him, just briefly, and for now, that’s enough.

jake:

he fell asleep waiting for you. only for a second. but when he blinks awake, you’re there again—standing by the door, staring down at your phone like it’ll give you answers. your eyes are swollen. jake knows what crying looks like. you finally move, walking into the kitchen without meeting his eyes. he doesn’t call your name. doesn’t say he’s sorry. he’s scared his voice might make it worse. so he watches you disappear behind the fridge door and pretends like his heart isn’t shattering in his chest. he’s never wanted to hold you more—but right now, he’s the reason he can’t.

you’re folding laundry in the bedroom, avoiding his gaze. jake walks in slowly, watching your movements, quiet and small. he doesn’t say anything at first—just reaches for a shirt in the basket and starts folding with you. a quiet peace settles in the air, awkward but tender. “i hate that i made you cry,” he mumbles eventually, not looking up. “i was frustrated, but i should’ve protected you. not hurt you.” you glance over at him, and his hands are still shaking a little. he meets your eyes and smiles—just a little. hoping you’ll let him try again.

sunghoon:

the door opens and he doesn’t even turn. he just listens. to your steps. your bag hitting the floor. the way you pause like you’re waiting for him to speak. he doesn’t. he’s not angry anymore—but he still doesn’t know how to fix what he broke. when he finally glances over, his breath catches. your face is pale. your eyes tired. your mouth pressed into that thin, trembling line you always do when you’re trying not to cry again. and he knows. he knows you cried. out there. alone. because of him. and the weight of that feels heavier than anything he’s ever carried.

you’re brushing your hair at the mirror when he walks in. he doesn’t say a word—just walks up behind you slowly and rests his forehead gently against your shoulder. “i missed you today,” he says, almost like a confession. your hand stills, your reflection blurry through your tears. he doesn’t ask you to turn around. he doesn’t expect you to forgive him yet. he just stays there, holding the silence with you, hoping it starts to feel like warmth again.

sunoo:

he’s on the couch, lights dimmed, phone untouched. hasn’t moved since you left. and when you walk in—quiet, slow, hurting—he freezes. you don’t even say hi. just walk straight to the bathroom and close the door behind you. the faint sound of water running echoes through the walls. but all he hears is how quiet your footsteps were. how your eyes didn’t shine the way they usually do. he hates himself for it. hates how easily he said something so awful. and now all he can do is sit there, staring at the locked door like it might undo everything.

sunoo is sitting on the floor by your door when you come out of the bedroom. he looks up fast—hopeful, then guilty. “hi,” he says quietly, like he doesn’t deserve anything louder. you blink at him, tired. guarded. he holds up a small bowl of cut fruit, carefully arranged like always. “i don’t know what to say,” he admits. “but… i thought maybe this was a start?” you take the bowl wordlessly, fingers brushing his for half a second. it’s not forgiveness. not yet. but it’s not rejection, either.

jungwon:

you left for three hours. he counted. and when you come back, the apartment doesn’t feel warmer. if anything, it feels colder. you don’t say anything, and neither does he. you avoid his eyes, go straight to the bedroom, and shut the door gently—too gently. like even closing something too loud might make the hurt worse. jungwon swallows hard, staring at the hallway. the fight plays on repeat in his head. the look on your face when he crossed the line. he never used to be the person that hurt you. now, he’s not sure who he is anymore.

you’re folding blankets on the couch when you feel arms wrap around your waist—tight, desperate. jungwon buries his face into your back. “i’m sorry,” he says, barely above a breath. “i didn’t mean it. i was scared, and i took it out on you.” you freeze. he holds you tighter. “please don’t leave again without telling me. i didn’t know what to do.” your hands slowly relax around the blanket. you don’t say anything, but you don’t pull away. and that, to him, is enough to hope again.

ni-ki:

he hears the door and his head snaps up. but you’re not the same girl who stormed out. you’re slower. quieter. your eyes don’t meet his, and your shoulders look heavy—like you’re carrying too much. ni-ki opens his mouth, but then closes it again. what’s he supposed to say? sorry? please don’t hate me? you walk past him, clutching your phone like a lifeline, and disappear into your room. the door doesn’t slam. it just… closes. softly. and that’s what breaks him. the quiet. the distance. the proof that you’re still here—but something between you isn’t.

he’s sitting beside you in the hallway, backs pressed against the wall. you’re both quiet, knees drawn up. then, softly, he places something between you. your favorite snack. “i don’t know how to talk about feelings like you do,” he murmurs. “but i know i made you feel alone. and i hate that.” your hand reaches for the snack, brushing his. your fingers linger. it’s wordless, the way you let the silence settle between you without walking away again. he closes his eyes. maybe tomorrow, you’ll talk. for now, this is enough.

tags: @imzhouxinyu @xo4everr

[holyblonded]

https://www.tumblr.com/holyblonded/780743442343018496/honorary-lioness-always-sunny-in-australia?source=share

Can I request more Sarina and chickie hc please. Chickie being in the lionesses camp for one day and she is already a favourite of Sarina 😇

— chickie’s barely been in camp for 12 hours and sarina is already looking at her like she’s the future of england football and also a baby duckling who wandered into the wrong pond

— she shows up with a nervous little smile, sleeves too long, bag dragging behind her, and sarina immediately softens like “aw no. we must protect this one”

— chickie’s manners are top tier. she says “thank you, miss” and “yes ma’am” with the sincerity of a child raised by a drill sergeant and a golden retriever. sarina melts

— she’s polite, sweet, listens carefully in the first meeting (she wasn’t even supposed to be there), and writes everything down. in pink gel pen. with doodles. sarina finds the doodles later and keeps the page

— when chickie joins rehab group halfway through the day, she’s carrying someone else’s water bottle and chatting about sam’s cooking like she’s known these women for years

— sarina catches her helping tidy the cones without being asked. then apologizing to the staff because “i put the bands in the wrong bin.” sarina physically restrains herself from adopting her on the spot

— after lunch, chickie passes by sarina in the hallway and shyly says “thanks for having me, it’s been really cool” and sarina’s like “you’re staying.”

— not officially. but spiritually? this is now chickie’s home

— the senior players are side-eyeing each other like “has she already become the favorite?”

— sarina deadass whispers to leah, “how did you let the aussies keep her?”

— leah squints and is like, “she is australian.”

— sarina shakes her head stubbornly, “not anymore.”

— she checks in with chickie in the morning and chickie, tired, hair messy, hoodie too big, blinks and says “you’re really nice for a head coach.”

— sarina closes the door and leans against the wall for a moment like: this is englands joy now

— texts sermanni a photo of chickie during training captioned “you raised a good one”

— “i know. don’t get attached.”

— “ too late.”

— the next morning sarina’s already asking if they can get her back for future camps “just to observe”

— chickie’s too busy helping carry bibs to notice she’s being scouted for a long con recruitment plan

— and when sarina offers her a cadbury koala at lunch, chickie gasps and says “how did you know those are my favourite?”

— sarina just smiles like “i do my homework.”

[fleurhoons]

🥥 热爱 𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗔 ∘ ∘

催眠 ──── nerd!bf sunghoon head cannons

𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑢 ୨ৎ nerd!bf sunghoon && cheerleader!fem reader skinship kissing ◜ᯅ◝ fluff 54O

nerd!bf sunghoon who has memorized your schedule and knows your daily routine more than you do. “You have cheer practice today right? Make sure you don’t forget your knee brace this time.” He says it like it’s nothing, but he’s been tracking your calendar all week.

nerd!bf sunghoon who watches whatever shows you’re into—even if he doesn’t get them. He’ll sit beside you on the couch, one arm around your shoulders. He would lower the volume when there are loud scenes, and pauses it if you look away.

nerd!bf sunghoon who doesn’t take many pictures himself, but his phone gallery is full of you. Most of them are ones you didn’t know he took—candid ones of you laughing, frowning at your phone, or you sleeping with his hoodie on. He doesn’t show them off, just scrolls through them when he misses you.

nerd!bf sunghoon who lets you mess with him constantly. Takes your teasing in silence, lets you poke at his serious expressions or mess up his notes to get a reaction out of him. He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of him—just gives you the blank stare he does when he’s trying not to smile.

nerd!bf sunghoon who leaves notes on your notebook when your not looking. Nothing over-the-top—just things like “good luck today” or a little drawing of you on the corner of your notebook. He never mentions it unless you bring it up first.

nerd!bf sunghoon who keeps extra hair ties, band-aids, and snacks in his backpack just for you. You never ask him to. He just noticed you always forget or run out of those, and started preparing quickly.

nerd!bf sunghoon who remembers things you say in the passing. You could mention a song that you liked once, and two weeks later he would add it to his playlist. “Didn’t you say you liked this?” He’d ask casually, like it didn’t take effort to remember.

nerd!bf sunghoon who stays on call with you late at night, even if you’re both silent and you’re doing separate things. Sometimes you’ll say, “you can hang up if you’re tired,” and he responds with “I know.” But he never does.

nerd!bf sunghoon who tutors you every week without fail, even if it means reworking his entire schedule. He says “it’s just to help you pass.” But he’ll write your notes, make color-coded flashcards, and looks up different methods of studying just to get the job done.

nerd!bf sunghoon who helps you solve problems instead of just sympathizing. If you say you’re “behind on everything,” and he’s already like, “okay, let’s figure out where to start. What’s due first?”

nerd!bf sunghoon who when you fall asleep during study nights, he’ll fix your posture so you don’t wake up with neck pain. He’d cover you with his hoodie, working with one hand because the other is holding yours under the desk.

[tanobatcher]

see you later

hunter x gn reader

summary: you’ve been lucky to befriend a certain group of refugee clones on pabu, with a special interest in the one they consider their leader. saying goodbye becomes difficult when you realize you don't want him to leave despite the circumstances.

warnings: nothing explicit but i might have snuck in a kiss 💋

a/n: i just finished my tbb rewatch and this idea came to me during s3 ep11 when they decided to leave pabu but obv this would take place before the empire came and fucked everything up!! bc imagine how cute it would've been if he met someone there omg :(

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚

Rumor has it that your new friends won’t be around for much longer. Small whispers of people’s business always travel fast across this island regardless of whether or not the gossip is intentional. Sometimes, you overhear conversations that have nothing to do with you or your immediate circle. Other times, you discover that decisions relevant to the pit in your stomach have already been made without so much as a word in your direction.

Of course, they don’t have to tell you anything. From what you’ve learned about them, they come from wildly different lives than you. Something as trivial as your slight disappointment wouldn’t stop them in their tracks as a point to consider. But you know you’ll miss them when they’re gone. You wonder how long this farewell will last.

“Do you have a minute?” Someone asks you from behind, breaking you away from the conversation with the rest of the docks. It’s Hunter, for there’s no one else on this island who raises goosebumps across your arms at the sound of his voice like he does. You stay behind and let everyone clear out in slow waves until all that’s left is the two of you by the shore as the sun sets on the distant horizon. Finally, when the world feels quiet again, you turn around and look at him with a somber frown itching at your lips.

“Is something wrong?” You ask, already knowing the answer to your question.

He shakes his head, setting his jaw with a determined clench. “No. I’m sure you’ve heard, but I wanted to tell you that we’re leaving Pabu. Soon.”

You nod, trying to treat this like an inevitability and nothing more. “How soon?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, “Better to be quick about this…before it’s too late.”

You hesitate before stepping closer and taking his hand with a comforting squeeze. “You’re not a hazard to this place, you know. We’ve never had any reason to fear our safety here.”

“We can’t risk changing that,” he responds firmly.

The tired lines on his face begin to crease when he looks down at your joined hands, which feels retaliatory to your instincts. Your face warms as you pull away, unsure if this just crossed a line. It’s difficult to remember that you barely know him when the time you spent together thus far has felt so normal. That’s what being at home is like, though. And time is relative, especially when he’s brought more light into your life than anyone ever before. But right when you start to believe you can reach a deeper part of his heart, he decides it’s time to go. Perhaps he’s just too good to be true.

“I understand,” you hear yourself saying.

“Thought you would.”

You hug your arms across your shoulders as a slight breeze begins to pick up with the approaching nightfall. He watches you closely until you ask, “How’s Omega with all of this?”

His eyes soften at her mention, distracted from his constantly circling thoughts about her. “She was a little upset, but she’ll be fine. The kid’s tough.”

“Besides,” he meets your gaze, “This is necessary…for everyone.”

You nearly squirm under the pressure of his stare, still not completely used to his natural intensity. He’s a soldier, so different from your average self. Despite knowing what it feels like to lose your place in this galaxy and run away to the extent of your exhaustion, you can’t compare the degree of the events that brought you both here. Which is exactly why you need to feel okay with this. For them.

“Yeah,” you offer a shy smile, “And you’ll be back when things settle down again. Right?”

“I’m not sure if it’ll be like last time. We’ll have to see.”

“Right. Of course.”

Observing the lingering hope in your eyes despite your attempted acceptance of this uncertain situation, he sighs and shakes his head. “Don’t wait around for me. You’re better off forgetting we were ever here.”

His words hit exactly where it hurts, calling you out on the feelings you thought you were hiding so well. He’s smarter than that, though, quiet and calculating in every move that crosses his attention. But your pride can’t let you down just yet.

You fold your arms over your chest. “Who said anything about waiting?”

He smiles slightly, amused by how riled up you suddenly are. “Just thought I’d mention it.”

“Noted.”

That feels like the end of this conversation, but neither of you moves to leave. He doesn’t mean to push you away like this. He doesn’t want to, actually. You don’t realize that you—like the rest of this island—have been so good to all of them, almost enough for them to believe they have a chance at keeping the disillusioned normalcy they’re now leaving behind. Hunter never meant to lose focus, and he hasn’t completely. Grief and responsibility keep him grounded enough. But looking at you when you’re right in front of him, so open and pliable to his presence, feeds a tugging desire he’s not in a position to fulfill.

He opens his mouth to reply, startling into silence when you abruptly throw your arms around his neck and inhale deeply. His hands instinctively raise from his sides, hovering around your figure with surprise and hesitation. You assume he’s not going to reciprocate until you feel the weight of his palms flattening around your torso and the squeeze of his fingers that soothe your racing heart. The impending reality of his absence suddenly overwhelms you, extending beyond the fact that you’ll miss his company. You’re afraid of anything happening to him out there, not even knowing where he’ll be. He tells you not to wait for him, but maybe that’s all you can really do.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d really miss me,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flutters as his words melt into your skin, so close and exclusive to your ear. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tell him, “I might be too busy for that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm. Wrecker’s not gonna be here anymore, which means more work for us. I’ll definitely miss him.”

“Right…”

You laugh at the skepticism in his tone and step back, nearly slipping out of his arms. But his hands don’t fully leave your body, keeping your fronts together as you search his expression for some truth. It’s not as obvious to the naked eye, but he liked it here. Not just for Omega, his brothers, or his entire family’s peace. For himself, too, even if that isn’t anywhere near his highest priority. Maybe he’s been catching his breath, only to feel winded by the coming change all over again. Maybe he’s been dreaming forward, just for his nightmares to follow his trail.

The humorous buzz drains from your spirit as you consider these thoughts, looking at him while trying to find the perfect consolation. But he doesn’t seem to need any of that. You’re not really sure what he does need, so you simply cup his face with careful and caressing hands that smooth over his scars. His eyebrows briefly furrow at the unfamiliarity of your gentle touch, but he doesn’t reject it.

“I wouldn’t want to think this is the last time I’ll ever see you,” you say quietly, “So…just make sure you come back.”

“I shouldn’t promise that,” he replies before clarifying, “For my sake, at least.”

“You don’t have to.”

Suddenly, you realize that your faces are much closer than they were just a few moments ago. It’s like you’ve caught each other in your orbits, gravitating towards a decision you won’t ever come back from. You don’t want to, though. Testing the waters, you lean forward until his mouth is just hovering over yours. His eyes widen in response to the kiss you softly press to his parted lips, and his subtle surprise remains when you pull back just enough to see him again. He regains his composure quickly, though, almost smug in his returning smile.

“What was that for?” He rasps, sliding his hand up your back.

You’re breathing the same air now, noses touching and foreheads resting against each other. Swiping a teasing finger across his cheek, you reply, “For good luck.”

He makes a “hm” sound under his breath before dipping his head to kiss you on his terms. It’s clear he’s in control as he tilts his head at a sharper angle, and all you can do is just follow his lead and hold onto him for stability. His shoulders are hard in your hands, but his lips are soft against yours each time he coaxes a quiet gasp from the many noises you imagine you can make for him. The kiss eventually pauses, and you run your hands across his upper back while drowning in these last moments with him.

“Now I really can't say goodbye,” you confess, avoiding his gaze.

His fingers find your jaw, pushing slightly so you’re looking at him again.

“See you later, then.”

Your eyes round from the unexpectedness of this response, as it feels a lot more playful than his usual demeanor. But when he smiles reassuringly, you can only smile back and wrap your arms around him in another embrace. Resting your chin against the crook of his neck, you look out into the ocean behind him and linger with the setting sun. There’s only a little bit of orange left in the darkening sky, but the morning will return tomorrow. The day after that, too, and you’ll see him eventually as if the time hardly passed. The minutes, hours, or complete rotations won’t matter. Because you’ll be right here, thinking of him until this constantly moving galaxy decides to let you catch up.

[gallard0-5]

“Finally understanding..”

part 5 of the in-ho one shot series

Summary- We’re you this naive?.. He was always known as Mr.Hwang, now in the backseat of his car he was In-ho.

Pairing In-ho x young fem character

warning ⚠️ age gap. reader is 18 and In-ho is 40.

Mrs Hwang had a few friends over at her home including your mother..and you.

“I just know that you and your husband high five each other after seeing your daughter, she was absolutely beautiful at her debutante” They all laughed, then continued to look at the pictures from the big event

“And who’s this?” They asked asked looking at the picture of you and Dae-ho

“Aw well that’s actually her boyfriend” your mom playfully shushed at her friends at there excitement

“So when will this poor boys funeral be hm? Stealing daddy’ little girl” One of her friends teased

“You think i’m crazy? as far as he knows he’s just a friend that happened to be her date for the evening. But I don’t know how long we can keep it on the low..

I swear he’s absolutely head over heels for her” They all gushed at how sweet that was

“Have you met him?” Mrs Hwang asked

“Yes actually, his name is Dae ho, Kang Dae-ho. I met him only briefly when I had to practically sneak y/n back inside the house. I caught them outside together after a date. They looked like deer in headlights, but he was such a gentlemen and saying that he didn’t want to keep her out too late.”

Her friends went on gushing how sweet that was

“Yea, the cute love stories that y/n tells me about him. How he’s practically prince charming” her mother said making her friends laugh

“And what does he do?” Mrs Hwang asked

Your mom cleared her throat before speaking again

“Well he’s actually a builder” She said casually hoping her friends wouldn’t judge too much

“A hard hat? really?”

“So much for a prince”

Your mother rolled her eyes at her friends mean comments

“Y/n could have actually been with a prince and yet you have her with someone who only builds the castle?”

Miss Hwang saw your mothers look of shame while the other women practically were scowling at her for letting you be with such a man

“Money isn’t everything. If she’s letting her only daughter see this man, then he has got to be a prince charming” Mrs Hwang playfully winked at your mother trying to make her feel better, not letting her friends get the best of her

“Have you thought of marriage between the two?” her friends gasped at Miss Hwangs blunt question

“She’s much too young, she’s just even starting university”

“On the contrary, you were about the same age when you married were you not?”

Mrs Hwang remembered that time.. being in the same predicament you would be in too if your mother soon will realize in-ho’s desire..

You came to the table refilling their tea.

“Oh y/n your necklace for your debutante was so beautiful”

“Would you believe that Mr hwang gifted it to her himself, I tell you he sometimes spoils her more than her own father does” your mother said while she playfully pinched your face

Mrs Hwang just looked at the picture of you in the newspaper in your beautiful dress, upset that she would always know the backstory of that piece of jewelry..

“Is he working today?” your mother asked

You told them that he indeed was working.. all day actually. Pleased that she was able to keep him away from you this time..

But the familiar sound of his car in the driveway was heard.. making her realize that she spoke too soon.

Miss Hwang didn’t even bother looking up towards her husband.. being so sick and tired of this show that she had to put on for her friends

“So glad to see again, would you like me to prepare something for you?”

Mrs Hwang was about to interject telling you that he’s fine but of course In-ho was one step ahead of you..

He happily accepted and watched him follow you to the kitchen, he looked back towards Mrs Hwang as if he knew she was watching him. She gently scoffed shaking her head as she listened to In-ho gushing over how delicious the food that she made looked.

“Y/n dear, why don’t you bring that plate of pastries over here?” Miss Hwang called out

You brought over the tray of treats with In-ho of course right behind you.. Miss Hwang’s eyes widened when he casually put his hand on your lower back when you bent down with the tray

“I’m so sorry but I forgot that I had to meet someone soon”

Mrs Hwang smiled at the perfect opportunity for you to leave..

“Oh dear, that’s perfectly fine. Our driver will take you”

You happily thanked her and said your goodbyes then making your way to the waiting car.

The driver politely opened the car door open, shyly thanking him while you went inside. You got scared when your passenger seat on the other side opened

“Sorry, but I just got called for work” Mr Hwang said sliding into his seat then telling the driver to start going

He doesn’t say anything for minute, just looking forward

“Are you going to see that boyfriend of yours?” he asked still looking ahead

You look down smiling nodding your head blushing now thinking of your Dae-ho..

“You can’t be serious” he says with a deep sigh

“I’m sorry?..” Mr Hwang then looks at you with a serious expression

“Do you know what I do for work?” you furrowed your brows while gently shaking your head in confusion at the random question.

You yelped when he quickly and puts his arm over you roughly pulling you to him.

“Mr Hwa-!”

“I was thinking of you today” he tightened his hold on you when you tried to get away from him

“One of my workers today had told me my mind was wandering.. I could see his mouth open and close, but I couldn’t hear a word.”

You just kept trying to get out of his hard hold while he spoke. He then brought his face closer to yours

“I could smell you. It was distracting” he placed his hand on one of your breast making you almost cry while you tried to grab his hand away

“Two men. We arrested two men at the train station today.. one of them we stabbed and killed him.. the other had his head sliced open.” he turned facing you, putting his hand on your leg sliding up your skirt

“P-please don’t h-hurt me” you closed your eyes now crying not knowing what to do

“Half his brains were gone!” he whispered harshly while keeping his tight his hold on you

“Now thinking of that piece of vermin you call your boyfriend or you with any other man..I can’t even think straight!”

You kept your eyes closed hoping this nightmare would end.

“Your young new curves.. the pheromones streaming off your body”

You gasped loudly when he grabbed your face making you look at him

“How many times have you let that shit use you?”

You had you’re mouth open but it was hard to speak

“Answer me!” You flinched at his raised voice

“I don’t know what you mean!”

he slowly smiled then loosened

his grip on your face.

“Your father has worked hard on protecting your sweet femininity” saying softly while caressing your face.

“If it was up to me I would’ve never let you even step foot out the house. Making you realize that i’m the only one you need”

You stayed silent, thinking that this couldn’t be happening

“Now do you understand my sweet girl?” he said nicely while

he ran his hand through your hair

You slowly just shook your head afraid of saying anything.

“I adore you..can’t you see that you’re meant for me?”

You gasped when he leaned over to reach your side of the car opening the door for you. You looked out and didn’t even realize you were at your house.

[cloudcountry]

i think i may have created way to much pressure on myself when i tell people to send stuff that theyve tagged me in that i've missed. like yes i'd love to be able to read everything you guys send me but im gone most of the day now and its just not possible anymore. it kinda makes me sad because ive probably missed out on so much because of the sheer amount of things in my mentions.

[tsnbrainrot]

.

[floral-hex]

woke up at 4am feeling the weight of my life crushing me, so I’ve been sitting out in my car for the last couple of hours because I just need. to. be. somewhere else.