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100vern · 12 days ago

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in the zone | ksy

what do you do when it feels like your entire life is falling apart? you spend the last of your inheritance on a beach house for the summer, of course. sure, the listing was suspiciously cheap, and there’s a massive waterpark right outside the bedroom window, but you just need to get away, so it’ll have to do. besides, it’s not like your entire world can get turned upside down in three months… right?

⟡ pairing: hoshi x f. reader ⟡ genre: strangers to lovers, (accidental) roommates; smut, fluff, lite angst ⟡ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ⟡ warnings: bestie minghao. lots of talk about wasted potential, dead-end jobs, fear of change, job-based insecurity, self-doubt (no this is NOT a self-insert why do you ask!!). mentions of grief and mourning a loved one but nothing super heavy. alcohol and weed use. swearing. mentions of food/eating. pet names (baby, pretty girl). two down bad losers who are disgustingly into one another after a concerningly short amount of time, which is the beauty and entire point of fanfiction. please suspend any and all disbelief, thank u! ⟡ smut warnings: kissing. grinding/dry humping. public indecency but not public sex. hair pulling. dirty talk & praise. oral sex (f. receiving, mentions of m. receiving). protected vaginal sex. everyone orgasms. ⟡ wordcount: 20.2k ⟡ credits: bee (@imnotshua) and jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over for me, as always. i was in a time crunch and we're under a tornado watch so this is unedited and any mistakes are my own. if there's anything glaring i will fix it at a later date. :') ⟡ written for: the carat bay collab, hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me participate. please make sure to check out the rest of the fics! ♡ ⟡ author's note: this is based entirely on the beach town i spent all my summers at as a kid, so there's a lot of nostalgia here. i wasn't sure i was gonna get this done on time, but with the power of god and anime vyvanse on my side, we managed to pull through... even if we had to pivot bc my original plan would've tripled the length. i hope you enjoy it!

Fate is not something you believe in, but if you did, you think it’d feel a lot like this.

“It’s not fate,” Minghao comments unhelpfully from his side of the lunch table, “it’s suspicious. It’s also highly concerning that they look the same to you.”

You frown. Spear a piece of near-wilted spinach on the end of your fork, sending a bead of salad dressing onto your phone that you don’t notice and consequently smear all over your screen when you scroll through the rental listing with your other hand. “Do the horrors ever cease?” Minghao stares blankly at you. You sigh at his lack of humor. “Are you saying you don’t think I should go?”

“No,” he’s quick to say, handing over a napkin. “On the contrary, I think you need to get the fuck out of here. All I’m saying is I think you should go to a place that isn’t such an obvious scam.”

A scoff escapes you as you stare down at the listing again. Super Host Soonyoung stares back at you for the hundredth time today. If it were possible to judge someone’s character from a blurry internet picture the size of an ant, you think he’d seem very kind with his beaming smile and doughy cheeks, not to mention the stylish sunglasses sitting atop his head that seem like they were purchased from an actual store and not a military-grade infomercial.

Besides, he’s opening up his home to strangers. Shitty people don’t do that, do they?

“They do if they’re landlords,” Minghao deadpans.

You concede the point. Not that you’d argue, anyway—renting out your beach house for the entirety of the summer is near-textbook landlording—but the lunch room is starting to fill up, and the last thing you need (or want) is your coworkers asking questions.

Aside from Minghao, these people are not your friends. They’re people you offer that weird closed-mouth smile to when you meet at the coffee machine and awkwardly have to wait your turn, sharing fake laughs when one of you complains that, no matter what option you pick, it always comes out tasting like an ashtray. They’re people you sign birthday cards for and have no idea how old they’re turning. They’re people who tell you all about their families and show you pictures of spouses and kids you swore belonged to someone else.

They’re people whose names you can’t match to faces when you get office-wide emails congratulating them on anniversaries and accomplishments; celebrating retirements; regretfully announcing departures for bigger and better things. They’re people you swear at under your breath for microwaving something foul or not pulling their weight; for wearing too much cologne and kissing ass for promotions that’ll never be theirs.

These people are not your friends, but you’ve been here so long that it feels like they should be.

“I need to decide before everyone else gets the same idea and it gets booked up.” A loud cackle sounds from the table beside you. Deborah, one of the new hires. You’d been expecting a picture of a middle-aged woman when her introductory email had been sent out. Imagine your surprise when a baby-faced new grad was staring back at you. “Wanna get together after work and tell me all the reasons why this is a terrible idea?”

Minghao, the bastard that he is, pretends to check his calendar. “Hmm. Looks like I’m all booked on the ‘dispensing extremely valuable advice no one listens to’ front. I do, however, have an opening tomorrow. Mimosa-drunk at brunch or wine-drunk at a more socially acceptable hour. Your choice.”

A glance at your phone tells you you’ve got five minutes and three-quarters of your salad left before your mandatory unpaid lunch break is over. You stab at the mixed greens again and frown—you left it too long and now everything is all soggy and gross. “First of all, this is the worst salad I’ve made this year. Don’t let me try any more Pinterest recipes. Second of all, you never ask me to hang out on weekends.” You narrow your eyes at him. “What’re you doing tonight? Do you have a date?”

Deborah immediately stops shrieking, attention piqued by her eavesdropping. Of course, she tries to play this off by pretending to check her makeup in her phone camera, except you can see her screen—and that she accidentally opened her credit card app.

So far, she owes $2,927.43 for the month of January.

A bastard but not an idiot, Minghao shakes his head, aware of the eyes on him. “No,” he answers, and his voice is so solid and sure you nearly believe him. “Well, not like that. I’m meeting my parents for dinner.”

God, you can practically see the cartoon hearts floating above Deborah’s head.

“Well, wine-drunk sounds better to me,” you answer, ignoring the fact that Minghao’s parents are in Turks and Caicos this week for their anniversary. Which he told you three days ago. “Orange juice gives me heartburn.”

With a put-upon sign, Minghao stands from the table. Gathers his trash and drapes his cardigan over his shoulders in a way that looks fashionable and cool. “I have got to make plans with people my own age.”

You snort. “Well, you can always ask—“

He cuts you off with a very pointed, “Back to the grind,” even though he says that’s “stuff white people say, along with ‘another day in paradise!’—and if you ever ask a white person how they’re doing and they respond with ‘I’m alive,’ you need to take a half-day.”

Everyone in this place is so fake.

And it isn’t like your day gets any better. An hour before closing time, your manager pops up on the ledge of your cubicle. “Heeey,” she chimes, pretending to wince at what’s about to come out of her mouth next. All things considered, she’s nowhere near the worst person to work for: she’s trustworthy, didn’t hesitate to give you the time off you needed, sends funny memes in the team group chat. So your whole thing with her isn’t her fault, it’s just—she’s years younger than you, so it touches on all those old insecurities. “Glenn needed to take the rest of the day, and in true Glenn fashion he didn’t get those reports done before he left. I hate to ask, but could you maybe, possibly, perhaps stay a little late…?”

In the split-second since she appeared at your desk like a bad omen, you’ve made up your mind: that beach house will be yours for the entire summer, scam or not.

Because you hate Glenn as much as the next guy (which, on your team, is mostly everyone), but you hate this place as an institution even more. What it represents. The insecurities and inadequacies it picks at. How comfortable you’ve grown here and the convenient excuses that comfort provides.

So you agree before you can come to your senses, because saying no will look bad, and the only thing you’ve got going for you and having been here so long with barely anything to show for it is the amount of PTO you’ve racked up, so you can’t and won’t give anyone a reason to refuse your request.

With a few minutes left in the day, everyone starts packing up and discussing weekend plans: sports and TV series they’ll be watching, new coffee shops they’re checking out, hobbies they’ll be catching up on. Before you can up the volume in your headphones, your cubicle mate asks if you’re doing anything fun. “Ah, just trying that new winery tomorrow, I think,” you answer, and you hope she won’t remember this come Monday because you don’t know anything about wine and can’t think of many things worse than discussing it.

Five-thirty hits. Everyone trickles out while you stay seated, glued to your desk and receiving everyone’s sympathetic glances. It takes a half hour just to get into Glenn’s reports because, for reasons unknown to you and your manager, he password-protected them—and once you’re in you see why. Half-baked columns, wrong formulas used even though knowing and understanding Excel was a job requirement, numbers you can’t trace back to any of the provided data. At seven you’re ready to put your head through a concrete wall. By eight you finally hit the halfway mark.

At quarter to ten, you finally send off the reports and sit back in your chair. Sitting in thischair for so long has to be doing irreversible damage, so you make a mental note to schedule a massage for tomorrow afternoon before you meet up with Minghao. With a sigh, you squeeze your eyes shut and try to conjure up some moisture. Nearly five hours after the rest of your coworkers, you pack up your belongings, twisting your body as you stand and trying not to wince as your knees and back make some concerning sounds.

Then, before you shut down your computer and go home to rot in bed until you’re forced to socialize, you put in your PTO request for June 2nd through August 29th.

(It gets approved first thing Monday morning.)

Vacations (In Theory) are very different from Vacations (In Practice).

Here you are on May 30th, mentally preparing for another long night hunched over your desk. Not only do you need to work ahead as much as you can for your nearly three month absence, you also have to include a paper trail to prove you at least tried to problem-solve before dumping it on whoever’s unlucky enough to cover you.

Minghao waits for you. Plops his stuff on your desk, pulls up a chair, and scrolls through social media while you work, making offhand comments every now and then about people you don’t know and all their drama while you try not to comment on how weird it is. In all the years you’ve worked together and have been friends, he’s never stuck around while you worked late, but the excuse had been convenient: I have plans tomorrow and you’re leaving early on Sunday so let’s grab dinner after work was much easier to say than I’m not going to see you for three months so let’s grab dinner because I’ll miss you.

You hadn’t commented on that, either.

Nonetheless, you put your head down and focus. Minghao had made a seven-thirty reservation at a place more upscale than the two of you usually frequent, and you’ll need to hustle if you have any hope of getting out of here within the hour.

Time seems to fly after that. Not only at work, but at dinner, too. Despite your first impression of him (deeply serious with a cutting resting bitch face), you’ve always enjoyed spending time with Minghao. He’s funny, now that you’re acquainted with his sense of humor, and he’s both carefree and solid in ways you could only dream of being. All of his troubles seem to come and go like the tide, never sticking around for too long and overstaying their welcome. The thought of him no longer being there when you return is too much to bear, so you make him promise not to change jobs until you’re back.

He quirks an eyebrow and pulls a face. “First of all, you’re going on vacation, you’re not dying. Second, I’m not promising you that. I apply to twenty jobs a week at minimum. I don’t want to be—” He pauses. Seems to be aware of what was about to come out of his mouth.

I don’t want to be like you, working a dead-end job.

I don’t want to be like you, undervalued by every metric of the word.

I don’t want to be like you, latching onto something no good for me just because it’s comfortable and I’m terrified of change.

I don’t want to be like you.

Minghao flushes. Stumbles over apologies. “No need to apologize,” you assure him, plastering on a smile you know isn’t fooling anyone. Take a sip of your drink to feign normalcy. Take a bite of food that tastes like sawdust. Good thing you were almost done, anyway.

Because Minghao was right, and everyone knows it.

Saying goodbye is awkward at best and painful at worst. Deep down, you know Minghao is just embarrassed—you would be, too, in his shoes—but just like Vacations (In Theory) and Vacations (In Practice), what you logically know to be true is very different from what you internalize. Because it’s not just embarrassment, it’s also the reason you don’t go for team drinks; the reason you don’t have anything personal on your desk. You just don’t see the point in integrating yourself into a place you shouldn’t be to begin with.

But that’s the whole point of this vacation, isn’t it?

Three months without having to think about work. Three months to decompress and pretend you’re going to do all that philosophical shit, like six a.m. trips to the beach to stare at the waves, stick your toes in the sand, and “find yourself.” Whatever that means.

There’s not much to do around the apartment except making sure you eat whatever’s left in the fridge. Coming home to a bunch of rotten food and having to go back to work the next day? Absolutely not. You’d need to bypass your office and go straight to an institution instead. You spend the rest of the day doing laundry and packing. You stand in front of your shelves and deliberate for far too long over which books to bring and then you do the same with your music library as you stare down at an empty playlist.

It’s early when your alarm goes off—barely eight o’clock, the sun already high in the sky as it beams through your curtains, birds chirping. Feels like waking up on a holiday morning or the first day of school: giddy excitement on the surface, nerves simmering just below. Makes it easy to get up and make your bed, to get dressed and put on sunscreen, your sunglasses, when there’s no dread weighing you down. Makes it easy not to mind the hours-long drive. Makes it easy to drive with the windows down, music loud, the wind in your hair.

Makes it easy to feel like you’re driving towards something, rather than away from it.

Halfway there, you stop at a small cafe for lunch, the feeling almost transcendental as you eat outside and let the sun warm your skin. You order an iced coffee to-go and it sweats in the cupholder, nothing but melted ice by the time you pull off the highway and navigate the smaller back roads, some of them covered in sand. You take a deep breath and smile. Everything smells like the sea—salty and slightly sweet, the sulphur of low tide.

The town looks like a postcard.

In your excitement, you’ve looked at a lot of pictures over the last few months, but none of them can compare to reality. Ice cream shops with striped awnings. Sidewalks covered in chalk doodles. More seafood restaurants than you can count. Antique and surf shops. Wooden playgrounds next to fenced-in basketball and tennis courts. Families walking back from the beach, pushing sleeping kids in strollers, lugging chairs and coolers and boogie boards behind them.

That excitement creeps back in the closer you get, and at every red light you look around and marvel at all the houses. How uniform they are. How they’re all elevated with ground-floor garages. The porthole windows and porches wrapped in white railing. Front yards with pinwheels stuck in thin strips of grass. Colorful cruiser bicycles stashed in tiny alleyways behind the houses, some laying on their sides with the wheels still spinning. If you close your eyes you can hear laughter and bells.

You pull into the driveway at ten after three, surprised to find that this house doesn’t look like all the others. Where they had vinyl siding in neutral, inoffensive colors, this one is mint green, bright and vibrant, with white scalloping along the facade. It reminds you of ice cream—the flowers in the wooden boxes beneath the windows look like sprinkles, and with how close you are to the boardwalk, the smell of fried dough hanging in the air, it’s easy to pretend.

Out of the car, an older couple in matching windbreakers waves as they pass you on the sidewalk. Everything sounds so much closer: the waves crashing, delighted shrieks from people on rides, the men combing the beach, trying to sell drinks and popsicles, squawking seagulls in search of someone’s food. You can see the ocean from where you stand, peeking out from beneath the boards. This is exactly what I needed, you think. Feels like your smile is permanent.

Until you try to get into the house.

You’d been given a door code when you confirmed your reservation. It doesn’t work. No matter how many times you try, 0-5-2-5 gets you nothing but a blinking red light and an encroaching panic. Phone already in hand, you send a message to the rental host—Hi! I’m at the house, but the door code doesn’t seem to be working. Is there another one I can try? Thank you!—before sitting on the porch steps to await your fate.

What you expect: a response rife with apologies, both for the mix-up and the inconvenience.

What you get: someone stampeding down the stairs and pulling the door open.

Super Host Soonyoung stands in the doorway wearing a sheepish smile and red-tinged cheeks. Except for the sunglasses, he looks just like his picture (especially the doughy cheeks), so at least you know you’ve got the right place. Still, you ask, “Hi, are you Soonyoung?” just to confirm, and that seems to knock him out of his stupor, offering to grab your bags and give you a tour.

Which seems strange. You don’t really need a tour, do you? Surely you’ll be able to find your way around over the next few months, but Soonyoung is extremely apologetic and seems a little embarrassed so you don’t say anything. You do let him grab your bag, though—mostly because meeting new people is always difficult for you, so letting him take one bag while you take the other gives you something to do with your hands. Gives you something to comment on and laugh about when he pretends to strain taking it out of the trunk.

When you get inside, Soonyoung gives you the choice of three bedrooms. Two are upstairs. Of those, one has two large windows facing the street, rewarding you with a view of the boardwalk and the ocean, while the other also has beach views that are semi-obstructed by the waterpark. The third and final bedroom is downstairs, just off the kitchen. Soonyoung offers this one and says it might be “less awkward,” which also strikes you as strange, considering—

Wait.

“Bathroom-wise, it doesn’t really matter what one you pick. There are full bathrooms on both levels—”

Reality hits you like a truck, head-on and all at once. Maybe it’s less reality and more the obvious, because listening to Soonyoung explain where the bathrooms are and giving you a tour and being here in general puts a lot of things into perspective very quickly.

“I think I fucked up,” are the only words you’re able to muster. Soonyoung’s mouth snaps closed. “Or you did. Either way, one of us really, really fucked up.” Soonyoung pauses. Tilts his head to the side like a puppy, the confusion obvious, and you think he’s about to ask what you mean so you beat him to it. “The listing was for the entire house.”

That does it.

“I—what? Are you sure?”

The second question is rhetorical. You know it, Soonyoung knows it, everyone knows it, so you don’t answer, just nod and offer a sympathetic, closed-lipped smile and hope the ground will split apart and swallow you.

Horrifyingly, all you can think at this moment is that Minghao was right about this being a scam. You’ll have to tuck your tail between your legs and tell him, because you can’t stay here. Sharing a space—not only is it foreign to you, you’re not sure you even can. There’s an art to being a good roommate, and after living alone both during college and all your years as an adult, it’s not a skill you have.

And it takes a while, longer than you expected, for the disappointment to hit. For all that excitement and all the plans you had—sticking your toes in the cold, early morning sand; sunset walks up and down the boardwalk; eating so much fried food you’re sick of it within a week; waking up to the sound of waves crashing—to come crashing down around you. This was supposed to be a reset. A reward for dragging yourself this far and surviving. A balm for all the regrets you have about your life and a compass to find a new direction.

All of it—gone.

The tears are just as embarrassing as you thought they’d be.

To his credit, Soonyoung doesn’t panic. He doesn’t seem to flinch at all, which surprises you; he gently grabs your arm and helps you to the small table in the kitchen. Pulls out a chair and gestures for you to sit, and when you do and he can be sure you aren’t going to bolt straight out the door, he pours you a glass of water, sits across from you, and calmly says, “We can figure this out.”

Any other time you’d probably scoff and say something that belied just how hopeless you found this entire situation, but now, after experiencing a concerning number of mental breaks in a very short amount of time, you’re happy to let someone else take the reins and do the heavy lifting. Of course, you don’t know what that looks like in this case. Do you ask for a refund and try to find a hotel? Surely not: any reputable hotel would cost ten times what you spent on this place, not to mention they’ve probably been booked solid since last year. Do you ask for a refund, find a hotel, book as long of a stay as you can, and spend the rest of your summer having a staycation at home? That sounds miserable.

There are probably thousands of podcasts talking about what a horrible idea it’d be to live with a strange man for three months, and it’s your fault for idealizing this entire trip so much to begin with that makes any alternative seem like a fate worse than death, but you can’t stay… right? Even if it somehow wasn’t the stupidest idea of all time, that doesn’t even touch on the fact that it’s Soonyoung’s house, and who's to say he even wants you here, anyway?

“Since this was my second embarrassing fuck up of the day, I’ll just… go somewhere else while you’re here, and you can have the house to yourself.”

You blink. “For three months?”

His eyes widen for a brief second. You’re starting to think he wasn’t prepared for any scenario, let alone this one. “I—yeah, yeah, of course. Three months! Psh, that’s nothing, you know? Barely any time at all.”

“I mean, it’s a quarter of a year. That doesn’t seem insignificant.”

Those same wide eyes have begun twitching. “Riiight.” He follows this with a very long sip of water. “It’s really no trouble, though. I can sleep at the studio. There’s a couch and a bathroom there and everything.”

It definitely doesn’t seem like it’s no trouble. Soonyoung looks like he’d rather remove all of his teeth with very dull tools, and even if this was his (admittedly catastrophic) error, it doesn’t feel right putting him out of his own home—especially to a place where having a couch and a bathroom are considered an upside. Does the bathroom even have a shower? How would he cook? Is any of his stuff there? God, you can’t do that to someone.

So it’s with a little caution, a lot of stupidity, and an ill-advised desire to be more spontaneous and free-spirited as if you’re a character in an Elizabeth Gilbert novel that you ask, “Is it weird for you if you just… stay?”

For all of Soonyoung’s mismanagement, it’s clear he doesn’t want to inconvenience you further or make you uncomfortable. He’s insistent that he’ll leave, insistent that it really is no trouble and it’s the least he can do for fucking up the listing, and insistent that if you just give him some time to pack some clothes, he’ll be out of your hair in no more than thirty minutes. With a sigh, you go through your questions again.

Does the bathroom have a shower? No, but—

How would you cook? Maybe I could come over once a week to meal prep, if you wouldn’t mind? There’s a microwave, at least.

Is any of your stuff there? Like, an old pair of sneakers. And maybe a musty sweatshirt.

By the time you ask your follow-up questions, both of you know he isn’t going anywhere, and perhaps if he’d confirmed that you’re one-hundred-percent okay with this nineteen times instead of twenty you wouldn’t have gone for it, but he does so you do.

“I really don’t have to—” You wave him off. Ask him if there are any house rules he’d like you to abide by aside from the obvious. When he sends you a questioning look, you admit you’ve never been anyone’s roommate before. “Oh,” he responds. Takes a second to think. “I don’t think so? Sometimes I keep weird hours. Like, I have my regular jobs, but sometimes I’ll go to the studio if I’m restless or want to work on something, so I guess me going in and out in the middle of the night is something to be aware of. I’ll make sure to be quiet, though.”

“Is it like a regular nine-to-five? I don’t want to disturb you, either.”

Soonyoung screws up his face. “God, no. I—wow, I just realized you have no idea what I’m talking about. I run a dance studio for the local kids. Most of them take summers off to go on vacations or whatever, so once school’s out we only open two or three days a week, depending on how many of them sign up. This year there weren't many, so we decided on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“And your other job?”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “Ah, that one’s kind of embarrassing? I… work at the waterpark next door. Carat Bay.”

“Oh, that doesn’t seem so bad.”

He sighs. Runs his thumb vertically along the length of his glass and collects the condensation. “When I first opened the studio, I didn’t realize it wouldn’t be busy all the time, you know? I spent my summers here, so I figured everyone else did, too, and I needed to pick up a second job to cover the studio rent on top of a million bills for both here and there.”

You want to tell him you understand. Want to tell him it isn’t embarrassing to do what you have to do to make ends meet; that, if anything, it’s brave. That you’ve been there (and still are). That you’re a little embarrassed by your job, too. But then he continues. “It probably isn’t embarrassing for the high school and college kids, but I’m almost twenty-nine and I’m operating the splash zone. It definitely feels embarrassing.”

You hum. Look around Soonyoung’s kitchen. From the listing photos, you knew it didn’t look like every other rental beach house, with all the ocean motifs and white wicker furniture and seashells nailed to the wall. It’s not sparkling marble and stainless steel, either, but it’s nicer than your outdated kitchen. “You seem to be doing okay, though. I mean—you’ve got this nice house and a dance studio. That seems pretty good for someone our age.”

Soonyoung laughs, a little shy and self-conscious. “I inherited the house from my grandma. I could never afford anything like this.”

“Mm, no offense, but I put that together pretty much immediately.”

When Soonyoung laughs this time, it’s bright and open, reaches his eyes and brings his entire being to life. The two of you make small talk for a few more minutes until you’re unable to stifle a yawn, and then Soonyoung is up and heading for a cabinet drawer immediately, pulling out a stack of takeout menus and saying to take your pick, dinner’s on him tonight. After you try (and fail) to protest, you ask him what’s good and accept his answer of a taco spot not far, and he puts through the order. Asks if you’ve decided on a bedroom so he can carry your bags, so you choose the streetside one upstairs with the view of the water, and while he’s gone to pick up food, you take a quick shower and unpack.

Minghao [6:22pm]: everything ok? how’s the house? You [6:49pm]: It’s a long story I’m too exhausted to type out rn You [6:49pm]: But I think this is gonna be really good for me 🤞

When you wake up the next morning, you expect it to have followed a night of fitful sleep.

Being in a stranger’s house. Said stranger sleeping only a few feet away, door cracked, his soft snores drifting down the hall. An unfamiliar place. A beach town that, while picturesque and dreamy, seems to also be nocturnal. Once most of the town turned off their lights and locked their doors for the night, it’d taken on a second life—groups of friends walking to and from the bars and clubs, shrieks of laughter and heated arguments, the to-be-expected disregard of the time and basic decency that comes with being immature and on a group trip in your early twenties.

You’re surprised, then, that you feel refreshed when you wake up. That the last thing you remember is your head hitting the pillow. It’s the most restful sleep you’ve had in months, and you roll over to check the time feeling ready to take on the world.

8:37am

Spoiled for and overwhelmed by choice, you take your time getting out of bed and going about your routine. When you slip out of your room to brush your teeth, you notice Soonyoung’s bedroom door is wide open. Even though you’re curious, you don’t (and wouldn’t) peek—instead, you’re distracted by the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee wafting upstairs.

“Good morning,” Soonyoung greets you. He’s sitting on the couch, one leg crossed and tucked beneath him. “I made coffee if you want some. I also left out the bread. If you wanna let me know what you like, I can go grocery shopping later—”

You smile. “Sure, thanks.” Wander into the kitchen. Fill a mug with coffee, cream, a little sugar. Pop two slices of bread into the toaster and, once they pop back out, spread on a thin layer of butter.

And then you hesitate. Should you eat here? Would it be weird to join Soonyoung in the living room? Would it be rude if you didn’t? With a sigh, you compromise and meet in the middle. Place your plate on the newel cap of the staircase and wrap both hands around the mug, soaking in the warmth. Soonyoung has the television on. You don’t recognize what’s playing, but it seems to be a mid-season rerun of some sitcom—background noise, mostly, which is exactly what it seems to be now.

Neither of you are watching. Soonyoung’s scrolling through his phone and you’re content to stare out the bay window facing the street, watching people pass by on their way to the beach. Large straw hats, colorful umbrellas, excited toddlers waiting for an opening to dart away. The waves still crash. The seagulls still screech. “Do you have to work today?” you ask Soonyoung because you feel like you should make conversation.

“Not today, thankfully,” he answers. He sets his phone down and twists his body so he’s facing you. “Back to the studio tomorrow, and I’m scheduled for the waterpark Friday through Sunday.”

You nod. You’re tempted to ask if he wants to do something together and decide against it, not wanting him to feel obligated. If you’re being honest, you’re not entirely sure you want to hang out, still wrapping your head around the fact that the vacation you spent months idealizing will not come to fruition. Not fully. But there’s nothing stopping you from grabbing a book and sitting on the beach for a few hours.

Long enough to decompress—or start to.

“I’ll probably head to the beach.”

“Cool. Let me give you a beach tag.” What he hands over reminds you of an oversized bread clip: octagonal and neon red, 2025 SEASON printed in the center. You have never seen one of these in your life. “Are these not a thing where you’re from?”

“You have to pay to go on the beach?”

Soonyoung’s nose twitches as he bites back a laugh and nods. Explains that the money’s used to maintain the beach and the restrooms and pay the lifeguards and a whole bunch of other things. “Supposedly,” he tacks on conspiratorially.

“Did the mayor get a brand new Porsche?”

“I don’t even know who the mayor is.”

An hour later, after you changed and decided on a book, and Soonyoung not only gave you a beach pass but also his favorite chair (one of the nice ones that recline and have a drink holder) and his phone number (under the guise of you sending him your grocery list, to which you inexplicably offered to just go with him instead), you have to admit the beaches are impeccably maintained.

Touché, beach pass.

With your toes dug into the warm sand, you get through half of your book. Spend the rest of the time dozing off in Soonyoung’s chair, lulled into a half-sleep by the rhythm of the waves crashing and retreating, the conversations of the people around you that becomes a singular thrum, the shrill sound of the lifeguard’s whistle that jolts you awake every time someone goes out too far.

Soonyoung texts you around three, asking if you still want to go to the store with him. No worries if not, he tacks on, you can just send me your list. So you start packing up what little you brought, thankful your walk back to the house is short. You’re drowsy from the sun, warmed through to your bones, still in awed disbelief that this is what the entirety of your summer is going to consist of. That you won’t have to suffer like the poor kid running the mini golf course, nearly dead from either boredom or a hangover behind the ticket window. That your whims will be able to come and go like the tide.

You rinse the sand from your feet at the spigot in the backyard. Return Soonyoung’s chair to where he’d grabbed it from. Leave your sandals by the back door and do a final shake of your bag to get rid of anything that might track into the house. Now that you have the right code (0-5-2-6; Soonyoung had mistyped it in his original message), you let yourself in, surprised to find him bent over the kitchen table with an extremely long grocery list in front of him.

“Lucy, I’m home,” you joke.

He looks up at you with a lopsided smile. “How was the beach?” he asks, eyes returning to his list.

“Beach-y keen.”

There’s a beat of silence—one that’s long enough to have your cheeks warming from embarrassment over a very bad dad joke—before Soonyoung lets out a snort of laughter. “Terrible.”

“Definitely not my best,” you concede, mirroring his smile. Even though he can’t see it, you nod at the list. “What are you up to?”

“Grocery list.” He holds it up, unfurling it like a scroll. “Do you think this is enough?”

You move closer, eyes scanning over what he’s written down. Four different types of burgers and soft drinks. Regular and gluten-free bread; milk and non-dairy alternatives. Brown, white, cage-free, organic eggs. Enough snacks to fuel a youth athletic team for at least a month. Pasta, lunch meat with ???? written next to it, cereal, rice. “Are you planning on buying out the store?”

“I—no, I just didn’t know what you like.”

“May I?” you ask, gesturing for him to hand you the list. When he does, you flip it over and create separate sections: one for each meal, one for pantry items (staples and snacks), and one for drinks. “Do you usually meal plan?”

Soonyoung’s stare is blank. “No. I just go to the store and buy things I like and try to eat it all before it goes bad.” Thankfully, you’re able to keep your horror to yourself. “You do? You’re that organized?”

“I wouldn’t say organized.” You flip the list back over and put checkmarks next to the things you like. “Do the same thing, and then we can come up with some ideas so we aren’t going rogue and overspending.”

After a lot of back and forth, a little friendly ribbing—“Do you really need four boxes of fruit snacks?” you tease Soonyoung, to which he replies, “Sorry, grandma. Add another box of Fig Newtons to the list instead,” which causes you to promptly cross them off—and even more organization and assigning of duties, the two of you emerge triumphant over the shopping list. If your calculations are correct (which they should be, considering how long you’ve lived alone and have done this exact thing every week), this shop should last roughly two weeks. You also give yourselves two days a week to either order takeout or go to a restaurant, considering Soonyoung’s sporadic work schedule.

As you pile into your car, Soonyoung slides into the passenger seat. Covers his eyes with a pair of sunglasses and rolls the window down. Leans his head back against the seat and sighs, appearing to be the epitome of contentment and inner peace. “Thank god it was you I fucked up the listing for.” He says this like it’s nothing. As if it’s a completely normal thing to say and it doesn’t have you nearly swerving into a telephone pole, stunned by the sincerity in his voice. “Can you imagine if it was someone as bad as me?”

It’s his words, and not the hours you spent in the sun, that keep you warm through the chilly grocery store aisles.

The first two weeks of your vacation feel well-earned and restorative, with a slight sunburn.

After that, however, everything starts to feel… different. Like you’re living someone else’s life. An alternate reality where you wake up whenever you want to, stroll casually up and down the boardwalk with an iced coffee and no destination in mind; where all those things you’d stressed over months ago are nowhere to be found, dragged out to sea by the current.

It’s a slow, gradual process. A little awkward and jilted at first as you both grow used to one another and figure out what and where the boundaries are. As you’re both determined not to make it weird or overstep.

Nonetheless, the two of you fall into an easy routine. Most of your afternoons are spent at the beach or around town, and on the two days a week Soonyoung is at the dance studio, he always texts you right before his last class to check in about dinner: if you want him to cook, if you want to cook, if you want to go out or order something for delivery. Meals are now eaten on the couch so the two of you can commentate whatever’s on the television.

(Fridays are your favorite. Soonyoung stops at the liquor store on his way home from the waterpark and the two of you get drunk on beer and soju and watch wrestling. You share two styrofoam takeout containers of tacos, and the drunker Soonyoung gets, the more ridiculous his commentary becomes. By the time the six-pack is gone, he’s sideways on the couch, his head nearly in your lap, bowled over from the weight of his laughter.)

A two-week trial period is usually far too short for you to make friends—hell, you didn’t even talk to Minghao until you’d run into him at the coffee machine every morning for three straight months—but Soonyoung is easy to get along with. To livewith. He’s easy to like. So you’re not shocked when you reach the three-week mark and all those inhibitions seem to disappear. When he appears in the doorway of your bedroom and asks if you wanna swing by the waterpark later that afternoon and keep him company.

“It’s so boring,” he whines. “I just sit there and make sure people don’t pee or drown, which is nearly impossible, anyway. It’s a giant bucket that dumps water on you—how could someone drown.”

You laugh to yourself, thankful your back is turned to him. You’ve been trying to decide between the neon green bikini and the one-piece with the cut-out just below your chest for a good fifteen minutes and aren’t any closer to a decision. “An adult human can drown in as little as two inches of water, you know.”

“Yeah, if they’re an idiot, maybe,” Soonyoung fires back. “Wear the green one. That color will look really good on you. And then come to the waterpark. I’ll give you a free pass.”

When you turn to face him, he quickly pulls out all the stops: truly pathetic puppy dog eyes, plush bottom lip pushed out, hands clasped together like he’s about to start begging. Before this exact moment, you would’ve said your resolve was made of steel, that you were not a person susceptible to a grown man’s pouting, but you cave in a concerningly short amount of time. Huff, try to act like you’re very displeased by this turn of events, and say, “Fine, but this is a family establishment so I’m wearing the one-piece. You only said the bikini because you’re a pervert.”

He’s torn between defending himself and letting out a triumphant hurrah before settling on both. “Hey, I’m not denying it,” he says casually. “You’ll really come, though?”

You shrug. “Sure, so long as you leave me alone sometimes so I can read my book.”

Cue the triumphant hurrah. “Yes! Okay, I can do that. I’ll see if there are any cabanas open and reserve one for you.”

“Wow, I even get my own cabana boy?”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes and starts down the hallway to his room. “And you called me a pervert,” he calls over his shoulder.

Well, if he didn’t bother denying it, you aren’t going to, either.

—

Not only is the heat relentless, the noise does not stop.

Luckily the first issue is largely solved by the cabana Soonyoung was able to nab you. It isn’t all that large, only enough space for two lounge chairs, and to your dismay there are no men in tiny swimsuits holding trays of colorful drinks with little umbrellas waiting for you to beckon them over, but at least it blocks out the sun. Shields you from the worst of it. There’s less to be done about the heat, but once the humidity becomes too stifling you wander over to Soonyoung—easily identifiable in his garish yellow shorts and matching visor—and wait for him to blow his whistle, alerting everyone to the giant bucket of water about to be dumped on them.

“Nice legs,” you tease, wolf-whistling as you approach.

Soonyoung pretends to be scandalized. Gasps. Twists sideways as if he’s trying to hide his skin from your lustful gaze. “In front of the children?” he accuses.

No kids are paying attention to your conversation when they’re about to get drenched, but you play along anyway, sliding your sunglasses down your nose. “Can’t help it. Those tiny little shorts and your pale thighs really get me going.” He scowls, pulling said shorts further down said thighs to hide the discrepancy in skin tone. “God, it’s loud here,” you change the subject, taking pity on him. “This is what you put up with the entire summer?”

“Just wait—it’ll get worse in a second.”

He’s right, unfortunately. From the second the bucket begins to tip and for at least three full minutes after it unleashes its gallons of water, all you hear is screaming. High-pitched, manic screaming loud enough to make your ears bleed, but the water is cold and you’re thankful for the reprieve from the heat, even if it doesn't last long before it evaporates.

“Ah, gotta love it,” he deadpans. “Only twenty-six minutes and fourteen seconds until the next one.”

You snort. Ask him if he wants anything from the snack bar because you need a drink—a very cold, very refreshing drink. All he requests is a bottle of water. Not a bad idea, considering you’re probably dangerously dehydrated from how much you’ve sweat, but you change your mind as soon as you reach the counter. You hear a chorus of angels. It feels like the light of divinity itself shines a spotlight on the part of the menu advertising non-alcoholic piña colada slushies.

You promptly order two—and a water.

When the kid behind the counter hands over your order, you can’t help the beaming smile that forms on your face, but it’s short-lived. Yes, your drinks come with colorful umbrellas and are topped with cherries, and Soonyoung’s water comes straight from a cooler, dripping ice-cold condensation all over your hand and the warped wood top of the counter, but it’s hard to feel victorious when the kid who hands them to you looks like he’s going to keel over and die from heat stroke.

“I—thanks,” you mutter, taking in his flushed cheeks and the hair adhered to his forehead with sweat. You stuff a few bills in the tip jar. “Sorry you have to work here.”

You’re surprised to find Soonyoung in one of your cabana chairs when you return. His visor is pulled over his eyes, his energy completely boneless, and if you weren’t in this weird limbo of maybe-friends you’d probably tease him a little. Call him Sleeping Beauty or flick some of the cold water on your hands at him.

Instead, you place all three drinks on the small, rickety table in between the chairs. “Special delivery.”

Soonyoung lifts his visor. Laughs softly when he sees what you’ve ordered. Asks, “Is one of those for me?” and reaches for one regardless of what your answer is.

“It”—you begin to answer, watching as he dangles a cherry by the stem—“wasn’t,” you finish after he pops it into his mouth.

“But I’m on break.” He pouts. “And it’s so hot outside and this drink is so cold.” He sticks the straw in his mouth and has to speak around it. “And if Chan’s running the snack bar today I bet he put alcohol in this.” He takes a sip. “No booze. Coward.”

“Do you often drink on company time? Also, that kid at the snack bar looked about ten minutes from death. Someone should probably check on him.”

Soonyoung waves you away. “I’ll do it after I clock back in.”

“When is that? Rigor mortis might set in by then.”

“An hour. Rigor mortis is when they go all stiff, right?” You hum in agreement. “Easier to move, then.” He sucks down the rest of the slushie, finishing with a loud slurp that draws some attention your way, finishing with an exaggerated ahh. “Wow, that was really good. Can you wake me up in forty-five minutes?”

You scoff. Tuck your legs beneath you and reach for your book. “Don’t you have your phone? Set an alarm.”

“Mm, don’t want to. What are you reading?”

You tell him the title. Explain that you’d picked it up for cheap in a secondhand shop in town while you were wandering around one afternoon just because you’d liked the cover. “It’s okay,” you say. “It’s not really grabbing me, but it’s well-written and not very long so it could be worse.”

“Do you read a lot?”

“Try to.” Realizing this is not a very satisfactory response, you add, “I’ve tried to read at least three books a month since I graduated college.”

“I’m not good at math, but that seems like a lot of books.”

You laugh. “I don’t always manage it, to be fair. I’m happy with thirty books a year.”

“I haven’t read one book a year in maybe… ever. Do you have a book job?”

The question is asked around a yawn, words and inflection steeped in exhaustion, which is just fine by you. Because it’s easier to glance over at him—arms crossed over his chest, rising and falling rhythmically, and towel covering his face to further block the sun—and say, “Okay, old man, nap time for you,” and laugh at his responding middle finger than it is to exhume all that ancient history. Easier than adopting that indifferent affect as you say, “No, no book job, just a desk in an office,” and wondering if your discontent is made of tissue paper. If it’s palpable.

If it is, Soonyoung doesn’t say anything.

So you don’t, either. You stay mum about the lifelong absence of a dream. How there were things you liked but nothing you could envision doing forever. How it made you aimless, drawn to whatever felt easy at the time, content to let the wind pick you up and take you wherever it wanted. How you had to swallow down that small bite of embarrassment every time someone asks what you do for a living or how much you make. That lethal combination of hopelessness, bitterness, and jealousy you feel when it seems like all of your friends, classmates, and old coworkers are lapping you.

Those things don’t matter here, you remind yourself. You focus your attention back on your book and set an alarm so you can wake up Soonyoung.

Minghao wants to visit you.

This, of course, poses a problem. While you’d alluded to it on your first day here, you and Minghao haven’t talked much beyond a few texts every few days, so you never got around to telling him the full story. That the man you thought you were renting an entire house from is still occupying it. That he sleeps a few feet down the hall and cooks meals alongside you. That, even when he’s at work or both of you retire for the night, your phone will light up with messages or DMs from him as he sends memes or links to places around town he thinks you might like—and that you always hope he’ll ask if you want to go together.

There’s no real reason to deny his request. Much to your dismay, Soonyoung doesn’t mind. Seems to light up at the possibility of meeting one of your friends, someone he only knows about from stories and anecdotes and late-night scrolls through your Instagram feed, where you and Minghao have made it a game to tag one another in the ugliest photos either of you have ever taken. He goes into planning mode almost immediately, and if you were less mature you’d probably pout at the way the “you” in his messages becomes “you and Minghao.”

Inexplicably, you care about disappointing Soonyoung far more than you care about disappointing Minghao, so you tell him to call you once he’s done work so the two of you can come up with a plan.

Your phone rings just after seven, screen lighting up with the only normal photo the two of you have ever taken together. It should bring you comfort, the reminder that this is Minghao and he’s your friend and can even look ugly sometimes when he puts effort into it. But he’s also got the demeanor and general vibe of a parent picking you up from the police station. Something about him just exudes disappointment.

You’ll have it in spades soon.

Minghao spends a few minutes catching you up on things back home, tells you about the goings-on at the office: a new girl in his department he suspects might be a nepotism hire, the creepy IT guy you’ve all complained about for months finally getting fired, a day last week the plumbing broke and everyone got sent home early. “I’m ready for a vacation,” he sighs into the phone.

You grimace, thankful Soonyoung isn’t around to watch this trainwreck occur in real time. It’s another late night for him at the studio as he prepares for the mid-summer recital, still not fully satisfied with the choreography. He’d done the same two days ago and didn’t come home until nearly midnight.

“Hello? Are you there?”

You sigh. Tell yourself it’s better to just rip off the bandage and not prolong it anymore, but you can hear Minghao in your head saying I told you so and it gives you agita. Makes your palms sweaty. You cannot, in good conscience, allow yourself to be patronized by someone younger than you.

“Yeah, so, about that…”

Just as you expected, Minghao is not particularly gentle in his response. “A scam is a scam,” he says. “Do you have any idea how stupid it was to stay there? You don’t know that guy! He could be a serial killer for all you know, or worse—a furry.”

“I’ll be surprised if he’s a furry,” you retort, picking at a bit of pilled fabric on the couch. “But also, it wasn’t entirely a scam, he just messed up the listing. It’s not like I got here and the house didn’t exist and some dude claiming to be a prince was laughing all the way to the bank with my money.”

“You’re hopeless.” You can practically hear the way he’s pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I am not. It’s really nice here, Hao. The town is nice and Soonyoung is nice and he owns a dance studio and works part-time at a waterpark that he gets me into for free sometimes.”

“Is the waterpark nice?”

You hesitate. “I, um—it’s not horrible. Sometimes Chan puts alcohol in the piña colada slushies.”

“That… sounds kind of good, actually. With the little umbrellas?”

“And a cherry,” you confirm.

This, more than anything else, seems to be what seals the decision for him. After confirming for the millionth time that Soonyoung doesn’t mind his company (and that he’s not a serial killer, to which you send him the link to Soonyoung’s Instagram and ask does this look like a serial killer to you? because his most recent post is a photo of him on a giant flamingo floatie in the pool, mouth stained orange from a bag of cheese puffs, to which Minghao reluctantly agrees it does not), he agrees to call out of work and make the drive Friday morning.

Which, of course, is the day the sky decides to crack open.

This is unfortunate for Minghao, who has to make the same hours-long drive you did. This is unfortunate for you, who was looking forward to trying a new brunch cafe on the boardwalk. This is not unfortunate for Soonyoung, who was scheduled from open to close at Carat Bay and now has the day off, which he’s spending preparing for Minghao’s arrival: fridge and pantry restocked, floors vacuumed and mopped, sheets washed and dried, downstairs bathroom stocked with fresh towels. Like the grocery shopping and cooking, you and Soonyoung had worked out a system early on, so on any other day all of this is stuff you’d be helping out with.

Except Xu Minghao must’ve either been a member of a spy network or a teenage girl in a past life.

Normally it’s to your benefit that Minghao can find anything on the internet. Unlike you, he’s not prone to or all that interested in gossip (so he says), but he’s receptive when you assign him a task, and over the time you’ve known each other, the partnership has served you well. Usually it’s just mundane work gossip: who’s sleeping together, who’s on job-hunting sites begging for leads, who got embarrassingly, shit-faced drunk over the weekend and overshared in their Instagram stories. Usually it doesn’t affect you all that much, forgotten soon after in the way mundane work gossip always is.

This time, however.

Although sending him Soonyoung’s Instagram had alleviated his fears that you’re shacking up with a serial killer, it revealed something far worse: you’re shacking up with a Gemini.

Again—not usually a problem, considering astrology isn’t really your thing. You’d be hard-pressed to differentiate a Gemini from a Cancer or whatever else, so when Minghao tells you this it’s met with a hum of acknowledgment and nothing else. It was only once he asked, “Did you guys do anything for his birthday?” that it all started to sink in and panic gripped at you.

Minghao can find anything on the internet because he doesn’t stop at the surface-level stuff. You’d sent him Soonyoung’s Instagram and he didn’t just scroll through the first few posts, he scrolled years back, almost to the beginning, and that’s where he’d found the post: Soonyoung surrounded by friends, their arms slung over his shoulders while he held a cake, two lit number candles perched on top. 25!!!! the caption read.

It was posted on June 15th.

Which was last Sunday. Nearly a week ago. Soonyoung hadn’t said anything, had gone about his day as usual—coffee and a breakfast sandwich eaten at the two-seater table on the front porch before he showered and got ready for work, and even after he got home and the two of you shared a pizza and watched baseball, he never mentioned it.

Hence why you aren’t helping Soonyoung with the cleaning. You’re at the grocery store ordering a birthday cake because if there’s one thing you cannot do it’s bake, even when it’s box mix and prepackaged frosting (and Soonyoung deserves a cake that’s both edible and stays upright). You move to the aisle with the party supplies and curse the lack of options.

A children’s cartoon character or plain red, edges yellowed from age. Tough choice.

You grab a few other things and stand in line to check out, checking your phone religiously. You’d gotten out of the house under the guise of a pilates class you “couldn’t cancel,” so anything longer than an hour will start looking suspicious, but the required 24-hour notice from the bakery had posed a problem. Soonyoung is scheduled at the waterpark tomorrow, and you can’t turn it down because he was kind enough to get you and Minghao another cabana (and Minghao really wants one of those slushies), and then he’s back at the studio on Sunday to put the finishing touches on the recital.

So, here you are. Arms full of items you can let overheat in the trunk of your car and a receipt for a small marble sheet cake, a request for Happy Birthday, Soonyoung! to be written on top in blue frosting, surrounded by confetti sprinkles.

—

Soonyoung and Minghao get on like a house on fire.

You aren’t surprised by this, considering you don’t think Soonyoung has ever met a stranger. He’s good at it—the small talk, navigating those awkward moments, making people feel comfortable. Minghao has only been in the house twenty minutes before he’s giggling and entirely charmed, made to feel right at home even though he’s dripping rainwater all over the freshly-mopped floors. Seems to forget he was supposed to be angry that the rain had ruined one day of his vacation.

Soonyoung insists on carrying on the Friday tradition of takeout, alcohol, and wrestling, which is not something Minghao would watch without outside influence. But he fits in seamlessly. Falls into step with Soonyoung’s chaos, taking over his ridiculous commentary when Soonyoung’s either too drunk or laughing too hard to finish his sentences. Polishes off two orders of tacos on his own. Assumes bartender duties and mixes your drinks to questionable ratios, but perfection nonetheless.

Not to mention he out-drinks both of you. Soonyoung is worse off, retiring to bed just after eleven, groaning about his head and worrying about how he’s going to get up for work as he ascends the stairs. Minghao laughs, watching him fondly. You get the impression there’s a lot he wants to say—and maybe he would if you weren’t seeing three of him—but as it stands he cleans up the living room and asks if you want a glass of water.

“No, I’m okay,” you answer. “I think.”

Still, you aren’t surprised to find water and painkillers on your nightstand when you wake up. Luckily you don’t need them, spared from the torture of spending hours at a waterpark with shrieking children with a hangover, so you send a double-text to Soonyoung—

You [9:37am]: Are you alive? You [9:37am]: Hao left me some water and painkillers if you need them

—to which he simply replies:

Soonyoung [9:50am]: p lease

With a laugh, you throw the duvet off of your legs and pad down the hall. Knock quietly on Soonyoung’s bedroom door and laugh again at the pitiful come in you receive in response. And he does look pitiful. When you walk in, he pops out from under the covers with dandelion hair, face puffy from the alcohol, cheeks ruddy. What little sleep he got must not have been great—he looks exhausted, so you move Minghao’s gifts to Soonyoung’s nightstand, whisper a little fighting!, and head downstairs to brew a pot of coffee.

Not long after, Soonyoung makes his way downstairs and collapses into one of the kitchen chairs. Face-plants onto the table and groans into the wood. Without a word, you grab the bread from the pantry and pop a few slices into the toaster, sliding them onto a plate and serving them to him plain once they’re done.

“This will help with the nausea. Do you think you can stomach coffee?”

He scoffs. “Sure hope so. What’s the point in living if I can’t?”

Minghao emerges halfway through Soonyoung’s third cup, looking fresh and well-rested in a way only the person who drank the most and isn’t suffering a hangover can do. He greets you and Soonyoung with cheerful good mornings and questions about how you slept and how you’re feeling. “Not as bad as him,” you answer, jerking a thumb in Soonyoung’s direction, who gives you both the finger before returning to his face-first position on the table.

Your friend looks at the plate of crumbs and the mug of coffee. He sends you a look that’s easier not to look at or acknowledge.

—

Somehow, Minghao is able to talk you into sharing a two-person tube and joining him on all of Carat Bay’s waterslides.

This is horrifying for many reasons (the height of the slides, seeing Minghao’s bare feet), but it also proves useful. At the top of the highest slide, just as you fit yourself in the front of the tube and screech when Minghao wiggles his painted toes at you, the worker responsible for pushing you towards your certain death asks, “Oh shit, aren’t you the one staying with Soonyoung?”

“I—yes.” You glance at his nametag. Mingyu, it says, and you think you vaguely recognize him from Soonyoung’s Instagram. Horrifying again, because he’s somehow even more attractive in real life and you’re squished into a two-person innertube with Minghao and his painted toes, but he’s friendly and charming and talks at you like you’re old friends.

“That’s cool,” he says, ignoring the impatient discontent and creative insults from the line of children behind you. “Soonyoung said he had someone staying with him and that you’d been here a few times, but I’m always stuck up here.” A child throws a tiny flip-flop at him. It hits him in the chest and falls to the ground. “Wow,” he deadpans, “lucky me.”

In an attempt to stifle his laughter, Minghao asks what time he gets done, telling him about the belated birthday party the two of you have schemed to surprise him with. Fuck me, you think, watching as Mingyu somehow becomes even more attractive as his eyes light up. Not only is he done two hours before Soonyoung, he’s going to invite more of his friends, too. They’ll pick up more food and more snacks and more alcohol. All you and Minghao have to do is pick up the cake and decorate, which last night’s drinking provides a convenient excuse for.

During Soonyoung’s break—which he once again spends napping on a lounge chair under the cabana—Minghao says the two of you will probably head back to the house soon. “I think the heat’s making her hangover worse,” he says, injecting a convincing amount of sympathy into his tone.

Just as you expected, Soonyoung buys it. Finishes up his break with a groan and says he’ll text you when he’s done to check in about dinner, and then there’s nothing but the thwack-thwack-thwack of his slides as he returns to his post at the splash zone.

Two and a half hours to go.

Minghao stays behind to start on the decorations while you go pick up the cake. It turns out better (and bigger) than you expected, and you thank the bakery profusely as you rush back toward the exit. Back at the house, streamers and balloons line the staircase bannister and hang from the light fixtures; a HAPPY BIRTHDAY! banner stretches across the doorway leading into the kitchen; the plates and napkins are both set out, sharing the same cartoon tiger.

Luckily, it gives you both enough time to shower and look presentable before everyone else arrives.

True to his word, Mingyu knocks on the door with his hands full: a case of beer, a pile of pizza boxes, bags of chips in various flavors. Behind him stands a group of people, only one of whom you recognize. Chan, alcoholic slushie barista extraordinaire, greets you with a wave and a large smile. You are wholly unsurprised to see he brought soju.

The next hour is met with more names and faces than you’ll ever be able to remember. Friends of Soonyoung’s, coworkers from Carat Bay, coworkers from the dance studio—all of them kind, making you and Minghao feel welcome and included. They shout in excitement when Soonyoung texts you saying he’s done work. Compliment your quick thinking when he asks what you and Minghao want to do for dinner and you tell him Minghao insists on cooking, and to just shoot you a text when he’s on his way back so he can put it in the oven. When that text comes through, they all hide in the kitchen out of sight and hold their breath, anticipating and waiting, the occasional giggle sneaking through.

You drape yourself across the couch. Minghao stays in the kitchen and, once you call out that the birthday boy is coming up the drive, pretends to chop vegetables to truly sell it.

And when Soonyoung comes through the door, looking just as exhausted as he had this morning and slightly more sunburnt, you almost feel guilty. Almost think he won’t be in the mood to host. Almost think you’ve made a horrible mistake. He asks, “Do you know what he’s making?” to which you shake your head.

“No idea. He won’t tell me—says it’s a surprise,” you respond, thankful your voice and expression both stay steady and neutral.

Soonyoung drops his bag at the door. “Hm. I’ll see if I can get it out of him,” he says, winking when he catches your eye, like it’s you and him against Minghao; like he’s solving this manufactured mystery for your benefit.

Then he walks into the kitchen.

There’s the expected shouts of SURPRISE!

And then there’s a few seconds of silence.

“What the fuck,” comes Soonyoung’s eventual response. You sidle up alongside him, laughing when he turns to look at you with a stunned expression. “What the fuck?” he repeats, quieter this time, meant only for you.

“Happy birthday.” You reach up to playfully pat his cheek. “Belatedly, anyway. Why didn’t you tell me?”

His cheeks go red. As he opens his mouth to answer, sheepish words biting at the back of his teeth, one of his friends interrupts. Slaps him on the back and puts a drink in his hand. Laughs and gives him shit, asking how he didn’t notice all the decorations.

Soonyoung steals a final glance in your direction as he’s pulled away.

Everyone eats, drinks, and laughs. You cut the cake before Soonyoung’s face can wind up in it, only for someone to grab a slice and smash it in his face anyway. Uproarious laughter follows. Someone snaps a picture: first, a close-up of Soonyoung’s face, covered in cake crumbs and enough frosting to stain his skin; then, a second photo of him washing it off in the sink, entire head stuck under the faucet.

It really shouldn’t strike you someplace deep. The memory should be enough, but you find yourself asking, “Do you guys want me to take a picture of all of you?” so you have something to remember it by, too, even if you’re behind the camera.

Minghao must notice, because he offers to take it instead, taking your phone from you and gesturing for you to join the group. They’ve all got their arms around Soonyoung again but they make room for you. Mingyu, heads taller than everyone, moves from Soonyoung’s right and to the back.

“Are you—is it on a timer?” Minghao shakes his head, clearly confused. “Well, put it on a timer and get over here.”

“Me?”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Who else would I be talking to? Come on, it’s my birthday and you’re my friend, so get in the picture.” He coughs. “Please.”

Minghao laughs, but you can tell from the heat in his cheeks that he’s a little caught off-guard at Soonyoung wanting him in the picture, at declaring him his friend, so he fumbles with your phone. Can’t figure out how to set the timer. No one helps, of course—they give him shit and playfully boo him, flustering him more. Once he does figure it out, he sets the timer to the wrong length so the first few photos are candids, Minghao nothing but a streak across the frame. This earns him another round of boos that render him entirely useless, have him squatting beneath the weight of his laughter, but then he sets it correctly, thirty seconds, and there’s a smile on every single person’s face when you look at it later.

After that, it’s party time—within reason.

Someone connects to the small speaker in the living room and shuffles a playlist, upbeat with a low, thrumming bassline, perfect for a party. Minghao gets roped into a conversation with two people from Soonyoung’s studio, exchanging socials and numbers. Someone has left a pan of weed brownies on top of the stove, though no one takes credit for them.

That’s how Soonyoung approaches you some thirty minutes later, half of a brownie stuck between his teeth and chocolate clinging to the corners of his mouth. “Hellooo,” he greets you, each letter slurring together, eyes bloodshot. “Are you having fun?”

“I am,” you answer. “Are you?”

“Yes. D’you want the other half of this? I don’t think I should eat the whole thing.” Soonyoung offers the brownie to you, bottom lip slightly pouted. “I’m not a lightweight or anything,” he adds, as if it’s of the utmost importance to squash any thought you might’ve had about him being one. “And I didn’t stick the whole thing in my mouth. I broke it in half before I ate it, so there’s no spit on it.”

With a huff of laughter, you take the brownie from him and place it on a plate on the counter behind you. You also grab a napkin, turning to Soonyoung with what you intend to be stern, furrowed brows until he goes a little cross-eyed and it makes you laugh. “Why is your mouth always covered in something?”

You reach for him; he comes willingly and immediately.

“Ooh, are you gonna clean me up?” he quips, trying to wiggle his eyebrows. He winds up just squinting and un-squinting his eyes, heavy-lidded and getting redder by the second.

You ignore his teasing with a roll of your lips. Place your hand on his cheek to steady him, grounded by the warmth and softness of his skin. Soonyoung sucks in a breath when you touch him. Covers your hand with his own. Stares at you so intently you forget why you’re touching him at all, that there’s a party raging around you; forget that you’re surrounded by all of Soonyoung’s friends and their curious glances. You forget what the napkin in your hand is for, uselessly pinched between your fingers.

Everything narrows to the size of a pinhead. Soonyoung is all that exists in this moment, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. Until now, you thought the banter had just been banter—innocent and fun but ultimately superficial. Until now, you could brush off his coy remarks and blame it on proximity and Soonyoung’s ability to flirt with a lamppost if he thought it’d flirt back. Until now, you thought the next two and a half months would be easy; that you’d be able to compartmentalize your attraction to him.

Because this isn’t about that.

You’d needed to get away—from your job, your apartment, your life. All of it. Needed a break from the constant what-ifs and self-doubt and the nasty, unrelenting feeling that you aren’t doing enough, aren’t living up to your potential. That what you are doing is walking down a dead-end street and foolishly trying to find an exit point. You needed to try to outrun everything you’ve pushed aside, knowing it’s long overdue for it to catch up.

You don’t want Soonyoung to be one of those things. Don’t want him added to your list of what-ifs, not realizing it’s already too late for that.

So, just for a moment, you let yourself indulge. You press the napkin to the corner of his mouth and wonder how it’d feel if it were your lips instead, how he’d react, what noises he’d make. If he’d gasp in surprise or suck in another breath through his teeth. If he’d push you away or move his hands to your hips to pull you closer. If he’d let you take your time and do what you wanted or if he’d take control. If everyone around you would be surprised or if they’d think oh, of course.

You don’t find out the answer to any of those questions.

Instead, you clean the stubborn chocolate from the corners of his mouth without a word. Your touch is far more tender and delicate than you think this moment calls for, but if Soonyoung agrees he doesn’t mention it. Keeps his gaze locked on you, eyes tracing every movement. His intensity surprises you, having been outshadowed by his larger-than-life personality, the way he makes you laugh without having to try. But the intensity of the moment surprises you, too, how it all feels amplified: how you can hear every hitch of his breath, even over the noise of the party; how you can not only feel the warmth of it on your skin, but also the tension. How it feels like a massive, tangible thing in the center of your chest.

“All done,” you manage to say, coughing to clear your throat, dry from nerves and the rest of the chaos swirling around in your head.

Soonyoung smiles. Sends a wink over his shoulder as he disappears into the crowd, and you feel his absence immediately and immensely.

Minghao calls you over and reintroduces you to the people he’s been talking to. They’re kind and funny and gracious with their time. Junhui tells you all about how he and Soonyoung met, about his time at his studio. Tells you all about the kids they teach and how much they love Soonyoung. All the gifts they make for him and how they watch him dance with wide, starry eyes, trying to replicate everything he does.

Which is exactly what you find yourself trying to do later on.

Soonyoung had found you in a half-hearted conversation with Chan and Mingyu and dragged you to the living room. “Dance with me,” he said, cackling brightly when you looked at him, bewildered, and said you didn’t know how. “I’ll show you. C’mon, it’s easy.”

Dancing with someone who does it for a living is not easy, but Soonyoung is a good teacher, full of praise and laughter and gentle corrections. It’s all in good fun, anyway, and that’s exactly how he makes it feel as he jokingly shakes his ass and twerks on his friends; as the room goes blurry when he takes your hand and twirls you around. And when the song switches to something slower, headier, more sensual, there’s an immediate spike of panic that Soonyoung snuffs out—he puts distance between the two of you but stays in your orbit, hovering, waiting for you to call the shots.

You know he’ll back off if you want him to. You know he’ll take it in stride and not allow things to get awkward. You also know this decision isn’t life or death, that this can just be harmless fun you blame on the alcohol and weed in the light of day when the sheepishness creeps in. And you have to admit that sounds enticing, because the two poles of your body are pulling you in opposite directions, warring with one another. Try as it might, your brain—with all its logic and reminders for you to use some common sense—is no match for the heat simmering beneath your skin.

It’s a split-second decision, you pulling him back in, letting him fit his hands to the curve of your waist, your eyes fluttering shut at the body heat that seeps into your skin. You watch as the corners of Soonyoung’s mouth lift infinitesimally before he straightens them again, like he doesn’t want to look cocky, doesn’t want this to look like a foregone conclusion, but you like it on him. He wears it well, and you’re taken by it in the same way you’d been taken by his intensity.

You know there are eyes on you—his friends’, Minghao’s—but you can’t find it in you to care. Every time Soonyoung touches you, it feels like you’re the only people left on earth, like you’re swimming through molasses, weighed down by the intoxication of it, the yearning, the need for more.

His hands move to your hips, his lips to just beneath your ear. “Is this okay?” he asks, words spoken so quietly against your skin you feel them more than you can hear them.

You nod. Still have no clue what you’re doing, feel awkward and too big in your own body, but you remind yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s okay to just enjoy the way Soonyoung is touching you. The way he moves his body, perfectly in sync with the beat of the song, purposeful and precise. The proximity to and closeness of another person.

It’s the same later on, long after all of Soonyoung’s friends have left. Only you and Soonyoung are left at the house, your crossfades providing a convenient excuse to stay behind. No one says anything, but you catch the look Minghao sends you on his way out the door, having accepted an invitation from Jun and Mingyu to check out some new club, wanting to make the most of his last full day in town—it’s discreet and sly, but it also says I hope you know what you’re doing, because you’ve been doing it all night.

You don’t.

You know it just as well as Minghao does, so you start cleaning up the kitchen to give yourself something else to focus on. Plates, cups, and napkins in the trash. Leftovers in the fridge or pantry. Icing wiped off the floor and counters. A massive garbage bag tied up and placed next to the back door to take outside. Time alone, room to breathe. Being around Soonyoung is starting to feel like the two magnets of your head and heart are repelling.

“Leave that for tomorrow.”

You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead. “I’m almost done,” you gently argue. “Besides, it is tomorrow. It’s almost two o’clock.”

Soonyoung just laughs, nodding his head in the direction of the door. “Come on.”

“Soonyoung, there’s still food everywhere, you’ll get bugs—”

“Do I have to drag you out there myself?”

He doesn’t, though you don’t think you’d be upset if he did. “Fine. At least take the trash out with you,” you compromise.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, but it certainly isn’t for Soonyoung to lay on his back in the middle of the yard. No blanket, no towel—even if it’s mostly dried out from the previous day’s storm, you’re not exactly chomping at the bit to take the risk, but Soonyoung has no such reservations. He stretches out like he’s making a snow angel before he tucks his hands behind his head and sighs in content, though you’re not sure why. There’s far too much light pollution this close to the boardwalk to see anything in the sky, not to mention the noise.

Still, you either have to join him or stay standing and look like an idiot.

So you sit down beside him, arms stretched out behind you, your knee knocking into Soonyoung’s elbow. He rolls his head to the side and smiles, and you feel it behind your ribcage, sharp and hot like fireworks. “How did you know?” he asks. “About my birthday.”

Any other time you’d crack a joke, say something cheesy like ah, I have my ways, or that you’d paid an Etsy witch to find out, but in the middle of the night, sitting side-by-side in Soonyoung’s small, dewy strip of grass, it doesn’t feel right. Feels like a moment that requires sincerity. “It was Minghao, actually,” you admit. “He was there when I first saw the rental listing and told me it was a scam because of how cheap it was, so ever since then he’d sort of been convinced you were a serial killer or something. I had to come clean about us rooming together when he asked to visit and that only convinced him more.”

Soonyoung groans. “Damn. I wanna laugh but it’s not funny. Is it funny? He still came here after all that?”

“Well, luckily I’d already been to the waterpark with you by then and watched you nearly pass out when that kid fell and scraped her knee, so I knew there was no way you could kill someone—”

“Hey!”

“—and I sent him your Instagram. We both decided that, aside from the can’t handle blood thing, a serial killer probably wouldn’t post a picture of themselves with cheese dust all over their mouth.”

His jaw drops slightly. Looks like he wants to—and thinks he should—be offended before he snaps it shut and thinks it over. “Mm, that’s probably fair.”

“Yeah, so. As one does, he basically stalked your account until he saw one of your birthday posts from years ago and asked if we’d done anything fun for it this year, and I had to say no because someone didn’t tell me.”

Sheepish, Soonyoung apologizes. Says he didn’t have plans anyway and didn’t want you to feel obligated or make things weird. “It’d only been two weeks.” And when you move to protest, he rolls onto his side, head propped up by his elbow, and says, “I know now it was silly, and I’m still a little blown away the two of you threw all of this together. I—it just means a lot, so thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper. “I hope you and your friends had a good time.”

“I haven’t had a bad one since you got here.” Such a simple statement, but the honesty in his words steals the breath from your lungs. “I’d been having… a bad time. Before you got here. So yeah, it means a lot that you’d go through the trouble.”

It wasn’t any trouble, you want to say. Want to refute the notion that doing something nice, especially for him, was a bother, something only done out of a sense of obligation. Want to tell him you’ve been having a hard time, too, and doing something like this, celebrating someone else, helped ease that perpetual grief even a little bit. That feeling someone’s hands on you in the way his had been—selfish, wanting, longing—was a welcomed change from the hands clutching at your own, rubbing at your back, accompanied by waterlogged, sympathetic words. Apologies that only made you feel worse.

You want to tell him it was nice to be desired instead of pitied.

Instead, you say, “I’ve been having a bit of a hard time, too,” because the rest feels too honest. More words not meant for this moment.

And it seems you chose correctly, because Soonyoung’s brows quirk upwards. “Really?” he asks.

You nod. “I don’t want to dump on you, but my grandmother passed away last year. I used all of my PTO and the last of my inheritance to book the rental. It just sort of… felt like everything was starting to catch up with me, you know? The grief, the insecurities I’m feeling about my job. I needed to get away.”

Soonyoung frowns, and you brace yourself for more of the usual—I’m so sorry for your loss and other such sentiments you wish you could feel thankful for and don’t—but, as usual, he finds a way to surprise you. “Damn,” he mutters, sounding entirely convincing as he whistles, “I feel like I should give you a refund now. I scammed you out of your inheritance.”

A bubble of shocked laughter erupts from you and spreads to Soonyoung. Soon, both of you have dissolved into breathless, belly-aching laughter, trying desperately to shush one another so you don’t disturb the neighbors. And maybe you hadn’t been able to say all those other things, but this you are:

“Don’t you dare. I’d pay it every single time, a million times over.”

July arrives before you know it.

After Soonyoung’s party, things largely go back to normal. Minghao stays in touch, not only with you and Soonyoung, but also Junhui. Like clockwork, he texts you often for “updates.” He’s not interested in what books you’ve read or how many hours of sun you’ve soaked up at the beach. No, all he cares about are any updates in your relationship with Soonyoung—of which there have been none, so these days, understandably, your conversations don’t last all that long.

Additionally, you see Chan and Mingyu more often. Sometimes, when their shifts end at the same time, they swing by the house after work and join you for dinner… and shenanigans. A random Tuesday sees the four of you having a water balloon fight in the backyard. Soonyoung calls dibs on Mingyu, thinking his height will afford them some sort of advantage, but he underestimates Chan’s dodge and weave and that Mingyu’s height is nothing more than a giant target. Another weeknight has all of you nearly coming to blows over a game of poker.

Occasionally, on days they don't work, they join you at the beach. They rope you into boogie boarding and volleyball matches; they nap or mess around in the water while you read. Sometimes Soonyoung will stay behind and pester you with questions: what you’re reading, what it’s about, whether or not you like it, isn’t that similar to that one you read last week, what you think is going to happen.

And then Soonyoung gets a rare weekend off.

Friday, too, which is spent like all the previous ones. Takeout, cheap beer, watching wrestling and adopting silly voices. Even with all the time in the world, it’s not something either of you are willing to give up.

Saturday, though—

Instead of preparing for another hot, sticky afternoon at Carat Bay, Soonyoung appears in the doorway of your bedroom not long after noon. He’s still in his pajamas—nothing but a pair of black briefs you’re sure were created with the sole intent of torturing you—and his hair sticks up at odd angles. But he looks good. Looks like temptation itself with his golden skin, honeyed from the sun; the six pack of abs peeking out from beneath the waistband; his voice, deep and husky from sleep.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” You try to swallow, not at all surprised to find your mouth has gone dry. “Sleep alright?”

Soonyoung hums. Crosses one arm across his body to scratch at his collar bone, which does nothing at all to alleviate your suffering. “You got anything on the agenda for today?” You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. “They’re doing fireworks on the beach tonight, if you wanna check it out? We can make a day of it and do the whole boardwalk thing.”

“Oh,” you manage to choke out. “Sure. That sounds fun.”

His responding smile is another arrow to your chest. “Cool. You’re good with rides, right? Or are you gonna puke on me if I drag you on a rollercoaster?”

I might puke on you if you don’t put a shirt on, you think. “No, I’m good,” you confirm instead. Then you actually give yourself a second to think of something that isn’t Soonyoung and his sculpted, insanity-inducing body and follow up with, “Except maybe that spaceship-looking thing that spins around really fast.”

Rookie mistake: you forget to put the teacups on your no-go list.

After getting your wristbands, it’s the first ride Soonyoung drags you on. “If you’re gonna puke, we might as well get it over with early,” he reasons. You’re too gobsmacked to argue or try to sneak out of line when he isn’t looking, so the next thing you know you’re being ushered into an empty cup by a minimum wage employee entirely indifferent to your plight, all hopes of a last-second escape dashed.

Soonyoung’s sinister grin fills you with dread.

Because you know exactly what he’s going to do.

“Soonyoung, don’t—”

It’s no use. As soon as the ride starts moving, Soonyoung’s grabbing onto the bar in the center and spinning your teacup as fast as he can. Aside from his wild cackles that slip through, you can barely hear anything over the sound of your own screaming, louder than even the small kids being spun around by their parents. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto the safety bar for dear life, filling your thoughts with anything that doesn’t require a barf bag.

(You obviously don’t know in the moment, but later on, Soonyoung digs his phone out of his pocket. Goes into his camera roll and thumbs until he finds what he’s looking for before holding it out to show you. And you’re a little stunned, is the thing, because there you are. Eyes shut, gripping onto the bar just like you remember, but it’s the way you’re smiling that takes you by surprise. You can’t remember the last time you looked so happy. Can’t remember the last time you felt it, either.

“Do you mind if I post it to my story?”

Feels nearly impossible to tear your eyes away from it, but you manage to nod. Say, “Sure, as long as you send it to me first,” and he does.

You [6:28pm]: [Attachment: 1 Image] You [6:28pm]: What do you think this means? Minghao [6:34pm]: that you’re fucked

A fresh wave of nausea hits you, because you don’t need Minghao to tell you that.

You already know.)

Somehow you survive, even though your first steps back on solid ground are a bit shaky. Soonyoung laughs and offers up a half-assed apology you know he doesn’t mean, but he lets you choose the next few rides to make up for it. Chivalrous, sure, but there are so many you don’t know where to begin. Anything upside-down is out of the question for now, given the state of your stomach, so you point at a dilapidated-looking ship and say, “What’s that?” even though it’s self-explanatory.

“Ghost Ship.”

The hesitation in his tone immediately piques your interest. Oh ho ho, you think, smiling to yourself—he should not have spun you dizzy on the teacups. “Oh. Is it scary?”

So subtle you nearly miss it, Soonyoung puffs out his chest and stands up straighter. Stares at the ride as if it offended him personally as he says, “I—no! Not really. No, it’s not.”

“Is it not scary or not really scary?”

“It’s not scary,” he clarifies, lying through his teeth. “Not to me, anyway.”

“Cool, let’s go on it, then.” You start walking towards the ride entrance, pretending not to know he isn’t following. “It’s eight tickets,” you say, keeping up the ruse. Soonyoung still hasn’t followed and your wristbands are loaded with unlimited ride tickets. “Do we have—Soonyoung? What’s wrong?” Checkmate. Soonyoung’s cheeks go pink as he shuffles a few feet closer. “Do you not want to go on it?”

“I do!” he insists. “It’s just—it’s just, uh. Doesn’t that rollercoaster look way more fun? Or… look! The log flume looks fun, too!”

“But then we’ll have to walk around in wet clothes.”

“That’s what the rollercoaster is for.” You stare blankly at him. “You know, for drying. ‘Cause it goes fast.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to go on that one,” you say, making sure to pout a little. There’s a very visible war waging inside of him. He either looks like a chicken on the ride or he looks like one by refusing to go on it at all. And that’s nothing a bit of bargaining can’t fix, so you say, “If you’re too scared, I can always hold your hand.”

You expect there to be at least a split-second of hesitation, but Soonyoung just says, “Deal!” and reaches for you. Laces your fingers together and doesn’t let go of you the entire time. Not while you wait in line, not while you’re on the ride (where he does scream his head off and grips your hand so tight you’re surprised it doesn’t cut the blood flow), and not after.

Soonyoung holds your hand as the two of you walk up and down the boards. As you duck into souvenir and t-shirt shops with crude sayings. As your stomach starts to rumble and he asks if you’ve ever had a deep-fried cannoli. As he somehow seems shocked when you say no and offers to buy you one, and when you jokingly ask if he’s trying to kill you, he squeezes your hand and says, “Never,” in a voice so soft it nearly makes you cry.

The only time he lets go is to pay for your food. He finds an empty table and sits on the same side as you, bodies pressed so close together your thighs touch. Takes another photo after he convinces you to try the cannoli. It’s far too sweet and far too rich, and you can’t stomach more than a couple bites, but Soonyoung wears a proud, beaming smile the entire time that helps it go down easier. He cleans the powdered sugar from the tip of your nose and, when he’s done, he stares at you so intently you think, this is it, he’s going to kiss me.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet, anyway.

There are things he wants to do first. More rides, more hand-holding, more obscene t-shirts he tries talking you into buying, more strange foods you can only find in a place like this. More people he wants to introduce you to, too, because he seems to know everyone. They all greet him warmly, like their day is better just by running into him, so by extension that warmth is also on offer for you. “Oh, hi! Who’s this?” they all ask, and Soonyoung introduces you by name each time.

He never says, Oh, she’s renting one of my spare rooms for the summer.

He never says, Oh, she’s just a friend.

He never says, Oh, no, it’s nothing serious, because it isn’t anything at all.

Not once does he shy away. Never seems embarrassed to be seen with you. Doesn’t seem fussed by his friends glancing down at your clasped hands and assuming you’re together, or watching the way he throws an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his side. He doesn’t put a name to whatever is simmering between the two of you, but he doesn’t snuff it out, either.

Soonyoung gives you an answer to a question you haven’t dared to ask: does he feel it, does he want this, too?

A single spark of hope can be a dangerous thing. You know this as well as anyone. But it doesn’t feel so scary when, later on, the two of you see Chan manning one of the game booths, scrolling mindlessly through his phone as a young kid throws darts at a wall of colorful balloons. “Wow, great job,” he deadpans every time one pops, not bothering to check how many were taken out before handing over a giant stuffed animal.

“I’m gonna win you something,” Soonyoung declares. “Which one’s your favorite?”

You hum. Tap your finger against your chin as you pretend to mull it over. “The tiger,” you answer. “The really big one.”

Soonyoung pretends to push up sleeves that don’t exist. “Coming right up.” He approaches Chan. “Hello, sir. I’m here to win the giant tiger for the lovely lady.”

Chan ignores him and holds out his hand for the money. “Pay up, weirdo.”

As they argue, you wander into another souvenir shop. It’s mostly more of the same—tacky figurines of sea life and shot glasses featuring anatomically incorrect genitalia, skimboards and mugs with seashells for handles—but you pause in front of a rack of keychains. You’re not going to find Soonyoung’s name on any of these tiny surfboards. There are others, though: #1 Grandpa, Rock Star, Boy Mom, They Didn’t Have My Name. You laugh at the last one. Almost pick it up for Soonyoung until another one catches your eye.

Best Teacher

When you return to Chan’s game stall, Soonyoung is holding the tiger around the neck, grinning triumphantly as he rocks back on his heels like he hunted it himself.

“Welcome back! As you can see, I fought valiantly to win you your requested prize.”

He returns his arm to your shoulders, pulling you back into his side as he continues walking down the pier. From behind, Chan yells, “No he didn’t! He didn’t win shit, he grabbed it when I wasn’t looking! He’s a fraud!”

Naturally, Soonyoung ignores this. Pretends he doesn’t know Chan at all and asks what you’re going to name your new friend. “Probably nothing, if you keep carrying them like that. I think they’re turning purple. Or blue.”

Soonyoung gasps and adjusts his grip. Carries your new friend around their middle instead of their neck. “Okay, no attempted murder charges for me. One of my friends is on ferris wheel duty tonight—let’s see if he’ll let me use his locker.”

“Trying to get rid of my child already?”

“They’re heavy,” he whines.

You poke his bicep. “Are these just for show, then? God gives His biggest biceps to His most useless soldiers.”

“Did you forget I won this—”

“Stole,” you correct.

Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Did you forget I won this for you? How can that be useless?”

You’re poised for a response that’s cut off by someone shouting his name. A lanky, kind of tall man is leaning over the wrought-iron railing, waving his arms like one of those blow-up things outside car dealerships. He’s wearing a tie-dyed shirt and his nametag has two names on it. HANSOL is crossed out with VERNONwritten underneath in bigger, bolder letters, prompting you to ask Soonyoung what his name actually is.

“Both,” he answers. Then, to Hansol-Vernon, he asks, “Can I use your locker for this thing?”

“Just leave it here,” Hansol-Vernon says, pointing at the floor of his operating station. He cracks open a can of beer. “Y’all want some? The fireworks are gonna start soon so everyone bounced. No one’s wanted to ride this thing in fuckin’ hours.”

Surely this is in violation of at least fifteen different safety standards. No one else seems to care, though, so you’re not going to be the one to bring it up and be a wet blanket about it. “Sure.” You shrug, accepting two cans when he hands them over.

Soonyoung, on the other hand, seems to have other plans. “Can we watch the fireworks from this thing?”

“Probably. They’re doing them all the way down the beach, so I don’t think they’ll, like, hit you.”

Soonyoung looks at you. Asks a question with his eyes that you answer with a small nod. “Sick. Give us more of those”—he points to Hansol-Vernon’s beer stash—“and don’t bring us back down until I say so.”

“Dude, no. If you’re planning on fucking up there again don’t even—”

You choke on your beer, coughing violently as you try to prevent it from coming out of your nose. Hansol-Vernon slaps you on the back and asks politely if you can get it together because he can’t have a death on his hands, either. “Thanks, Hansol-Vernon,” you say, wheezing a little as you regain your voice.

“It’s just Hansol. Or Vernon.”

That doesn’t clear up much.

Still stuck on three sentences ago, Soonyoung scoffs, indignant, and crosses his arms over his chest. “First of all, that was Mingyu! Don’t blame me for his debauchery! Second of all…” He pauses. “No second of all, actually.” He turns to you. “Do you wanna watch the fireworks from up there? I promise I won’t try to fuck you.”

You choke again.

Regardless, you agree. Vernon (which you’ve settled on calling him due to his shirt, which doesn’t have much of a Hansol vibe) gets you two situated, shouting a very pointed, “Hands where I can see them at all times!” when you reach the top.

And the view is breathtaking.

Nearly the entire town is visible, flat and sprawling as it encroaches on the shoreline to your right and the bay to your left. Lit up bright, welcoming like a beacon, though you’re not sure what it’s luring you into. You watch the waves break against the shore. The ant-sized people moving in herds. All the other rides that are operating and flashing and playing stupid little songs. You watch two seagulls perch on the roof of the ticket booth and fight over a french fry.

Under no circumstances do you look at Soonyoung, even though you know he’s looking at you.

The weight of his gaze is overwhelming. Has fire needling beneath your skin, pricking at your most sensitive spots. Because not only are there implications in it, there are wants. Wants that you know would be mirrored in your own eyes. And that’s… is it smart to start something with a predetermined end date? Soonyoung isn’t an idiot, wouldn’t be going into this with eyes wide shut, but you’re not sure where you stand. If it’s a risk you’re willing to take and a hurt you’re willing to both endure and put someone else through.

Still.

A single spark of hope can be a dangerous thing, and Soonyoung’s looking at you like he wants to engulf you. Like he wants to take every broken part of you and piece them back together with gentle hands. He’s looking at you with no trepidation at all, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. Like there’s potential. Like whatever you have to offer is worthwhile.

It should be scary. You should be throwing out emergency flares, begging whoever comes to your rescue to make you think rationally. It’s only been a month. You’re leaving in two. Hours of distance separate the two of you. You barely know him. He barely knows you; might eventually uncover all the things you hate about yourself and find them ugly, too.

It should be scary.

But it’s not.

So here, at the top of a ferris wheel that might as well be the top of the world, is where you finally meet his eye and manage to say, “I want you to kiss me. When the fireworks start, I want you to kiss me.”

Soonyoung smiles so wide his cheeks dimple. Scooches forward to sit on the edge of the bench, so close his knees knock into yours, always touching now that he’s allowed to. So close you can smell the sea salt and the remnants of cologne that stick to his skin. So close you can see yourself reflected in his eyes, surrounded by stars.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asks, voice deep and molten, words nearly spoken into the crook of your neck. You almost have to look away again—almost have to call the whole thing off out of self-preservation—because that intensity is back. Has your breath hitching in your throat, sweat beading along your hairline.

Soonyoung cups your jaw. Runs his thumb over the seam of your lips. If you were any more coherent you’d nip at it with your teeth, soothe the sting with your tongue, show you can give as good as you get. You want Soonyoung just as affected as you, just as wanting. Just as gripped by the anticipation. Just as fucked up over the possibility of it all.

And it seems like he is, because he leans in impossibly closer. Uses his free hand to grip at the meat of your thigh, slide it higher until it’s nearly settling on your waist. He pinches the fabric of your shirt between his fingers like he’s trying to savor it, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. When he speaks this time, you actually do feel it against your skin. Feel the way his lips form around each word. Feel his warm breath every time he exhales. Feel your stomach somersault when he asks, “What if I don’t want to wait for the fireworks?” Feel your core throb when he continues, tone headier than you’ve ever heard it, “What if I just pulled you into my lap and kissed you right now?”

If you were any more coherent you’d tell him to do it. You’d smirk, press your tongue into the fat of your cheek, lean in just as close and watch the goosebumps rise on his arms when you tugged his earlobe between your teeth and said, “Why don’t you find out?” But you’re all out of sorts here on the top of the world, scared you’re going to come plummeting back to reality any second.

Because Soonyoung feels like a dream—not idealized or put on a pedestal, but realistic and attainable. Someone it’s easy to exist alongside of. Someone who shows you off without reservation and swindles his friends out of glorified carnival prizes just because you want one. Someone not afraid of or deterred by the liminal state of your relationship, before things became more solid and defined. Someone who knows when to push and when to be patient. Someone who looks at you and sees a future you could barely imagine—not because you didn’t want it, but because all those assumed barriers.

Grief so overpowering some days you could barely get out of bed. Salary, title, and job prospects not where or what you thought they’d be after graduating nearly a decade ago. Feeling trapped by both of these things. Knowing it’s pointless to tie your self-worth to numbers and degrees and prestige but being unable to help it. Being quietly dissatisfied with a simple, ordinary life.

But while those things are true, they aren’t what defines you.

You haven’t decided this thing with Soonyoung is worth pursuing because of his job—jobs. How much money he does or doesn’t make isn’t what you see when you look at him. What you see is his smile when he walks through the door on Friday evenings. The way his brows pinch and his tongue sticks out just so when he’s cooking dinner for the two of you. The look he wears when he shows up in the doorway of your room, half embarrassment and half mischief as he asks you to help him bleach his hair at some ungodly hour—that he trusts you to help even though you’ve never done it before. You see a man that, for the past month, has welcomed you into his home and his life.

All of those things are what makes it easy to plant your hands in the center of his chest and push him back against the bench. To crawl into his lap just like he’d teased, to nip at his skin just like you’d wanted, and whisper, “Maybe I don’t want to wait, either.”

Fate is not something you believe in, but if you did, you think it’d feel a lot like this: the first firework exploding as soon as Soonyoung grabs you by the back of the neck and draws you in for a searing, bruising kiss. The way he groans into your mouth and moves his hands to your waist, trying to erase space that doesn’t exist. You can tell he’s holding himself back, that he wants to thrust his hips, desperate for friction, but doesn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable, is letting you set the pace.

And the pace you want is just as frenzied.

“Fuck,” Soonyoung swears, hissing as you fully drop your weight onto him. When he tilts his head back, you move your lips to the column of his throat, delighting in the sounds spilling from him, the way he finally dares to roll his hips.

You moan, unable to help the sleazy smile that stretches across your face. “God,” you rasp, matching his thrusts, “you’re so hard.”

Soonyoung scoffs. Makes a sound like the air’s been punched out of him. “Do you know—shit—d’you know how long I’ve wa-wanted to kiss you? And have you seen yourself?”

“I have,” you snark, threading your fingers through his hair. “You could’ve, you know. Would’ve let you.”

“Pull it harder.” You do as you’re told, tightening your grip, staring down at the man beneath you. Lips parted, breathing labored, unsure what to do with his hands. You want to mess him up. Want to bring him close to the edge and make him suffer through having to wait. “Mm yeah, just like that, baby—make it hurt.”

Every word strikes you deep. Has you needy and clenching around nothing, unfazed by the world around you, that you’re in public. Fireworks continue to explode. So will you, soon, if Soonyoung doesn’t—

“Touch me,” you beg, unashamed of the need in your tone. He should hear it. He should know how affected you are by him, what he does to you. What you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks. “Soonyoung, please. Touch me, take me home, I don’t care, just—”

You’d be hard-pressed to say how you got here.

On your back in Soonyoung’s bed, his head between your legs. Panties pulled down only as far as they needed to be for him to get his mouth on you, and god is it good. Soonyoung’s made a trembling, gasping mess of you in record time. Has you clutching at his sheets every time he suctions his lips around your clit; every long, pointed stroke he makes with his tongue. Stars explode behind your eyelids every time he praises you, and you’d wanted him on the edge but you make it there first.

Soonyoung can tell. Sucks two fingers into his mouth and teases your entrance. “You’re gonna come, aren’t you, baby?” You nod, unable to muster actual words. Soonyoung grins, devilish and wicked, and presses his fingers inside. Crooks them immediately against your front wall as he returns his mouth to your cunt, sucking and licking, nipping at your skin.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Mhmm, let me feel it—that’s it, good girl. Taste so fuckin’ good; you drive me fucking crazy.”

You come with a shout, vision nearly whiting out, your hands back in Soonyoung’s hair to anchor you to this plane of existence. Wave after wave of euphoria hits you, and you almost beg him to keep going, to not go easy on you, make you come again, but you also just want him closer. Want to taste yourself on his lips. Want to hear his fractured intakes of breath as you grip his cock and touch him properly for the first time. Want the two of you to have to sleep in your bed because you make such a mess of his.

All he gives you is a few seconds to catch your breath. You know what you must look like, chest heaving and sweat-slick, and it makes you feel powerful. Sexy. Gives you the confidence to shrug off the last of your inhibitions and say, “C’mere, please,” and kiss the taste of your pussy off his lips, suck it off his tongue.

You skim your hands down his body—the expanse of soft, warm skin, chest to thigh. Grab at him over his briefs, rub your thumb across the wet patch you find there. Soonyoung curses when you suck that same thumb into your mouth and groan at the taste, the musk and hint of salt. One day you’ll return the favor and make him come with your mouth, have his muscles contracting as you swallow him down and let him fuck your throat, but right now you’re too impatient. Need him inside of you too badly.

There’s plenty of time for everything else.

Hand dipping beneath his briefs, you’re finally able to feel the weight of him. His velvety skin. Soonyoung hisses and tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. Watches you like a hawk, predator and prey, and it just spurns you on more. Has you circling and pumping his length, trying to figure out what he likes—which seems to be everything, judging by the way he hides his face in the crook of your neck and whines. “Baby,” he mewls. “God, you’re gonna feel so good around me, so tight and wet. Fuck, I’m never letting you out of this bed.”

“Yeah?” you tease, thumbing at his slit, collecting the pearls of pre-cum. “You wanna keep me forever?”

Another loud moan. “Please don’t say things like that,” he pleads, and you swear your heart stops, that your stomach drops through the mattress and onto the floor, before he follows it up with, “you’ll make me bust in my underwear like a virgin.”

You giggle, because that’s just how it is with Soonyoung: so easy to exist, to let go of your fear; so easy to laugh when everything starts feeling a bit too serious.

Easy to lob a truly terrible joke right back at him. “Come lose it, then.”

He barks a laugh. Leans over to fetch a condom from his nightstand. “Would you, the beautiful, incredible woman who I can’t believe is naked in my bed right now after I scammed her, like to do the honors?”

You would, actually, so you do.

Soonyoung kisses you as he slowly presses inside. As he fucks into you inch by inch. When he bottoms out, he gives you time to adjust; moves his hands to your waist and massages the skin just above your hip bones. “Okay?” he asks, and when you nod, tell him it’s okay to move, he presses another kiss to your forehead. “Good job, pretty girl; took me so well. I knew you’d feel like heaven.”

He fucks you slowly at first, measured and precise. Takes his time rolling his hips as his hands explore anything they can reach, like he can’t bear to not be touching you even though you’re connected in the most raw, sensual way two people can be. He waits he can feel you spasming around him, until your legs are locked behind his back, begging him to fuck you faster, harder, before he obliges. Before he puts all the power in his hips to good use. Before he rolls you onto your stomach and enters you from behind, both of you gasping at how much more intense it feels.

“Close,” you warn him, not at all surprised at how quickly your second release has snuck up on you.

With a final nip to the back of your neck, Soonyoung plants his knees against the mattress and grabs you by the hips, angling your body so he hits deeper, harder; so his balls slap against your clit every time he thrusts into you. You’re mindless with pleasure. Babbling nonsense as you beg him not to stop. Wouldn’t fuckin’ dream of it, he speaks through gritted teeth.

The coil of tension in your gut finally snaps. Again, you come with a shout, entire body pulling taut as Soonyoung continues to fuck you through it, his own undoing not far behind. Only a few more thrusts before he’s draping his body over yours and spilling into the condom, hands immediately reaching for yours to twine your fingers together.

It’s quiet in the immediate aftermath. Soonyoung rolls onto his side and presses his front against your back, arm secured around your middle. Kisses the top of your head and sighs. “I need to clean us up but I don’t think I can move.”

“Hm. At least take off the condom so your dick doesn’t get all pruney.”

Soonyoung startles, bolting upright. “Can that happen?”

“Dunno,” you respond, feeling sleep nipping at your heels, “but I’d rather you didn’t risk finding out. I happen to like your dick very much.”

He laughs. Rolls out of bed and playfully swats at your ass on his way to the bathroom. “Yeah, we’re not leaving this bed for a long time.”

In the morning, you wake up Soonyoung with your mouth and ride him until you’re both dizzy and breathless.

You fetch a book from your room and read while he dozes in and out of consciousness, content to just be next to him. You ignore the slew of texts from Minghao, who had heard from a friend of a friend of a friend that there had been a development in your and Soonyoung’s relationship the night before, but once your phone vibrates for the hundredth time that morning, you figure you might as well get it over with because you know Minghao—know he won’t relent until he gets what he’s looking for.

Minghao [11:03am]: ignore my actually important texts all you want, but at least look at this 🙄

What he’s sent you is a job listing.

You can hardly believe what you’re reading. Not only is it nearly your dream job, but it’s remote and triple your current salary—and, most importantly, you’re qualified.

You [11:12am]: Minghao what is this?? Minghao [11:12am]: a friend is a higher-up there. says we can use him as a reference but if your resume looks good it might as well be a done deal Minghao [11:13am]: i already sent yours to him btw You [11:14am]: Freak. Why do you have a copy of my resume?? Minghao [11:14am]: i don’t. i sent him your linkedin Minghao [11:14am]: your ugly ass headshot must not have scared him off bc he said he’ll be in touch soon

Now you’re breathless for an entirely different reason.

You’ll figure out a way to thank him later, ask if he’s making the switch with you because both of you deserve better. You won’t get your hopes up—not until it’s a done deal, and not until you talk to Soonyoung. Because whatever this is between you is heading down a path you want to follow; want to see through to the end, wherever that may be.

For now, though, you’re happy to exist alongside Soonyoung. Happy to listen to his quiet snores and let him cuddle into your side. Happy to be in this house in this little beach town that has already given you so much.

Perhaps fate is something you believe in, after all.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

#caratbaycollab #hoshi smut #hoshi x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #svt smut #soonyoung x reader #soonyoung smut #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #svt x reader #svt imagines #svt fanfic #hoshi fanfic #hoshi imagines

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mommyslittlebird · 4 months ago

Text

What the Body Wants

Stepmom!Wanda x Reader

Summary: Now that you’ve decided to stay home for good, Wanda decides to take a step further into her role as your mama. The side effects bring out parts of her you’ve never seen.

CW: Stepmom/stepdaughter, induced lactation, breeding, cum strap, ovulation, light choking, W wants a baby, R is lowkey a bad fuck, R is confused but enthusiastic

Word Count: ~5k

A/N: Writer is also confused but enthusiastic. I’m not entirely sure I did this right but I like how it turned out and I really loved the premise. I hope this lives up to the hype/the rest of the series!

Part 5 of Her Special Girl

———————————————————

Coming home actually turned out to be a bit of a better deal than you expected. You’d half prepared to be regretting your decision by now, longing for the dorm life and solitude that moving away had given you. But, in reality, that college had never really given what you had hoped it would, so it didn’t feel like you were leaving anything behind.

Home life had also improved in the years you went away. A new custody agreement between Wanda and her ex-husband meant the boys were gone every other week, and they had grown up enough to not be riding Wanda’s coattails like they had been when you left. Your father was still deadweight, but he fell asleep early and stayed at work late, so even he was only an issue on occasion.

Even though it was only a 15 minute drive to campus, you adjusted your schedule to only have in-person classes on Tuesday and Thursday so you didn’t have to go everyday. So you spent most days in the bay window of Wanda’s office with your laptop and a lap desk, silently working on classwork while she sat at her computer.

Since you’d decided to stay home 2 weeks ago, Wanda had started the process of induced lactation, a thing the two of you had discussed in the past. You couldn’t help but be fascinated by the process. She would sit down on the couch or in bed, and spend around ten minutes with the funny looking devices hooked up to her chest. She still had an electric pump from when she had the twins, and you love to watch in awe as the clear plastic methodically massaged your mama’s nipples. She’d simply be reading a book or watching TV, but your eyes never left her chest.

If you asked nicely, she would let you help her use the manual pump. It never failed to amuse her how seriously you took this task. You would straddle her lap, furrowing your brow and sticking out your tongue slightly in intense focus. You always made sure the cup was placed perfectly, and you watched her face to gauge her reaction as you started to squeeze the pump. You were so receptive to anything she told you, whether you needed to squeeze it a little bit more, or if you’d gone too far. You always felt so honored to be allowed to take part in the process.

Your favorite, though, was when she invited you to join. She always insisted that the best form of stimulation was your suckling. She would lay you across her lap, running her hands through your hair, telling you that you did it better than the machines ever could. You spent 10, sometimes even 20 minutes on each side longing to draw out the process for as long as possible. Occasionally, she’d let you suckle on one side while she hooked up the electric pump to the other. She seemed to get extra stimulated on those days, hardly able to sit still even with your full weight in her lap.

On this particular afternoon, the two of you were curled up on the couch watching one of Wanda's favorite movies. You thought it was a little boring, but you weren’t going to complain while you curled up in her lap, securely wrapped in a soft blanket. The boys were at their dad’s house, your dad was at work and wouldn’t be home for several hours, and Wanda didn’t have any meetings this afternoon, so you didn’t have to worry about getting caught.

You wiggled around a little, trying to get comfortable, and you accidentally pushed your shoulder into Wanda’s chest.

She winced and sucked on her teeth. “Careful baby,” she whispered. “Mama’s a little sore.”

“Sorry, mama,” you apologized, turning to face her while carefully avoiding hitting her again. She took her breast in her hand, gently massaging it to ease the tension. You could see through gritted teeth how sore she was. You wanted to help her in any way possible. “Do you need a massage?” You asked innocently.

She perked up a little bit, intrigued by the offer. “Do you wanna give mama’s breast a gentle little massage?”

You nodded, and she slipped her shirt off over her head, revealing her chest. You could’ve sworn it was growing, though not so much she couldn’t hide it with baggy clothes. She took your hand in hers and slowly raised it to her breast. She could see you were nervous. You didn’t want to hurt her.

“It’s okay baby,” she reassured you. “You aren’t gonna hurt mama.”

You bit your lip, determined to do a good job and ease her pain. She was doing this for you, after all. You cautiously massaged the skin with your fingers, working your way carefully around her chest.

“Mmm,” Wanda hummed, throwing her head over the back of the couch. You could see her chewing the inside of her cheek, breathing shakily through her nose.

“Is this okay, mama?” you ask, concerned. “Do you need me to stop?”

“No, sweet girl,” she assured. “Don’t stop, just a tiny bit harder… ahh. You’re doing such a good job making sure your mama is all taken care of.”

“Mama?” you asked nervously.

“Yes, sweet girl?” she responded breathily.

“Is it hurting your body? To try and make milk for me?”

Wanda sat up straighter and cupped your soft, worried cheek. “Aww, sweetheart. You’re not hurting mama, baby. Mama is doing this because she wants to. And it doesn’t hurt so much as it’s just sensitive.” She stroked your cheekbone with her thumb, noticing how worried you still seemed to be. “Can mama tell you a secret baby?”

You nodded and leaned in, pressing your ear to her lips even though you were the only two people in the room.

Wanda dropped her voice to a whisper, playing along with your overly stealthy approach. “Mama’s body is reacting like this because all this pumping is making it want a baby.”

She took your hand, sliding it down her body and into the front of her pants. You nearly gasped as you felt through her thin underwear just how soaked she was. You pressed lightly into the wet patch, sliding two fingers up her slit through the fabric. She inhaled sharply, already grinding up against your hand. “It’s so sensitive, baby.”

She pulled back, gauging your reaction. There was a glint of recognition in your eyes. You were familiar with this sensation.

—----------

You stood in the doorway of her office, anxious and sweating. Your body felt it was on fire, tingling from your fingertips all the way down to your toes. You typically had a decently high sex drive, but you couldn’t remember a time when you’d ever felt this needy. It would have been easy enough to go to your room and masterbate, solve the problem on your own, but you wanted more. You wanted Wanda.

“Mama?”

Wanda turned her office chair to meet you. “Yes, sweet girl? What can I help you with?” She opened her arms, signaling you to come in.

You sat down in her lap and laid your head against her shoulder. She cradled the back of your head, stroking your hair softly with her thumb.

You hadn’t exactly planned to press your lips to her neck, to gently suck at the skin under her ear, but you were so hot, and her skin looked so soft, and you were so close, and she smelled so nice. And god, the taste, the sound you drew from her lips, the warmth of her skin. You needed her so badly. You slid your hand under the hem of her shirt, sliding your palm across her warm stomach.

“Sweetheart?” she said in a warning tone, using her hand to gently pull you from her neck. “What are you doing?”

She looked down, finding your eyes already glazed over with lust. You were hot to the touch, and just the simple tug of your hair pulled a low moan from your throat. “I need you, mama….”

She swallowed hard. It took a herculean amount of strength not to throw you over her desk and take you right there. If she hadn’t been a tad concerned that you had lost your mind, she would have. “Baby…” she asked. “What’s going on? Talk to mama.”

Your eyes looked into hers, pleading for more. Anything to take away the aching from between your legs. “It… I feel… It’s all so tingly. Everywhere. It… it hurts mama.” You were practically begging her to rip your clothes off and fuck you senseless.

“Ahh,” she hummed in recognition. “It’s that time of the month, is it?”

You furrowed your brow, confused. “What? No. My period was last week.”

“So your ovulation is this week,” she posited, smiling devilishly. “I’ll have to start keeping track of it, if it’s hitting you this hard.”

You groaned and buried your face into her shoulder while your hips bucked against her lap for any source of friction. You didn’t exactly know what ovulation was or what it had to do with you being so unbearably horny, but you weren’t exactly in the mood for an anatomy lesson.

Wanda kissed your head sympathetically and rubbed gentle circles on to the small of your back. “I’m so sorry, little love. Mama will take care of you in just a minute, just let me email Tasha and let her know I’m taking a long lunch.”

Thankfully, Wanda was true to her word, wrapping up her things rather quickly and carrying you to the bedroom. Your body hummed with electricity as she gently undressed you, making sure to egg you on with wet kisses and random hickies placed sporadically across your skin. You nearly jumped off the bed when she finally touched you, running a single digit up your folds and standing back to admire the results.

“Oh sweet girl, look at this,” she purred, holding her fingers in front of your face, covered in your excitement. As disinterested as you were in anything other than her hands and mouth on your body, you were admittedly a bit curious as to why it looked so different. What was usually a thin, clear liquid was now thick and white. She brought the fingers to your lips and you obediently took them into your mouth. “Do you know why it looks like that, sweetheart?”

You shook your head, quietly moaning at your own taste.

She leaned forward, whispering into your ear. “It’s because your body wants mama to give you babies.”

Just the raspy way the words left her mouth sent your hips flying off the mattress in a jolt of arousal. She stilled them with her hands, moving to kneel between your legs.

You had always had a pretty strong preference for missionary. You like to wrap your arms around Wanda’s waist and bury your face in her neck to stifle any sounds that she pulled out of you. This time, however, Wanda grabbed your legs and pushed your knees to your chest, gripping your thighs just below the underside of your knee.

You whined, feeling too far away from her, but she bent forward and kissed your head. “Shshsh. It’s okay sweet girl. Mama’s got you.”

You almost wanted to protest, but as soon as the tip of the toy hit your skin, any objections melted away. It was bigger than the toys you typically used, but you were so soaked the first four inches still slid in with ease. Your body momentarily seized and you breathed out a straggled moan.

Wanda took it slow at first, leaning forward to kiss your face and whisper words of encouragement as she gently eased the toy deeper and deeper with each thrust. “That’s it. That’s my pretty girl,” she cooed. “You look so pretty stretched out around mama’s cock, baby. Does it feel good? Is this just what you needed from mama?”

“Uh huh,” you moaned, eyes already starting to roll backwards. Your face flushed red when you realized you had nothing to cover your mouth with, leaving you squeaking and whining uncontrollably with each thrust.

Your mouth opened in a silent scream as Wanda bottomed out. You quickly realized the reason Wanda had you folded over like this: the strap could go impossibly deep, stretching you out in ways you’d never felt before. It was like she was kissing your womb with every stroke.

She groaned, slowly but firmly thrusting in as far as she could and holding it there before pulling back again. “Look at you, honey. Mama’s got you nice and ready. Are you gonna be a good girl for mama and let me give your body what it needs? Are you gonna let mama give you her babies?”

You bit down hard on your lip. You didn’t really understand what she was talking about. She couldn’t actually get you pregnant, but you did not care. You nodded eagerly, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “Mhm.”

“Say it for me. Tell me you want mama to fill you with her babies,” she commanded gently, continuing her slow and careful thrusts.

“I want… I want your babies mama. Please. Please mama I want you inside me forever,” you whined. Still you didn’t exactly understand what you were begging for, but the glare in her eyes told you that must have done the trick.

She leaned forward, pressing her whole body against yours and pinning you to the mattress. Your feet went up over her shoulders, keeping you trapped in the position even as her hands moved from your legs to the mattress. What had previously been slow, shallow strokes turned into faster, brutal thrusts. She pulled the toy nearly completely out of you before slamming it all the way back in. Her hips met yours in a merciless rhythm that left you shaking.

“Fuck! Mama… Mama!” You screamed, trying to reach out and grab her, but unable to get your hands out from under your legs. “Mama… I love you. I love you mama.”

“I love you too, sweet girl,” she said, nearly grunting with the intensity of her movement.

There was a shift that happened sometimes, when things got particularly intense between the two of you. It was like the slipping of a mask, but not in a scary or malicious way. Just Wanda so brutally intoxicated with you that she lost control. Her eyes narrowed and her face hardened. Her breaths came more as grunts than light moans. Her grip on you tightened into something more possessive and domineering. It never failed to drive you crazy.

“Fuck,” she growled, leaning back and moving her hand to your throat. “I’m gonna breed you. I’m going to keep filling you up until you can’t do anything but lay here and wait for me to come back and fill you up again. I’m gonna keep you leaking with my cum until this sweet little belly is all nice and swollen. Would you like that, angel? Do you want mama to keep you nice and full?”

“Yes mama!” you cried. “Please… please mama. Mama I’m gonna cum for you. Please cum inside of me mama. Please cum in…” you were cut short by an orgasm tearing through your body, leaving you speechless and dumb.

Wanda did not let up, continuing to chase her own pleasure. You tried to speak, but you couldn’t get out anymore than incoherent babbles. Wanda grabbed the vibrator she had given you earlier from your hand, turning it on and holding it to your clit. You writhed underneath her, jerking and spasming off the mattress, but she held you firmly in place.

Neither of you could do anymore than whimper or squeak. The only sound in the room was her hips hitting yours and the low thrum of the vibrator.

She let go of your throat, leaning forward again so she could kiss your face. “You're so beautiful, angel. And you feel so good on mama’s cock.” She turned up the setting on the vibrator, burying herself inside of you as deep as she could go. She could feel the vibrations against her own clit now. “Oh angel, mama’s gonna cum inside of you. Mama’s gonna fill you up and give your body everything it wants.” She squeezed the strap as she came, filling you with a warm, thick liquid unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

Wanda slowly pulled out, and gently guided your legs down to a more natural and comfortable position.

You shuttered as you felt the liquid leak out of you and drip down the crack of your ass. You furrowed your brow in confusion. “Mama…” you whined. You were so exhausted you couldn’t do anything but turn your head to look at her.

“Yes, little love?” She said, leaning forward to gently wipe the stray hairs from your sweaty forehead.

“What was that?” You asked breathlessly. “Feels funny…”

“Mama just came inside of you, sweet girl,” she explained quietly, bending down to kiss your head.

“It’s so… warm,” you noted, rolling your head to the side. Your nose pinched uncomfortably as you felt the thick liquid dripping down onto the bed sheets.

Wanda reached her hand back down between your legs, collecting the cum on her fingers and pushing it back inside of you. You whined.

“Shshsh angel,” she cooed. “Mama’s just making sure you stay nice and full, sweetheart. You remember what we talked about, yes? That’s why you’ve been so needy for mama all afternoon. This is what your body wants.”

When she was satisfied, she discarded the strap and laid down behind you, putting her arms under yours and methodically rubbing your stomach. She imagined your stomach swelling with life you created together. What a beautiful display that would be, of your love for each other. She moved your hair aside so she could kiss the back of your neck and the spot up under your ears.

You laced your fingers in hers, resting them just below your navel. “Do you really have to go back to work, mama?” You couldn’t handle it if she left you in here alone, all sweaty and still leaking cum. Surely she would at least carry you to the bathroom, maybe run you a bath and get you cleaned up.

Wanda chuckled and kissed your shoulder blade. “I think Tasha can handle it on her own.” She pulled you closer, rubbing her cheek against your shoulder. She wasn’t exactly sure how she would explain this to her coworker in the morning, but she would be sure to start taking a day off around the same time every month.

—---------

“You want me to…” you asked nervously, but even the idea made your pupils dilate. You had never used that particular strap inside of her. She’d only ever used it on you. It was honestly still a mystery to you, how the thing worked.

Wanda bit her lip and nodded, pulling your hand from her pants. “I mean, only if you-”

“I do!” you interrupted.

She raised her brows and opened her mouth like she was getting ready to chastise you for interrupting, but when she saw the eager, innocent excitement in your eyes, she just sighed. “Okay angel. Let’s go up to your room.”

You practically jumped up off of the couch and raced upstairs, grabbing the strap and shedding your clothes before she could even make it up the stairs. She merely chuckled at your overeager behavior, casually stripping off her own clothes while you fiddled with the harness.

She sat down naked on the end of the bed, helping you secure it around your waist. She pulled at the straps you had already managed to get twisted and tangled, adjusting and tightening it to your body. “Is that too tight?”

You shook your head, waving your hips back and forth to make sure it was snug.

She led your hand to a bulge at the base of the toy. “Now when you’re ready, you’re gonna squeeze right here, okay?”

You nodded, feeling the unfamiliar shape with the pads of your fingers.

Wanda scooted backwards until her head hit the pillows. You followed, crawling on your knees until you were nestled comfortably between her legs.

You were always a little awkward, trying to get the toy in. Luckily Wanda was right there to help. She eased the tip in herself, biting her lip to contain a moan as she did so. “Okay now remember, just start nice and slow.”

You leaned over her, putting your hand against the mattress on either side of her. You stuck your tongue out slightly in concentration, trying to focus on finding a good movement. If you were being honest, you were never particularly good at this part either. But what you lacked in skill, you made up for in determination. You found a slow, and slightly awkward, but steady rhythm.

Wanda hummed delightedly, pulling you down against her. “Mmm… that’s it angel. Nice and slow. Give mama some time to adjust.”

As you continued your easy, slow ministrations, you found yourself being able to go deeper with each stroke. It was only a minute or two before you were all the way inside. If you weren’t actually trying to make her cum, you might just stay like that forever, deep inside of Wanda, feeling her body clench and pulse around you. It felt so natural. More natural to you than anything else in the world. Your bodies fit together like perfect puzzle pieces.

You took the opportunity to crane your neck downward and trace your tongue over her sensitive nipples. She gasped, squeezing her eyes closed and burying her hands in your hair. You sucked the hardened bud into your mouth and gently flicked it with the point of your tongue. Her body was taut like a bowstring, hardly moving under you aside from a few swallow gasps. You moved to the other side, gently circling the exposed one nipple with your fingertip while you did the same with your tongue on the other.

“Keep going, baby,” she panted, arching her chest up into you. She reached one of her hands down to play with her clit. “That feels so good. Mama is so sensitive for you. Mama’s body knows you’re her baby.”

You moaned at her words, your mouth and fingers doubling down. Her body shuttered and you felt her start to pulse around the strap. You felt a surge of warmth pool between her legs. You pulled your head up to look her in the eyes. “Did you just…”

She nodded and chuckled a little bit. “I told you I was sensitive.”

Your eyes went wide. You had never made her cum so fast. But a certain pride swelled up in your chest as you watched her body react to what you were doing. You gained a bit of confidence: enough to start rolling your hips in a steady motion against hers.

The smug chuckle immediately stopped as the strap started to scrap her sensitive walls. The toy was traced with vein-like bumps that scratched at that special spot inside of her. Her hands shot up and wrapped around your back, clawing gently at your shoulder blades and the length of your spine. “Ah!” she squeaked in pleasant surprise. You’d never quite taken initiative like this before. “Good girl. You're making mama feel so good. Keep going, just like that.”

She wrapped her legs around your waist, keeping your thrusts shallow and deep. “Oh god. I want to feel your cum inside of me, angel. You’re gonna make mama feel so full and happy. Tell me you want to cum inside me, sweet girl.”

“I wanna cum inside you mama. I wanna make you feel so full and… and happy. I’m gonna do such a good job for you mama. I promise,” you stammer. The sounds she was making were music to your ears. Her heels dug into your thighs in tandem with her nails on your back. She was everywhere, surrounding you in every way possible. You looked down between her legs, watching the strap slide in and out of her pussy. That was your cock inside of her.

Suddenly, as if it were some trick of your brain, you could feel it, warm and wet, drawing you in again and again. She wanted you to cum inside of her. You wanted to cum inside of her. You wrapped your arms around her back, pulling her slightly up off the mattress as you started to go faster. You buried your face into her neck, muffling your noises.

“Oh fuck,” Wanda panted, bury her hand in your hair. She cradled your head just over her shoulder. “Fuck… you would give me such beautiful babies.”

You whimpered and rutted into her so hard and fast she nearly hit her head on the headboard. She smiled breathlessly. Clearly she got you riled up.

“Did that make you happy? The idea of giving mama a baby?” She asked, turning her head so she was only inches away from your ear.

You whined and nodded, rutting into her again. This time she let out a deep, satisfied moan as she felt the tip of the toy kiss her cervix. “You want to put a baby inside of mama?”

You knew it wasn’t possible, of course. Wanda couldn’t have any more children, and even if she could you certainly couldn’t get her pregnant. Still, the idea tickled your brain in all the best ways. It would be a part of you inside of Wanda. You nodded eagerly, biting your lip. “Mhm.”

You wrapped yourself even tighter around her waist thrusting your hips into her with a new determination. “I wanna hear you say it baby…” she gasped. “Tell mama what you want.”

That was all she needed to say to get the dam to break. As soon as you open your mouth, the words flowed out of you in a flurry of desperation. “I want… I wanna fill you up mama. Please. Please, I need it. Please mama.” You were bucking into her like a virginal teenage boy, erratic and sloppy, like you could actually feel yourself inside of her. “You feel so good, mama.”

“I’m so full,” she breathed. She was so sensitive. You were hitting every spot inside of her while simultaneously laying on her aching chest. “Fuck, angel, you’re filling me up so good. Do you want to feel mama cum on your cock? Do you wanna make mama cum?”

“Yes. Please yes,” you begged, rolling your hips into hers. You sat up a little more, getting a better angle that allowed you to get even deeper inside of her. There was a surge of hunger that shot through you at the sight of her, absolutely beside herself with pleasure underneath you. You reduced her to this. You are the reason she feels so good. In a feeble attempt at dominance, you took her wrists in your hands and pinned them to the bed.

“Yes, baby. Hold mama down and make her take your babies,” she moaned.

You whimpered. You were far too small to even attempt to actually hold her down, but the sentiment still drove you both crazy. You buried the strap as deep as it would go, squeezing the base and releasing inside of her.

She arched up off the mattress, mouth fixed in a perfect “o” shape as she came around you.

You stayed like that for a second, buried inside her until she stopped shaking and collapsed back onto the bed. Slowly, you eased yourself out of her, watching your seed spill out of her. You hadn’t expected it, but there was a certain level of discontentment you felt, seeing your essence drip onto the mattress. You gathered what you could onto the tip of the toy and gently pushed it back in.

She groaned, exhausted and unable to move. You gently eased yourself down to lay on her chest, careful to avoid her tender breasts. You went limp on top of her, merging together in a boneless and sweaty pile of heavy breaths as you both tried to recover.

When she regained the ability to move, she scooted back to sit up against the pillows and moved to stroke your hair. The toy slowly fell out of her, and the warm remnants of your orgasm started to pool on the sheets below. After a long moment of lying lifelessly sprawled out on top of her, you heard her chuckle. You lifted your head to find her smiling down at you in an ecstatic giggle.

“What?” you asked, confused as if you had missed some joke.

“Nothing,” she replied. “I’m just happy.” She craned her neck so she could see your face. She was grinning ear to ear. I was a true smile: one she couldn’t even repress if she tried.

“About what?” you asked, confused. Sex, even good sex, had never left her with such a cheery disposition before.

“Just…” she paused a minute, trying to figure out how to best phrase what she wanted to say. “My body is aching for a baby and then I look down and… you’re here.”

You smiled at that, feeling that you had filled some deep biological need within her just the same as she filled one in you. You looked at her swelling breasts, and you nosed at them in a silent question. She guided your head towards her nipple in a silent answer. Your lips wrapped delicately around the hardened bud, naturally massaging it with your tongue. Much to her dismay, there still wasn’t any milk, but there was a different type of magic to knowing there would be, eventually.

The two of you were working together to create a beautiful thing. It was a sort of tangible proof that her body was responding to you, claiming you as her own. Her breasts were growing for you. Filling with milk they made for you. Because she was your mama, and you were her baby.

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda x y/n #mommy wanda #wanda maximoff x reader #mommy!wanda #wanda maximoff x y/n #stepmom!wanda x reader #stepmom!wanda #stepmom wanda #mama Wanda #her special girl

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rafecameronssl4t · 6 months ago

Note

more dad Rafe PLEASE, maybe something Christmassy

Christmas Special || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: Mabel’s going to be a big sister!!!!!

Warnings: none just fluff!!! Not proofread mb!!

Word count: 652

MASTERLIST (dad!Rafe au masterlist)

Snow fell quietly outside the large bay windows of the Cameron home, turning the estate into a winter wonderland. Inside, warmth radiated from the fireplace, its soft crackle mingling with the faint hum of Christmas music playing in the background.

The living room was a festive haven, with a towering tree decked out in twinkling lights and ornaments, its base crowded with beautifully wrapped gifts. Rafe sat cross-legged on the plush rug in front of the tree, his one-year-old daughter, Mabel, nestled in his lap.

She was dressed in a tiny red dress with a bow clipped to her fine hair, her chubby hands reaching for the jingling ornament Rafe dangled in front of her. “Careful, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice low and tender. “You’ll have the whole tree coming down if you grab too hard.”

Mabel giggled, the sound soft and melodic, as she clutched at the ornament. Rafe’s laugh followed, a sound that warmed your heart as you leaned against the doorframe, heart swelling at the sight. Rafe had always been an incredible father, and moments like these reminded you of just how much love filled your home.

This Christmas, though, was about to get even better. Hidden in your pocket was a tiny box that held news you hadn’t quite figured out how to share yet. “Caught you staring,” Rafe teased, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. His smirk was soft, affectionate. “You coming to join us, or are you just going to admire us from over there?”

You pushed off the doorframe, walking over to him with a grin. “Just thinking about how lucky I am,” you said, settling into his lap. His arms immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. “Lucky, huh?” he teased, nuzzling his nose against your neck. “Pretty sure I’m the lucky one here.”

You brushed a hand over Mabel’s soft hair, your heart swelling as she babbled happily in your arms. “Well, you’re about to get even luckier,” you said, your voice teasing as you reached into your pocket. Rafe raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Without a word, you handed him the small box. His curiosity was instant, his hands carefully unwrapping it. When he lifted the lid and saw the pregnancy test nestled inside, the air seemed to still. His blue eyes widened, darting from the test to your face. “No way,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

A wide smile spread across your face as you nodded. “Merry Christmas, Rafe. You’re going to be a dad again.” For a moment, he didn’t move, his expression a mix of shock and overwhelming joy. Then, suddenly, he reached for you, his hand cradling the back of your neck as he kissed you deeply. When he pulled back, his voice was thick with emotion.

“This… this is the best Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten,” he said, his eyes glistening. Mabel, sensing the excitement, clapped her tiny hands, letting out a delighted squeal. Rafe laughed, reaching over to tickle her belly. “And you, little lady, are going to be the best big sister ever,” he said, his tone playful but full of love.

Mabel responded with more babbles, her wide eyes bright and curious. As the three of you sat there, surrounded by the glow of the Christmas tree, you leaned into Rafe, feeling the weight of his arm tighten around you. “Merry Christmas, babe,” he said softly, pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Merry Christmas,” you echoed, your heart full. This was your family, your joy, and your miracle—wrapped in the magic of the holiday season.

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theonottsbxtch · 6 months ago

Text

DONT WANNA BE SAVED | MV1

an: mafia!max i DO want to be saved, please do not mix me up with the main character she's just a bit silly. also single dad!max hmu, yeah? i hope you're aware of how much googling i had to do this for request because i know NOTHING about dressage.

wc: 6.2k

The rhythmic crunch of gravel under the tyres was the only sound that cut through the quiet tension in the air. Max Verstappen drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, his sharp jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to venturing into parts of town that didn’t know his name, but for his little girl, he’d do anything—even if it meant swallowing his pride and knocking on the door of a horse trainer who clearly wanted nothing to do with him.

The GPS barked at him, announcing the final turn. Max squinted through the windscreen at the small, unassuming ranch sprawled out in the middle of nowhere. The place looked sturdy but unpolished, a far cry from the grand estates he usually associated with trainers who were supposedly “the best.” He cut the engine and stepped out, the crisp bite of the afternoon wind tugging at the tailored lapels of his suit.

The barn doors creaked open, and she emerged.

She was nothing like he expected. For someone with a reputation of being the finest dressage instructor on this side of the country, she didn’t look the part. Her hair was loosely tied back, strands falling into her face as she adjusted the cuff of her sleeve. Her boots were scuffed, her hands calloused, and there was a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek. Yet, the confidence in the way she moved was unmistakable—deliberate, purposeful, like she could size him up in a heartbeat and decide exactly how much of her time he deserved.

Max straightened as she approached, his usual commanding air faltering under her cool, appraising gaze. “Mr Verstappen?” she asked, voice calm and low, though there was a slight arch to her brow as she clocked his expensive suit against the rustic backdrop.

“That’s right,” he replied, recovering quickly. “I called about my daughter, Stella.”

“I remember.” Her tone was unreadable as she wiped her hands on her jeans and extended one to him. He hesitated a second too long before shaking it. Firm grip. No nonsense.

“She’s serious about competing,” Max continued, trying to soften the edge in his voice. “I’ve been told you’re the best, and I don’t settle for less when it comes to her.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, almost like a smile, but not quite. “Dressage isn’t about settling or not settling,” she said. “It’s about discipline, patience, and trust. None of which can be bought.”

Max’s jaw ticked at the subtle dig, but he didn’t rise to it. He was here for Stella, not to flex his ego. “You’ll have all the resources you need,” he said instead. “Money isn’t an issue.”

Her eyes flicked to him, sharp as a blade. “Good. Because if your daughter’s going to train with me, I’m going to need more than that.” She turned abruptly, gesturing for him to follow her towards the barn. “I’ll meet Stella, and we’ll go from there. But just so we’re clear—I don’t babysit, and I don’t do miracles.”

Max trailed behind her, a slow smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. She was bold, he’d give her that. Most people were too afraid to speak to him like that. Maybe she really was the best.

His shoes crunched against the gravel as he followed her into the barn. The earthy scent of hay and leather mingled with the faint sweetness of horses, instantly grounding the space. Inside, sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting golden streaks across the straw-scattered floor. A bay mare in one of the stables tossed her head, her ears twitching at the sound of their footsteps.

She leaned against the edge of the stall, absently running her fingers along the edge of the wood. “How old is Stella?” she asked, her voice carrying the clipped efficiency of someone who didn’t waste time on niceties.

“Nine,” Max said, stepping closer. “She’s ridden before, but it’s always been a hobby. Now, she’s ready to take it seriously.”

“Is she?” she asked, glancing at him.

Max frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, is she ready? Or are you?” She crossed her arms, leaning her weight casually against the stable door.

His nostrils flared, but he bit back his instinctive retort. People didn’t question him—not in his world. But this was different. For Stella, he’d let his temper take a back seat. “Stella’s the one who asked. She’s determined, and I support her in whatever she wants.”

For the first time, her expression softened, just slightly. “Good. A lot of parents want this more than the kids. It shows in the way they push them, and that pressure never works. Horses aren’t machines. They pick up on that tension, and it ruins the trust.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure he liked being lectured. “Trust, discipline, patience,” he said, his voice taking on a dry edge. “I got it.”

Her lips twitched again, and this time he was certain it was a smile, however faint. “You don’t strike me as the patient type.”

Max chuckled, low and sharp. “You’d be surprised. I know when to wait. I also know when to act.”

Something flickered in her gaze at that, but she didn’t let it linger. Instead, she straightened and pushed open the stable door, letting the mare step out. The horse was sleek and graceful, her muscles shifting smoothly under her polished coat.

“This is Luna,” she said, patting the mare’s neck. “She’s my best. If Stella wants to learn, she’ll start with her.”

“Stella doesn’t have her own horse yet,” Max admitted, studying the animal.

“Good. That makes it easier. Luna’s a good judge of character. If Stella’s nervous, Luna will know. And if Luna doesn’t trust her...” She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.

Max raised an eyebrow. “What happens then?”

“She doesn’t ride,” she said simply.

He appreciated her bluntness, even if it grated at him. She wasn’t someone he could charm or intimidate, and oddly, that made him more intrigued.

As if sensing his thoughts, she brushed past him, leading Luna to a bridle rack. “Bring Stella by tomorrow. I’ll see what we’re working with.”

“And what about you?” Max asked, his voice dropping slightly, almost testing.

She turned, brow furrowing. “What about me?”

“You seem to have high expectations,” he said. “If Stella’s the one being judged, does that mean you’ve already made up your mind about me?”

Her gaze lingered on him, steady and unflinching. “You’re not the one I’m here to teach, Mr Verstappen. But if you’re asking...” She paused, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “I’ve met plenty of men like you. You don’t scare me.”

Max tilted his head, his mouth pulling into a slow, deliberate grin. “Plenty of men like me? Somehow, I doubt that.”

The month following his first meeting with her passed in a blur of early mornings, long afternoons, and the kind of quiet determination that Max had to admit impressed him. Stella had taken to the training better than he could have hoped, and her instructor—well, she’d more than lived up to her reputation.

She was tough but fair, demanding excellence without suffocating his daughter’s enthusiasm. Max had watched every session from the sidelines, arms crossed, keeping a respectful distance but always observing. And more than once, he found his attention drifting—not to Stella, but to her instructor.

There was something about her. A kind of grit that didn’t falter, even when she was teaching patience to a headstrong nine-year-old. Her quiet confidence didn’t demand attention; it commanded it. Max had seen plenty of people fake authority, but she wore it like second skin.

He liked that.

What he hadn’t expected, however, was to see her a month later, in a completely different world.

The pounding bass hit him first, reverberating through his chest as he pushed through the crowd. The club was dimly lit, alive with movement—people dancing, drinks clinking, laughter rising over the music. It wasn’t his usual scene, but a meeting had brought him here, one of those backroom negotiations that needed the anonymity of chaos.

He’d wrapped up the deal without trouble, but as he made his way back to the main floor, something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.

There she was, behind the bar.

Her hair was down, loose waves brushing her shoulders, and she wasn’t in scuffed boots or faded jeans anymore. Instead, she wore a fitted black top and a skater skirt, a thin chain glinting at her neck under the neon lights. She moved with an easy rhythm, pouring drinks and flashing quick smiles to the patrons leaning against the bar.

For a moment, Max thought he’d imagined it. But then she turned slightly, catching his profile out of the corner of her eye, and froze.

Her eyes widened for just a second—barely noticeable—but enough for him to catch it. She recovered quickly, though, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow as if to say, What are you doing here?

Max didn’t answer her unspoken question. Instead, he made his way to the bar, sliding between two drunken men slouched over their cocktails. He rested his elbows on the polished surface, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

“Mr Verstappen,” she said finally, leaning forward slightly. Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of something else in her expression—annoyance, maybe, or surprise. “Didn’t think this was your kind of place.”

“It’s not,” he admitted, letting his eyes roam the bottles behind her before settling back on her face. “But it seems I’m full of surprises tonight.”

She snorted softly, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. She placed it in front of him, her smirk sharp. “You look like you need this more than a whiskey.”

Max chuckled, low and rough. “Not here for a drink. Just curious.” He tilted his head, studying her. “Didn’t peg you for the nightlife type.”

“Didn’t think you were paying that much attention,” she shot back, wiping her hands on a bar towel.

“More than you realise,” Max murmured. He wasn’t sure if she caught the softness in his tone over the thumping music, but her eyes narrowed slightly, her posture stiffening.

“I could say the same about you,” she replied, shifting her weight. “What’s the boss of half the city doing in a place like this?”

“Business,” he said simply, straightening. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

She leaned closer, resting her hands on the bar. “You’re full of questions tonight, aren’t you?”

“Just one.” His voice dipped, his gaze unwavering. “Why are you here?”

She rolled her eyes, breaking the tension with a dry laugh. “It’s called having bills to pay, Verstappen. Not all of us have cash to burn. This keeps the lights on when teaching doesn’t.”

Max didn’t miss the edge to her words, and he wondered, not for the first time, just how much she kept buried beneath that sharp exterior. She didn’t need saving—that much was obvious—but the thought of her working this job, with the late hours and the leering patrons, stirred something primal in him.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Long enough,” she said, shrugging. “And I’m good at it. Don’t look so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.” He paused, letting the moment hang between them. “But I’m not exactly thrilled, either.”

Her expression hardened slightly, and she straightened, putting more distance between them. “Don’t start with that ‘I know what’s best’ routine. I get enough of that already.”

Max raised his hands, palms out in mock surrender. “No routine. Just... noticing things.”

“Noticed enough, then?” she asked, turning away to serve another customer.

For the first time in a long time, Max found himself on uneven ground. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed, frustrated, or just intrigued. But one thing was certain: she had a way of staying in his head, and it was starting to feel less like an annoyance and more like an inevitability.

As she moved down the bar, he lingered, watching her work. No, she didn’t need saving. But the urge to shield her from this world, to pull her away from the late nights and the reckless strangers, was already starting to claw its way to the surface.

And Max Verstappen wasn’t the kind of man to ignore an instinct like that.

For weeks after the encounter at the club, Max couldn’t shake the image of her behind the bar. It wasn’t just the stark contrast to her usual self—confident, commanding, utterly at home in the arena—but the way it gnawed at something deep inside him.

She didn’t belong in that place, surrounded by cheap cologne and drunken hands reaching for more than drinks. The thought of her dealing with that night after night twisted in his gut like a blade.

It wasn’t just about Stella anymore. He’d grown to respect her over the past month—the way she pushed his daughter without breaking her spirit, the way she handled herself with a quiet strength that most people in his world didn’t have.

That respect, though, was starting to blur into something more. And Max wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He finally brought it up on a crisp Friday morning, just after Stella’s session. The three of them stood by the paddock, Luna grazing lazily a few feet away. Stella was laughing at something, her cheeks flushed from the chill and the effort she’d put into the lesson. Max felt a swell of pride watching her, but his gaze kept drifting back to her instructor.

When Stella wandered off to grab a snack from the car, he seized the moment.

“You’ve been doing good work with her,” he began, his voice low and steady.

She gave him a side glance, adjusting the bridle she was holding. “Thanks.”

“You know,” he continued, his tone carefully casual, “I’ve been thinking about your rate.”

Her hands froze for a split second before she turned to face him fully. “My rate?”

He nodded. “You’re worth more than what I’m paying you. A lot more. I’d like to fix that.”

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring immediately. “Fix it, huh?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “You’re not charging enough for the kind of work you do. I’m doubling it.”

She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “And what’s this really about, Max? Feeling generous all of a sudden?”

“It’s not generosity,” he said, his jaw tightening. “It’s fairness.”

Her laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Fairness. Right. Is that what you call pity now?”

His brows shot up. “Pity? You think I pity you?”

“What else am I supposed to think? You see me working a second job and suddenly decide to play knight in shining armour?” She shook her head, a hard edge to her voice. “Keep your money, Verstappen. I don’t need your charity.”

“It’s not charity!” His voice rose slightly, and she blinked at the rare flash of frustration. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Is it a sin,” he said, his voice quieter now, “that I want to make sure you’ve got a roof over your head?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Finally, she sighed and leaned against the paddock fence. “You’ve got a hell of a way of showing it,” she muttered.

“What do you want from me?” Max asked, spreading his hands. “You work yourself to the bone here, and then you go to that—” He stopped himself, his voice tight. “That place. And you think I’m just supposed to ignore it? Pretend I don’t care?”

Her lips quirked into a smirk, though there was little humour in it. “Careful, Max. You’re starting to sound like a softie.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re raising a nine-year-old daughter on your own. And her closest friends are her unofficial uncles in the mafia.”

Her brows shot up, and for a moment, her lips twitched like she was fighting the urge to laugh. “That right?”

“That’s right,” he said, his tone lighter now, but his eyes still serious. “And maybe I don’t want to see someone else I—” He stopped, catching himself before he said too much. “Someone I respect running herself ragged.”

She studied him, her gaze softer now, but still guarded. “Max, I’m fine. Really. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time, and I don’t need anyone swooping in to do it for me.”

“I know you don’t need it,” he said quietly. “But maybe I need to do it anyway.”

The honesty in his voice left her momentarily speechless. She glanced away, focusing on the horizon. “You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“Maybe,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But I don’t give up easily. Ask Stella.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed,” she said, shaking her head. “Fine. If you’re so desperate to throw your money around, I’ll let you pay me more. But only because you’ll keep bugging me if I don’t.”

“That’s probably true,” he said with a shrug.

“But,” she added, pointing a finger at him, “if you start thinking this means I owe you something, I will kick you off this property.”

Max grinned, the tension between them easing slightly. “Noted.”

For now, it was enough. But as she walked away, her shoulders straight and her head held high, Max couldn’t help but think that his concern for her was starting to go beyond what he could justify as simple admiration.

And that thought both thrilled and terrified him.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it started happening—the subtle shift from guarded respect to something warmer, more playful. At first, he’d chalked it up to her stubborn streak. She never missed an opportunity to challenge him, whether it was a pointed remark about his suit and tie being out of place at the barn or her light jabs at his overprotective tendencies.

But as the weeks went on, those jabs started to feel less like walls and more like invitations.

It began innocently enough. One morning, Max showed up to Stella’s session with two coffees in hand—one black, the way he liked it, and one sweet and milky, based on an educated guess.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her as she adjusted a saddle.

She glanced at the cup and then back at him, one eyebrow raised. “What’s this?”

“Coffee,” he replied dryly.

Her lips twitched. “I can see that. What I mean is, why are you giving it to me?”

“Because it’s cold, and I’m not completely heartless,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

She took the cup, sniffed it cautiously, then sipped. Her eyes lit up for a brief second before narrowing. “Let me guess—someone else made this choice for you, didn’t they? No way you guessed right on your own.”

He grinned. “You caught me. Stella might have mentioned you have a sweet tooth.”

“Mm-hmm.” She set the cup on a nearby ledge, her expression neutral. “Thanks, Verstappen. I’ll try not to read too much into it.”

“You do that,” he said, but his smirk lingered for the rest of the morning.

It was then a Wednesday afternoon, and Max had just arrived at the barn when he caught her pulling a boot from a deep puddle of mud.

“You look like you’re having fun,” he said, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed.

She shot him a look, her nose scrunching. “Don’t start. This is your daughter’s fault, by the way. She decided Luna needed a little adventure off the trail.”

“She’s nine,” Max said, his tone mock-defensive. “You can’t hold her responsible for everything.”

She stomped her now-filthy boot back into place and gave him a pointed once-over. “No, but I can hold you responsible. You’re the one who raised her.”

Max laughed, loud and genuine, and it startled her for a second. She recovered quickly, shaking her head as she brushed past him. “You’re lucky I like Stella.”

“Lucky, huh?” he called after her. “I’ll take that as a win.”

The following week Max was standing at the edge of the paddock, watching Stella trot a clean figure-eight, when he felt her step up beside him.

“She’s getting better,” she said, her voice low and even.

“She’s got a good teacher,” Max replied, not looking away from the horse and rider.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her roll her eyes. “Flattery doesn’t work on me, Verstappen.”

“Wasn’t trying to flatter,” he said, turning to face her fully. “Just stating facts.”

She squinted at him, clearly suspicious. “You’re in a good mood today.”

“Maybe,” he said, his smirk returning. “Or maybe it’s just that you’re finally starting to warm up to me.”

She snorted. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But her lips curved into a reluctant smile, and Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d scored a small victory.

By the fourth week, the playful banter had become a regular part of their routine. It was after Stella’s lesson, with the late afternoon sun casting golden light over the barn, that Max finally decided to push the boundary just a little further.

“So,” he said casually, leaning against the fence as she packed away the gear. “What do you do for fun? When you’re not working two jobs and pretending you don’t like my coffee.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder. “Why do you care?”

“Call it curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “Or maybe I’m trying to figure out if you’re even capable of fun.”

She laughed, tossing a saddle pad into the tack room. “I’m plenty capable, thank you very much. I just don’t have a lot of time for it.”

“That’s a shame,” Max said, his voice dropping slightly. “Maybe you should make time.”

She paused, turning to face him fully. Her expression was wary, but there was a flicker of something else—something that made his pulse quicken. “And what would I do with all this hypothetical free time?”

“Well,” he said, stepping closer, his tone careful but deliberate, “you could start by letting me buy you dinner.”

Her eyes widened, just a fraction, before she masked her surprise with a smirk. “Dinner, huh? Is this another one of your attempts to ‘make sure I’ve got a roof over my head’?”

Max chuckled, shaking his head. “No. This is me asking you to spend time with me. No strings, no pity money. Just dinner.”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the bridle she’d been holding. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, his voice softening. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared.”

That did it. Her chin lifted, and her smirk turned into a full-blown grin. “Scared? Of you? Not likely.”

“Good,” Max said, his own smile widening. “How about Friday night?”

She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “Alright, Verstappen. You’ve got yourself a deal. But don’t think this means I’m going easy on Stella.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his chest lighter than it had been in weeks.

As she turned to finish her work, Max couldn’t help but feel like he’d just won the most important negotiation of his life.

Leading up to that Friday night, Max had been on edge all day, and he didn’t know why.

Everything had been going smoothly—Stella’s training, his business, even his tentative plans for dinner. But there was a gnawing unease in the pit of his stomach that he couldn’t shake. He’d checked his phone more times than he cared to admit, waiting for a text from her confirming their meeting, but the screen stayed stubbornly blank.

By the time the sun started setting, his patience ran out. Max grabbed his keys and headed for his car, his gut screaming at him to go now.

When he pulled up outside her small cottage, the sight of her truck with its tailgate open and half-packed belongings hit him like a punch to the chest.

He stepped out of the car, his brows furrowing as he called out, “What’s going on?”

She looked up sharply, startled. For a split second, he saw something in her eyes—panic, maybe, or guilt—but she masked it quickly, busying herself with stuffing a duffel bag into the truck bed.

“Nothing,” she said, her voice tight. “Just... handling some stuff.”

Max crossed the distance between them in a few long strides, his tone sharp. “Don’t lie to me. What’s going on?”

“I’m not lying,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It’s none of your business, Max.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” he shot back, grabbing the edge of the truck bed. “We had plans tonight, and now I find you packing up your life like you’re running from something. Talk to me.”

She let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through her hair. “Look, it’s complicated, alright? I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“You might not,” Max said, his voice lowering, “but I’m not leaving until you give me one.”

For a moment, she stood there, glaring at him like she was debating whether to push him away or tell him to mind his own business. But then something in her resolve cracked.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You want to know? I screwed up when I was younger. Got mixed up with the wrong people—the Tifosi. And now they’ve decided it’s payback time.”

The name hit Max like a freight train. The Tifosi were no joke. Ruthless, calculating, and vindictive, they didn’t let debts slide, no matter how old.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and concern.

“Because it’s not your problem,” she said, her tone sharp. “I don’t need you swooping in to play hero, Max. I’ve handled worse.”

“That’s not the point!” His voice rose, frustration bleeding into his words. “You should’ve told me. I could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” she snapped, her eyes flashing. “Fixed it? Made it all go away? Newsflash, Verstappen: not everything is yours to control. I don’t need to be saved!”

Max’s jaw clenched as her words sank in. He took a step back, his hands gripping the edge of the truck bed so tightly his knuckles turned white. Then, without a word, he grabbed the duffel bag she’d just loaded and yanked it back out.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“You’re not running,” he said firmly, throwing the bag into the back of his car. “You’re coming with me.”

“The hell I am!” She stepped forward, trying to grab the bag, but Max blocked her, his voice like steel.

“Yes, you are. My daughter needs an instructor, and I’m not letting her down because of some silly little debt.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief, anger flashing across her face. “Silly little debt? Are you out of your mind? You know who they are!”

“I do,” Max said, his tone calm but unyielding. “And I know how to deal with them.”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand plenty,” he cut her off, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s had the Tifosi breathing down their neck? You think I don’t know what it’s like to owe them?”

Her eyes widened, her anger faltering for the first time.

“I’ve dealt with them before,” Max continued, his voice softer now but no less determined. “And I’m still standing. You don’t have to do this alone.”

She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to process his words. Finally, she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because,” he said, his gaze locking onto hers, “I don’t let people I care about get crushed by this life. And whether you like it or not, I care about you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Then she turned away, her shoulders tense. “Max, this is a mistake. You don’t need to get involved.”

“It’s not a mistake,” he said firmly. “And you’re coming with me, whether you like it or not. End of discussion.”

Before she could argue, he grabbed the rest of her bags, loading them into his car with a finality that left no room for debate.

She stood there, torn between fury and something she didn’t want to name, as Max closed the trunk and opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” he said, his voice steady but not unkind.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, with a resigned sigh, she walked toward the car and slid into the passenger seat.

As Max got behind the wheel, he glanced at her, his expression softening just enough to show her he meant what he’d said.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmured.

She didn’t respond, but the way her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly told him she’d heard him loud and clear.

The ride back to Max’s estate was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel under the tires. She sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Max glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to say something, to fill the tense quiet with words that might reassure her, but he knew better. She wasn’t the type to be soothed by platitudes, and besides, she’d made it clear she didn’t want his help.

Too bad, he thought grimly. She was getting it whether she wanted it or not.

When they pulled into his driveway, the sprawling estate loomed in the moonlight, its imposing structure a sharp contrast to her modest cottage. Max stepped out of the car and rounded to the trunk without a word, hauling her bags out with practiced ease.

“Where’s the rest?” he asked as she stepped out of the car.

“The rest of what?” she said, her tone clipped.

“Your horses.”

She blinked, taken aback. “They’re still at the barn. I wasn’t planning on leaving them.”

Max pulled his phone from his pocket, already dialling. “They’ll be here by morning.”

“Wait—what?” she sputtered, her voice rising. “You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He spoke briefly into the phone, his words curt and to the point. When he hung up, he turned back to her, his expression calm but firm. “They’ll be transported safely. You’ll have stalls for them here.”

She stared at him, her frustration clear. “You don’t get to make decisions for me, Max.”

He shrugged, hefting one of her bags onto his shoulder. “I just did.”

The house was quiet as they entered, the kind of silence that spoke of thick walls and careful security. Max led her through the spacious halls, his steps sure and unhurried despite the tension in the air.

He stopped at a door on the second floor and pushed it open, revealing a neatly furnished room with warm, neutral tones.

“This is yours,” he said, setting her bags down near the bed.

She glanced around, taking in the plush rug, the antique dresser, and the large window overlooking the grounds. “It’s... nice,” she admitted reluctantly.

“It’ll do,” he said with a faint smirk.

He gestured for her to follow him down the hall, stopping at another door. This time, he knocked lightly before opening it.

Stella’s room was a whirlwind of bright colours and cheerful chaos. Posters of horses adorned the walls, and the bed was covered in a tangle of blankets and stuffed animals.

Stella looked up from where she was brushing her hair, her face lighting up when she saw her instructor. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, bounding over. “Are you having a sleepover?!”

She laughed softly, some of the tension easing from her posture. “Something like that, kiddo.”

“This is so cool!” Stella said, practically vibrating with excitement. “Wait till I tell Uncle Oz—oh, can Uncle Ozzy meet you in the morning? She’ll be so happy!”

Max chuckled, ruffling Stella’s hair. “Alright, alright. You can tell Oscar in the morning. Let her rest she’s just got here. And if anything happens, you call Uncle Lan. Got it?”

Stella nodded solemnly, her big eyes darting between her father and her instructor. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Just for a bit,” Max said, his voice gentle.

She pouted but didn’t argue, which made Max’s heart twist a little. He glanced at her instructor, who was watching the exchange with a quiet intensity.

When they stepped back into the hallway, she turned to him, arms crossed. “Where are you going?”

“Business,” he said simply, heading toward the stairs.

She followed him, her tone sharp. “You mean the Tifosi.”

Max paused, turning to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held an edge of steel. “I said I’d handle it.”

Her jaw tightened. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do,” he said firmly. “They made it my business the second they came after you.”

She stared at him, her emotions warring between gratitude and frustration. Finally, she sighed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

Max’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “I’ve been told.”

And with that, he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the grand staircase as she stood there, her heart pounding with a mixture of fear and something she couldn’t quite name.

The clock read just past midnight as Max pulled into the driveway, the quiet rumble of his car breaking the stillness of the night. The meeting with the Tifosi had gone as expected—tense, with more threats than he cared to count—but he’d made his position clear. They wouldn’t touch her. Not if they wanted to keep breathing.

He stepped inside the house, letting out a breath as the familiar warmth of home washed over him. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he moved through the quiet halls. When he reached the living room, the sight before him stopped him in his tracks.

There they were: his daughter curled up on the sofa, her small frame nestled against the armrest, and next to her, her instructor. The TV flickered softly, showing clips of a younger, brighter version of the woman beside his daughter.

He stood there for a moment, watching as the faint strains of applause and commentary played from the screen. The sight of her expertly guiding a horse through intricate dressage routines stirred something in him. But it was the way she slept now, her head tilted back, her features softened in the glow of the TV, that made his chest ache.

Max stepped closer, careful not to wake them. Stella’s head rested against the woman’s arm, her little hand clutching a stuffed horse. Max smiled faintly, his heart swelling as he reached down to scoop his daughter up.

Stella stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a moment before closing again. “Daddy?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Shh,” Max whispered, kissing her temple. “Just putting you to bed, sweetheart.”

She sighed contentedly, already slipping back into sleep as he carried her upstairs. After tucking her in, he noticed her water bottle was empty and picked it up to fill it in the kitchen.

When Max made his way to the kitchen, he found Lando leaning against the counter, tidying up a canister of cocoa powder.

“Lando?” Max said, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing here?”

Lando turned, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Emergency call.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Emergency?”

“Your kid called me in a panic because you’re apparently out of hot chocolate powder. Thought the world was ending.” Lando chuckled, placing the canister in its rightful spot. “I brought some over, but they knocked out before I could even make it.”

Max let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Thanks. I owe you.”

Lando waved a hand dismissively. “No big deal. I live for the drama. Besides, it’s Stella. She’s got me wrapped around her finger.”

Max smiled, grateful for his friend’s unwavering presence. “Get home. You’ve done enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lando said, grabbing his coat. “Good luck with her, though.” He gestured vaguely toward the living room with a knowing look before heading out.

Filling up the water bottle and putting it back in its place Max returned to the living room, finding her still sound asleep on the sofa. The TV had switched to a dim, idle screen, and her breathing was soft and even.

He crouched down beside her, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. For someone so fierce and guarded, she looked almost fragile like this. Vulnerable.

Without a second thought, he slipped his arms under her, lifting her gently. She stirred, her head naturally finding its place against his chest.

“Max?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

“It’s me,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling closer into him. “Thank you,” she whispered, barely audible.

His heart twisted at the simple words, and he tightened his hold on her instinctively.

“Always,” he said softly, carrying her upstairs.

When he reached his room, he laid her down carefully on the bed, pulling the blankets over her. She murmured something incoherent, her lips curving into a faint smile.

Max stood there for a moment, watching her as she drifted back into deep sleep. The weight of the night’s events pressed on him, but so did the warmth of knowing she was safe, here in his home, with his family.

For the first time in a long time, it felt like he wasn’t just protecting someone—it felt like he was building something

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday

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callikari · 8 days ago

Text

PARANOIA ★ N.RK

PRECIS 。 a quiet love that shows up, stays, and never asks ...

西村力 x fem!reader 1322 fluff ─ emotional vulnerability implied loneliness skinship kissing quiet obsession

REBLOG FOR A KiSS

you meet riki by accident.

literally. your shoulder clips his as you’re rushing across laguna street, late for something you don’t even want to go to. he barely reacts—just side steps like he saw it coming, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, chewing gum lazily.

he glances at you once. cool, flat, unreadable. then walks off like it didn’t even happen.

you tell your friends later you think you saw a ghost in daylight.

you see him again in japantown.

he’s sitting alone at a café, feet propped up on the chair across from him like he owns the place. the same grey headphones hang loose around his neck, his deadpan stare distant but sharp. he catches your eye over the rim of his iced matcha.

“you’re the girl who ran into me.”

you blink. “you remember that?”

“you were going fast.” he shrugs. “kind of hard to forget.”

he doesn’t offer you a seat, but you sit down anyway. he doesn’t stop you.

riki isn’t shy. he just doesn’t care to fill the silence. when you talk, he listens with his eyes on everything but your face—his straw, the way light hits the foggy window, the sleeve of your hoodie he keeps tugging at without noticing.

but beneath that calm surface, he notices everything.

he sees how you bite your lip when you’re nervous.

he notices the small crease that forms between your eyebrows when you’re confused.

he watches how your fingers tremble when you’re cold.

he remembers how you always take your coffee—black, no sugar.

you don’t have to say you don’t like something—he just doesn’t do it again.

one night, you mention you hate people touching your hair. the next day, even when you lean into him, his hands stay firmly in his pockets. no accidental brushes, no casual grazes.

another time, you say you don’t like loud places. when you’re out, he subtly guides you away from the crowd without a word. no explanations needed.

he doesn’t ask. he just knows.

“you always come here alone?” you ask, noticing him sitting alone as usual.

“don’t like people talking to me when i eat.”

you pause. “you’re talking to me.”

he hums, like it’s the simplest truth. “you’re not annoying.”

that’s the closest thing to affection you get that day.

he starts showing up more.

not in a clingy way—he never texts first, never calls. but you see him everywhere: tucked in a corner of your favorite bookstore, walking past the painted ladies at golden gate park, once leaned against the railing of your apartment rooftop, looking like he’s been there for hours.

you don’t ask how he got in. he just tilts his head and says, “you’ve got a good view.”

as if that explains everything.

you start bringing him mochi from japantown. he never asks, but he eats it anyway. pulls it apart with long fingers, leaning back in your desk chair like he’s been living in your room his whole life.

“you always this quiet?” you ask.

he shrugs, that casual look never leaving his face. “you talk enough for both of us.”

slowly, you start letting him do the things you usually don’t let people do.

first, it’s his hand brushing against yours when you both reach for the same book in the bookstore. you don’t pull away. instead, your fingers linger, just for a second, before pulling back like you’re afraid you’re imagining it.

then it’s his fingers threading through your hair, absentmindedly smoothing the strands as you sit side by side, watching the fog roll over the bay.

you catch yourself leaning into it, like the warmth from those fingers calms the restless thoughts inside you.

he notices when you stiffen, and pulls back, but only just enough.

one rainy afternoon, you’re walking through japantown, sharing one umbrella. his arm brushes yours, then slides around your waist. it’s casual, like he’s holding onto you to keep balance. but your heart races.

the quiet of the rain makes everything feel intimate. the soft tapping of water on the umbrella, the smell of wet pavement mixed with jasmine tea from a nearby shop.

he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. never says “i want you” or “stay.” he just is.

the hugs come next.

not sudden or loud, but quiet and steady. when you shiver from the cold fog, his arms slide around your shoulders, pulling you close.

you try to pull away at first — you’re not used to letting someone hold you like that. but then you realize it’s not about needing something from him. it’s about the comfort of being seen.

and riki, with all his unreadable calm, sees you better than anyone ever has.

sometimes, when you’re sitting on the rooftop watching the city lights blur in the mist, he’ll lean his head on your shoulder, just for a moment. like he trusts you without having to say it.

holding hands feels like a secret only you two know.

he waits for you to move your fingers to his palm first — he never forces it. but once you do, he squeezes gently. just enough to say, “i’m here.”

sometimes he intertwines your fingers, sometimes he lets your hand rest on his leg while you talk. every little touch is deliberate but light, like a quiet promise.

riki kisses you like it’s not a big deal.

like it’s something he’s been meaning to do for a long time but forgot until the right moment.

he does it on the way home from a late walk—your hand brushing his, his gaze steady on how your lips move when you talk about dumb things like constellations.

“you think too much,” he murmurs.

then he kisses you. slow, barely pressing, like he’s tasting the words you didn’t say.

when he pulls back, he just says: “you’re cute when you’re paranoid.”

sometimes, he runs his thumb over your knuckles when you’re nervous.

sometimes, he traces lazy circles on your wrist when you’re tired.

you catch him watching you like he’s memorizing every little detail — the way your hair falls over your eyes, the way your smile breaks through the fog of your worries.

“what are we doing?” you ask one night, fingers tangled in his.

“nothing.”

“then why do you keep showing up?”

he shrugs, voice low. “…dunno. i like how you look at me.”

some nights, you wake up to him sitting at the foot of your bed, scrolling through your books or watching the fog outside. he never wakes you. he never says he’s staying over. he just… doesn’t leave.

and you let him.

because when riki’s around, nothing feels urgent. nothing feels fake.

you never know what he’s thinking—but you know, somehow, it always comes back to you.

vi says :: hi i love the marias! ♡

enhypen taglist :: @nocturnebite @jungwonbropls @cheruphic @chrrific @manariees @ijustreallylike2read @ijustwannareadstuff20

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hoe4hotchner · 7 months ago

Note

Aaron Hotchner x non bau rich reader. Hotchner see's reader be all professional CEO and telling her that she looks hot when talking about work.

Girl Boss | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x rich fem!reader| WC: 0.6k | CW: girlbossing

The sharp click of your heels resonated within the room. Sunlight streamed through the towering glass windows behind you, casting your silhouette against the long table where half a dozen personnel sat, their pens poised and eyes alert.

"Let me be clear," you began, your voice cutting through the silence. "We are not pushing this launch back again." Your words were sharp enough to make even the most seasoned executive in the room sit a little straighter. You placed your hands on the table's edge, leaning forward slightly, the subtle move reinforcing your authority.

"I expect finalized projections on my desk by tomorrow morning. No excuses. No oversights," you continued. "If there are any further delays, we’ll be having an entirely different kind of meeting. Understood?"

The collective murmurs of agreement followed swiftly, though not without a trace of hesitation. Your gaze swept the table, catching each person’s eye for a split second, long enough to cement your expectations but short enough to keep your employees at bay.

"Good," you said, straightening up. Your expression softened by a degree — but only a degree. "Meeting adjourned."

Aaron had been leaning casually against the doorway to your office, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he observed the scene unfolding. His eyes tracked your every movement, and there you were — fierce and assertive — commanding the room in a way that made it impossible for anyone to look away. Including him.

He didn’t interrupt, content to watch as you had delivered your final order, and dismissed the room. His gaze lingered, marveling at the way you held everyone’s attention.

Finally, your eyes found him. You turned and strode out of the room, the rhythm of your heels once again filling the space.

"Aaron," you said, your voice losing the edge it carried moments before as you walked toward him. Behind you, the meeting’s attendees began packing up. "You’re early."

"Traffic was light," he replied. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he added, "Should I call you ma’am now, or will boss suffice?"

You rolled your eyes. Still, you couldn’t keep the small smile from tugging at your lips.

"Come on," you said, closing the distance between you and reaching for his arm. Your fingers brushed against the sleeve of his coat. "We’re done here."

Aaron pushed off the doorframe and let you lead him, his smirk lingering as he fell into step beside you. Whatever commanding personality you projected in the boardroom, he knew the softer version of you just as well — and he loved both sides equally.

The elevator was empty when the two of you stepped inside. His arm came around you without hesitation, his hand finding the small of your back. "Long day?"

"You have no idea," you admitted, closing your eyes as you allowed yourself to rest against him. "Sometimes I forget why I even started this."

Aaron chuckled softly, his breath warm against your temple as he leaned down slightly. "I think I just remembered," he said with a teasing tone as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

You opened your eyes, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. "Oh?" you prompted.

"You," he replied without missing a beat. "You look unbelievably hot when you're bossing people around. I should make you talk about profit margins more often."

A surprised laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, your hand instinctively swatting at his chest. "You’re ridiculous," you said, shaking your head, though the smile that stretched across your face betrayed your words.

"Ridiculously in love," he countered smoothly, his hand at your back pulling you just a fraction closer, as though he couldn’t stand the thought of even an inch of space between you.

The elevator glided to a stop, the faint ding marking your arrival at the parking level. Aaron glanced at the doors as they began to slide open, then back at you. "Come on, CEO," he said, "let me take you home."

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florencebirdsong · 20 days ago

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Fake Marriage, Real Hands

Agatha Harkness x Reader x Voyeur!Wanda Maximoff

Agatha All Along Week 2025 - Day 2: Fake Marriage

Summary: Wanda wants some off-air entertainment. Her fake married neighbours are encouraged to fulfil that want.

Tags: fake marriage, dubious consent, fingering, voyeurism, telepathy, Dom Agatha, Voyeur Wanda, Sub Reader

No pronouns used to refer to Reader. Reader is wearing a skirt and refers to themself as a lesbian.

Words: 1,648

Authors note: why did no one say my masterlist was super out of order...idk how I even did it that badly

ao3 | masterlist

“Darling,” Agatha calls from the window bay.

You’re on the couch, looking over the newspaper for any inaccuracies or magical hiccups. The level of detail it has is a little scary to think about. With the way Agatha has described Wanda’s life being a television show, you had originally thought that everything was a prop. Yet the only thing off about the newspaper Agatha took from Wanda’s house is how new it looks.

“Sweetheart,” you call back in a deadpan voice.

You’re right there. She could just turn around and talk to you.

“Don’t be like that,” she says and sashays over. “I know you missed your little get together with your friends but meeting the new neighbour is more important, wouldn’t you say?”

You sit up straighter the second you hear her voice. It’s different. Higher, and softer. You paste a smile on when she mentions your friends. You’re stuck in here. Beholden first to the whims of the witch who had saved you and taken up residence in your home, and second to your witch neighbour. Who happens to be insanely powerful and has brainwashed the whole town.

You aren’t sure how powerful Agatha is in comparison to Wanda but she has finangled her way into the main storyline without suspicion and dragged you along with her as her wife. Being single is too big of an inaccuracy for the time period but two lesbians is apparently just fine.

Agatha hasn’t really explained the logic or magic to you. Only that Wanda can see what happens inside the house thanks to her magic but Agatha can always tell when Wanda’s paying attention. Agatha can protect her and your thoughts from being read. Which is a blessing because she had very flippantly told you where you would have been staying otherwise and your attic hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time. Being Wanda’s slave stuck motionlessly in one room hadn’t sounded any better.

She’s watching, Agatha says needlessly into your mind.

“I’m not that sad,” you say, the script Agatha gives you feels natural to follow now. “You know how the girls get when someone new moves to town.”

“Don’t I ever,” Agatha says as she plops down beside you. “You sure you aren’t upset hon? I thought of something that might cheer you up.”

“Oh?” you must be misinterpreting her tone. Her eyes drop to your lips. “Oh.” You were not. Well, the show has kept well away from anything explicitly sexual. Wanda will get bored soon. You can play along. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“We haven’t got anywhere to be.”

Agatha leans closer. You haven’t really talked about this part of the pretend relationship. With shows back in the day not daring to even air handholding, you hadn’t thought you needed to. That doesn’t mean you haven’t thought about it. Agatha is magnetic and Agnes is flirty enough to have you burning up.

She’s starting to get suspicious, Agatha says. You’re not sure what’s nerves and what’s fear but you lean in and kiss her. Your goal was to keep it light. Barely more than a brush of your lips to keep Wanda reassured. Agatha has different plans.

She presses closer. A hand lands on your thigh and quickly climbs higher. You almost pull back but instead of diving under your skirt she uses it to pull you closer. The moment you lean into it her other hand reaches out and she drags you onto her lap, slotting a thigh between your own. You make a surprised sound but she doesn’t let your lips part for long. You indulge in the feeling for a few moments longer before pulling back, needing to breathe.

“Someone’s eager,” you say. Is she still paying attention? you ask.

Yes. Agatha drags you across her thigh. You moan into her mouth.

“I’ve missed you,” Agatha murmurs as she trails a line of slow kisses down your neck.

“We’re barely ever apart.”

“I’ve missed this. We’ve been so busy with the new neighbour.”

You feel a wave of— of something, outside of yourself, the moment Wanda is referenced. You pull back again.

“Save it for tonight, hound dog,” that’s a nickname people used around this time, right? You have no idea. “I’ll plan something special. Right now I need to finish this.”

You push yourself up. Agatha lets you go with an exaggerated pout. You’re about to make a joke when you blink.

Agatha is above you, straddling you. Her dress is gone. Your shirt is gone. The cold leather of the couch is a shock to your warm skin. You gape up at her for the half-second you get before she’s kissing you again.

She really wants to watch this happen, she says and you can feel her amusement. Your brain hasn’t caught up with the sudden change yet. Agatha bites your lip and the slight shock of pain has you present enough to remember you need to try and follow whatever blocked directions Wanda is giving you. Agatha normally tells you what the script is but the wordless commands are absent.

You kiss her back. You hope Wanda assumes something benign about your frozen moment but that thought quickly disappears when Agatha licks into your mouth. Fuck. You moan again.

Agatha’s hands grasp your hips. They’re cold and you shiver. You can’t really think passed her lips. Her hands skim up your sides and settle to play with your tits. You tremble below her.

It’s been so long since you’ve been touched like this it’s almost overwhelming. It’s hard to think but Wanda is watching. You need to perform.

You hesitantly raise your hands and rest them on Agatha’s shoulders. You feel her amusement.

“Don’t be shy, hon. You’ve seen it all before.”

Right. Totally. Except you haven’t and you have no idea how you’re meant to act like you are. You reach behind her and undo the clasp of her bra. Agatha pushes past your hesitation by pulling it off herself. You gape at her.

“And here I thought you were exaggerating when you said every time you see me naked it’s like the first time.”

You’d think it’s a good save if you could think at all. Agatha is above you, on you, in all her naked glory.

“You can touch,” Agatha prompts you. Swallowing hard, you do. Agatha hums and pushes her chest forward. You get a little braver, pinching and rolling her nipples until Agatha’s face relaxes into one of pleasure. You’re wondering if you should find a way to stop or brave reaching lower when Agatha makes the decision for you. She grasps your wrists and guides your hands to her hips.

“Good job, hon,” she smiles. You try not to visibly react. Her smile growing tells you you’ve failed. “Need a hand?”

You don’t need to ask if Wanda is still watching. You can feel her, like a pressure building against your skin. Is Agatha losing control or is it only your thoughts and autonomy she protects?

You nod mutely. Your brain isn’t quite online yet. Agatha looks almost eager as she helps you out of your bra. Is that what she’s really feeling or is she playing your wife Agnes? Her hands drop to your skirt and she runs her fingers over it.

“How do you feel about leaving this on? Make everything a bit more naughty,” she gives you a wink. Definitely Agnes.

“Okay,” you breathe. Agatha flips your skirt up and tugs off your underwear. She doesn’t give you time to feel self-conscious. Her hands slide up your thighs and her fingers slide through your wetness. Your legs open wider subconsciously. You hadn’t realised how wet you were. “Oh,” you gasp when she finds your clit.

Her fingers start slow, her eyes intent on your expression. You try to hold still as long as possible but it’s not long until you’re squirming below her. Agatha smirks and trails her fingers lower. Your hips twitch when they nudge your entrance. She quirks a brow in question. Wanda’s presence is a pulsing pressure and it’s been a long time since you’ve felt an ache like this. You nod.

Agatha slips one finger inside of you. She gives you a few experimental pumps before slipping in a second. You moan.

Agatha supports herself with one hand by your shoulder before she leans down to lick and suck at the sensitive spot of your neck. You tense but her hand never slows and the added electricity has you sinking into the feeling. When you’ve relaxed back into her, she scrapes her teeth over the now tender spot before biting down.

Fuck. How did she know you’d like that?

I’m in your head, dear, comes her voice, I know exactly what you like.

Shit.

Agatha sucks and you whimper. She laves her tongue over the new mark after she releases you. Your hips move to meet her thrusting fingers. You don’t remember when they started.

Agatha continues to nip and suck down your neck, sending sparks along your spine and to your core. Wanda’s presence gets stronger the tighter the coil winds inside of you yet you can’t reach your peak. The awareness of someone watching has given your orgasm stage fright. Can you fake it?

You feel something be pulled deep in your mind. Moments later the wave of pleasure crashes. You arch into Agatha with a loud moan. She guides you through it.

Fuck. That might’ve been the hardest you’ve ever come. Agatha’s smirk tells you she caught the thought.

“Alright hon?”

Your voice cracks in the middle of your hum. You can still feel the after effects of Wanda’s own orgasm.

“I think it’s your turn to try and tame this tiger,” Agatha says.

“I’ll try my best,” you say weakly. “I’d never want to leave my wife wanting.”

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wwooyology · 8 months ago

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How Could You? | P.SH

「prompt」 : spare me 「pairing」 : bf!sunghoon x fem!reader 「word count」 : 1.6k

「synopsis」 : while you have been working hard to build a life for you and sunghoon, he was out living his best life. though all of your hard work crumbles when word gets out that sunghoon had been seen with another girl in the club.

「genre」 : angst

「warnings」 : cussing, crying, mentions of pregnancy, cheating, small argument, confrontation, mention of divorce, lmk if I missed anything!!!

「notes」 : me watching too many short Chinese dramas part two... but we're almost done with angstober, how are you guys feeling thus far?

masterlist ─ navi. ─ angstober list

“Congratulations Mrs. Park,” The doctor smiled at you sweetly as he handed you the test report. You looked down with glossy eyes, reading the words over and over in your head.

‘Pregnant’

It felt like a dream come true. You had just gotten a massive promotion at work, so you would be bringing home more money for yourself and Sunghoon. You were entirely grateful that you could support him while he continued his studies, and now you could even start growing your own family with him.

After quickly thanking the doctor, you made your way out of the hospital into the waiting car parked in front of the building. The driver greeted you with a smile as he held the door open for you, his hand covering the top to protect you from hitting your head.

“Are we headed home, Ma’am?” He asked as he got into the driver's seat, starting up the car, causing a low rumble to be heard around you.

Returning his smile through the rearview mirror, you nodded, “Yes.”

Then, with a nod of his head, he turned his attention back to the road in front of you, pulling out of the parking lot. You settled into your seat, hands resting in your lap with the test results and your eyes staring out the window. A happy grin spread on your lips at the thought of telling Sunghoon about all of the good news that you had received.

Just then, you felt your phone buzz in your hands, tearing your gaze away from the window. Turning your screen on, you see a message from your best friend, Yeji, who also just happens to be Sunghoon’s little sister. A giddy feeling bubbles in your chest at the thought of telling her that she was going to be an aunt soon, but when you opened your phone, all of that happiness that you once felt washed away in an instant.

‘Where are you y/n? Have you seen the news?’

Her question worried you, had something happened to Sunghoon or either of your families? Panicked, you quickly backed out of the messages and into the first social media app you found. It took you a few moments and reloads before it finally popped up.

And bile rose up the back of your throat.

You reread the headlines over and over and over and over again, and you so deeply wished that your first worry had been true instead of this.

‘The Renowned Son of the Park's, Park Sunghoon, Seems to Have Reverted Back to His Old Playboy Ways.’

Tears blur your vision as you read more before looking at the pictures and videos of Sunghoon sitting in a nightclub with females surrounding him, some perched on his lap, his hands in places a married man definitely shouldn’t have his hands in. Completely in awe, you backed out with shaky hands and went back to message Yeji, asking her if she knew which nightclub he was at. She gave you the name and address before telling you that she would meet you there.

“Change of plans,” you said, leaning forward to talk to the driver, trying your best to keep the tears that pooled in your eyes at bay.

–

Anger and hurt bubbled in your gut as you stormed into the club, ignoring the people who greeted you along the way. The music that blared through the speakers made your head spin as the bass vibrated the ground beneath your feet. Steeling yourself, you looked around the packed room, trying to find that blonde male you knew was somewhere around here.

“Are you looking for someone, Miss?” A worker walked up to you with a smile, and you nodded slowly, closing your eyes and then going back to scan the crowd.

“I’m looking for my husband.” Your words were curt, and her smile faltered for a moment before she was able to replace it once more.

“What’s his name? I can see if he’s on our list.” She told you nicely despite the unease that was growing in her gut.

You opened your mouth to tell her your husband's name, but you were cut off when a hand landed on your shoulder and a voice was heard from behind you.

“Park Sunghoon,” Yeji told the worker, and the poor girl visibly paled, a ball forming in her throat as she looked between the pair of you. However, she was taking too long for both your and Yeji’s taste. "Do you or do you not know where he is?”

Swallowing thickly, the worker nodded her head before motioning behind her, “Follow me.”

Yeji laced her arm through yours as the both of you followed behind the girl, ignoring any and all of the looks you were receiving along the way. However, despite your best efforts to ignore the lingering comments, you couldn’t ignore them all.

“Isn’t that Mr. Park’s wife?” someone off to your right whispered to her friend who sat next to her. "Has he finally been caught?”

Noticing where your attention was, Yeji tugged on your arm before nodding towards the table in the far back corner. There, sitting in the middle of the bench, one hand holding a half-empty glass of liquor and the other wrapped around another girl’s shoulder, was none other than your husband.

Seeing him act like this without a care in the world shot an arrow right through your heart. All of these years that you had worked your ass off to make sure that you both could live happily in the future seemed to have been in vain. Because while you were working overtime almost every night, he was out doing god knows what at this very nightclub.

“Sunghoon, how could you?” Yeji was the first to speak, stomping her foot as she held onto your arm.

At the sound of his sister's voice, Sunghoon’s head snapped in your direction, a look of panic flashing across his features. He tore his arm around from the girl next to him and placed the glass on the table before he stood to his feet.

“Y-Yeji, what are you doing here?” Sunghoon asked with a slight quiver in his tone. His eyes solely locked onto his sister, seeming to have not noticed you standing there next to her.

“How could you be so shameless? You’re cheating on y/n while she’s out there working effortlessly to support you.” She scolded the older male and that’s when he finally noticed you standing there next to his sister, tears clinging to your eyelashes as you just stared at him.

Even with all of the apparent evidence in front of you, you didn’t want to believe that he could actually do something like this to you. Your eyes then flickered up to meet his, panic and guilt swirling in his dark iris’.

“Y/n–”

“How long?” You cut him off, biting your tongue to keep the tears that so desperately wanted to fall at bay.

Sunghoon moved around the table to reach out towards you, “I wasn’t–”

“How. Long?” You enunciate each word as you take a step away from him, wanting to keep as much distance between you as possible.

“Six months.” He breathed out, his shoulders slumping and his head dropping down, guilt starting to eat at the back of his mind.

You felt a lump form in your throat as you stared at him, completely astonished; your hand instinctively went to your stomach. Recalling the doctor's test results, you were only a month or so along, meaning that while he lay with you in bed, he was also keeping other women company as well. You suddenly felt sick to your stomach, causing you to hunch over.

“Y/n!” Yeji exclaimed, grabbing onto your arms tightly and helping you stand back onto your feet.

Sunghoon moved to grab a hold of you as well, but you shoved his hands away. A glare adorned your features as you looked up at him.

“If this is what you want, then don’t let me stop you.” Your tone was bitter, and your eyes burned with tears as you held onto Yeji. "But don’t expect me to be waiting when you get home.”

Yeji then helped you turn to walk away, but of course, Sunghoon wasn’t going to give up that easily. He reached out, grabbing your arm to make you turn to look at him.

“Please, y/n, we can talk about this.” His eyes pleaded with you, but all of the sympathy that you once felt for him was gone, smothered with his own two hands.

“There’s nothing to talk about, but do me a favor…” You once again shoved his hands away from you, silent tears falling from your glossy eyes, “sign the divorce agreement when my assistant brings it to you.”

And without another word you grabbed onto Yeji’s arm and walked with her back out of the nightclub, leaving Sunghoon there to stare at the spot you were once standing in. His whole world crumbled in just mere minutes.

You sat in your car, the silence almost comforting as your driver took both you and Yeji back to her place where you would be staying for the time being. Your hand then moved the rest on your stomach, your thumb brushing along your clothed abdomen.

“I’m sorry little one, but it’ll be better this way…” You whispered as more tears spilled from your eyes.

Noticing your distress, Yeji wrapped her arm around you, pulling you into her side so you could rest your head against her shoulder. She tried her best to comfort you as you cried in her arms until you finally cried yourself to sleep, hoping that this all was just some cruel dream that you would wake up from in no time.

But you weren’t in a dream and you would only wake up more heartbroken than when you had fallen asleep.

@wwooyology | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗 : ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ.

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toto-alphawolff · 17 days ago

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Smoke tricks

A chance encounter at the mclaren afterparty in monaco leads to an unexpected night

Content: landoxreader. Pure smut pretty much. Oral sex(fem rec.). Vaginal sex. Unprotected sex (dont do it girl). Rough sex. Use of baby, darling, puppy, good girl, slut. Drinking. Vaping. Zak brown doing the worm

1.9k

This isn’t proof read, just let a gal have fun. Shout out to charles leclerc for almost making me shit my pants the last few laps of the monaco gp.

The night is alive with energy when you and Oscar get there. you're decked out in a pair of sparkly micro shorts and a little drape-neck top that makes your boobs look great, if you do say so yourself. You hardly get a second to take it all in however, as Oscar is ambushed by a group of too-tipsy pit crew members.

“I’ll meet you at the bar” you yell to Oscar over the obnoxious techno. He gives you a thumbs up and an eyebrow raise before turning back to the rowdy group in front of him.

You get a shot of tequila at the bar, cringing slightly at the burn. The dance floor is a hive of activity, everyone enjoying the momentous occasion. It’s nice to be part of it all, you think to yourself.

After another shot for good measure, you find yourself on the dancefloor. Lost in the thrum of the music and giggles with strangers, you let yourself get taken away in a blur of flashing lights and nameless people.

The music comes to a halt unceremoniously. You look around, shaken out of your stupor to see Zak brown fiddling with a microphone. There's a high pitched ring as he tries to say something into the mic, and someone rushes to help him.

You take the opportunity to go outside onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air - this ironically also means hitting your vape. The night air and raspberry smoke fill your lungs as you look down onto the streets of monaco. Breathing deeply, you let your mind wander as the bass starts to pick up again inside.

“Mind if I have a hit?” your startled back to reality as a voice interrupts your thoughts. Lando walks up to you from the outside door, and joins you against the balcony railing.

“I thought athletes didn't smoke” you reply, half a comment, half a question. Lando shrugs and follows your eyes to the street below.

“Only on special occasions. Why, are you not impressed by smokers?” Did he care if you were impressed by him? You turn to him quizzically but he doesn't move his eyes to meet yours. You turn back to watch the people on the street.

“Not unless they can do cooler vape tricks than me” you say, mostly joking. “But I think winning a grand prix is a little more impressive” Lando chuckles, but doesnt respond to the last part. Instead he steps closer to you so your arms are millimetres apart.

“Show me one of your tricks then” he says, almost like a challenge.

“I can’t here” you respond with a sigh. “I need still air.”

“There's still air in my hotel room” he offers. You turn your head to face him again. This time he allows his gaze to meet yours, his eyes willing you to say yes. A dare.

“Won't you be missed here?” you question. Though it's not a refusal of his offer. Just then there's a loud cheer from inside. You and Lando turn to see Zak doing a poor attempt at a floor roll. You both laugh and turn back to each other.

“I think it's ok if I dip out early.” Lando says with a smile.

Landos hotel room is massive, with a lounge, dining area, walk-in cupboard, and king bed. Large sleek windows overlook the bay and the beautiful cliffs. Lando closes the door behind him. He smirks at your wide-eyed stare and takes off his jacket and shoes. With a satisfied hum he flops down on his bed. You place your shoes neatly at the foot of his bed and sit awkwardly on an ornate armchair next to his bed.

“I'm a little embarrassed now," you admit sheepishly. “I feel like I hyped my tricks up, I only know the ones that everyone can do.” Lando throws his arms up in mock anguish.

“But we came all the way here for you to show me!” he complains, putting on a show of it with a grin. With a giggle you agree and take a hit of your Elfbar. Focusing, you do a french inhale, then look up at lando expectantly.

“Aw yeah ok but everyone can do that” he teases. You stick your tongue out at him before taking another hit. You lock eyes with him and start to blow o’s at him from your perch on the chair. They drift across the space between you and evaporate around him. When you stop, you both look at each other a little longer than necessary, each of you urging the other to make the next move.

“Do you still want a hit?” you ask.

“I mean i won’t say no” replies lando.

“Open your mouth” you command. Lando looks surprised for a second but complies. You stand up and take a hit but don’t inhale as your heart starts to beat a little faster. You walk over to him and move your hand to his face. Leaning down, you blow the vapour into his mouth. Lando tenses as he breathes it in. you both stay there, waiting for the other to pull away, but then lando does the opposite. He leans towards you and kisses you tentatively, when you kiss back you can feel his body relax in relief.

The relief is short lived however as the kiss becomes deeper, more intentional. You drop down onto the bed next to him and run your hand through his hair. His hands go to your waist and he pulls you closer, his fingers almost bruising as he becomes more desperate for you. He nips your earlobe before moving onto your neck. Breathy sighs escape your lips as he leaves marks along your collarbone. He moves on top of you and lifts his shirt off like to keep wearing it will burn him. Then he moves onto yours, ripping the top off of your body.

You both stop for a moment, catching your breath. Landos eyes travel from your face to your chest. He slowly extends his hand to your breast. He squeezes it before running his thumb over your nipple and you let out a desperate breath, trying not to squirm below him as his eyes bore into yours.

He leans down to kiss over the marks he has left on your neck and collarbone, then moving his mouth to your chest. He stares up at you with puppy-dog eyes, one hand circling the nipple further from his mouth. Your breath is shaky as you wait for him to make his next move. Slowly, his tongue circles your nipple, and then bites down. You can't help but arch your back and let out a moan. Your one hand tightens in his hair, the other goes to grab his shoulder, your nails leaving scratch marks.

Tenderly, he kisses from your chest to your stomach. Then, he gently lifts your hips to take off your shorts and damp underwear. All the while his shiny eyes stare back up at you. At an agonising pace he nips and licks at your thighs, before finally his tongue meets your clit. His movements are slow but steady, gradually building you up to your high. Your moans are falling more freely now as he adds one finger, then two, to your dripping pussy. His fingers curl up expertly and you can feel the knot in your stomach get close to snapping. Your hands tighten in his hair as you're about to fall over the edge. but just before you're able to he pulls his fingers away and removes his mouth from your clit.

You whine petulantly at him to no avail. Instead he moves to kiss you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He pulls away and gives you a look of pity.

“What, do you want something? Use your words baby.” you pout at him before reluctantly replying.

“Wanna cum” you mumble. He simply sighs and looks away in frustration.

“Good girls ask nicely.” he scolds, tugging at your cheek.

“Please let me cum sir.” he smiles approvingly and begins to plant a trail of kisses back down to your pussy. His mouth reattaches itself to your clit and his fingers find their way back to your cunt, the other hand goes to play with your tits. The feeling in your stomach builds to a burn and you're reduced to a whimpering mess. Finally, Lando lets you come. Your back arches off the bed as you feel the band snap, your hands pulling harshly at his hair.

He watches you intensely as you catch your breath, his hand stroking your stomach as you come down. Gently, he kisses you and caresses your face.

“Can you take one more for me darling?” he asks sweetly. You nod weakly.

“You can be rougher with me.” you mutter.

“Hmm?” asks Lando, leaning his ear to your mouth. “Say that again for me baby.”

“You can be rougher with me if you want sir.” Landos face changes when he hears this. All the care and sweetness leave his eyes. He gives you a quick peck on the cheek.

“Good puppy.” he says, before he flips you over and squeezes your ass harshly. You let out a broken breath when you feel him near your entrance. Agonisingly slowly, he enters you, stretching you out perfectly. He bottoms out and stays there. You squirm beneath him, needing more. Suddenly he slaps your ass and you yelp.

“Be fucking patient slut” he growls, his hand nursing the print left on your asscheek. At a torturous pace, he begins to move inside you. It's slow and deep, hitting your g spot every time. As he starts to speed up, staccato moans spill from your mouth while tension starts to build in you again. Lando lets out a triumphant sigh as he rams into you.

“Such a good slut for me. So loud for my cock baby." His thrusts are fast and calculated now, and you can feel yourself getting closer. He pulls you up harshly by your hair so he can kiss your neck, now sensitive from all the marks left earlier. His one hand grips your hip while the other moves to your jaw, forcing his fingers into your mouth.

“Fuck, i’m getting close baby. Wanna cum for me puppy?” you nod pathetically through teary eyes, before letting yourself cum a second time.

“Fuck darling, pussy squeezing me so well, like it was made for me.” he fucks you through your high before following with his own.

You're both still for a while, allowing yourselves to recover. Sighing, you turn to lando

“Call it a reward for a race win.” you say teasingly to him. He lets out a breathy laugh

“If this is the reward I get for a race win, I'll make sure Oscar invites you to more races. I might win every race of the season.”

#lando norris #oscar piastri #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #lando norris smut #f1 #formula 1 #mclaren #monaco gp 2025 #f1 smut

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topguncortez · 4 months ago

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For Her Hand - Jake Seresin x Shy!Wifey

opposites attract masterlist || main masterlist

synopsis: Jake has always been cool and collected under pressure, but setting across the table from one of the Navy's most infamous legends to ask for his daughter's hand in marriage?? Well, that's enough to make anyone crack under pressure

word count: 1.7k

warnings: none? cursing, mentions of death, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of religion

Jake was sweating.

He probably had sweat stains on the underarms of his dress shirt, and he was now worried that he was going to have to use the bathroom before James got here. Tonight was the night that Jake was going to ask for Y/N’s hand in marriage. . . even though he already proposed.

Jake knew he was doing it all backwards. He had already gotten an ear full from his mother when they called her several months ago to tell her the news of Y/N’s pregnancy. Jake never wanted it to be like this, no, he was raised to be a true gentleman. He was supposed to court the girl for a couple of months, and then ask her father and the church for their blessing to get engaged, then there would be a big party on his family’s ranch to celebrate the engagement and then there would be a huge wedding ceremony that was more about showing off to his parents’ friends than about him and Y/N.

But there was something about Y/N, that made Jake throw all expectations out the window. From the moment Jake saw her from across the Hard Deck, he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life with her. That moment he stepped off the carrier and went straight to her house to find her covered in dirt, he knew that she was going to be the mother of his children. That he would come home to her every single time. Every night he dreamt of the life they would have together, the names of their children, what they would look like, the big house he would build her, and the garden that she would spend hours out in.

Jake hadn’t always had a good reputation when it came to women, and it was pretty well known. Throughout the academy and flight school, it wasn’t uncommon to see Jake leave with a new woman. There was a part of him who had spent years searching for the person to fill the void in his heart that had been festering from years of striving for his father’s attention and love. And Y/N was the person who filled it in a very healthy way.

When James first heard about Jake’s and Y/N’s relationship, he was not thrilled. He had seen flyboys like Jake before. He knew what they got up to on postings and detachments, and didn’t want his daughter to join the club of broken hearts. He had also seen and heard the broken cries of their partners when an officer walked off the ship and handed them a neatly folded flag. James felt ill every time he thought about his daughter being in that position.

But then he saw how they interacted with each other at the Naval ball, and Vice Admiral James “Hercules” Parker was proven wrong. He could see the love that Jake had for his daughter. And even though nothing was promised in their line of work, James knew he couldn’t stand in the way of true love.

Jake wiped his hands on his pants for what seemed like the thousandth time that hour as he looked around the restaurant for James. He felt like dinner was a more professional way to ask to marry his daughter than doing it over drinks at the Hard Deck or a round of golf, or blurting out in the middle of a meeting (like Coyote had done with Warlock). What made his nerves stay somewhat at bay was that Jake was kind of doing this all backward. He had already proposed to Y/N when he came home from his last deployment and she had said yes. Blame it on the heat of the moment and being a hair's breadth away from death, but Jake couldn’t wait any longer without making her his forever. And she was already pregnant with his child, and James and Clara had already accepted him into their family.

“Jacob,” James said as he walked to the table. Jake stood up and greeted James with a handshake, “Missing Thursday night football for this.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Jake said and took another drink of his water. James eyed him suspiciously, seeing the young man's hands shake, as a waiter walked to the table.

“Anything to drink for you two, tonight?” The waiter asked.

“Top-shelf whiskey,” James nodded, “Make that two, neat.”

“Oh, I’m good with water,” Jake said. The waiter nodded and went to go get their drinks, “Sorry, I’m just a bit nervous.”

“I can see that,” James said, “Didn’t think that the ‘Hangman’ could get nervous,” Jake cringed at the way James said his call sign as if it were some sort of dig. Some sort of pass to let Jake know that he wasn’t good enough for his daughter, “What’s on your mind son? How’s Y/N and the baby?”

“Good, they’re both good. She’s pissed, uh,” Jake cleared his throat, “Sorry, upset, that Clara won’t let her dig the flower beds.”

“It’s not good for pregnant women to be digging in soil,” James responded, his voice void of emotion and staring Jake down like he was an idiot.

“Right, yes! I knew that from the parenting books,” Jake nodded, remembering one of the only facts he had retained from those books, “Anyway, I uh,” Jake scratched the back of his neck, trying to gather his thoughts, “I love you, daughter,” James nodded, “A-and I did this whole thing backward and I apologize for it. My dad drilled into my head that you always ask for permission first before you do anything with another man’s daughter-”

“Or get her pregnant.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry for that too. But sir-”

“James,”

Jake nodded, “James, I don’t ever want to see a day where your daughter is not by my side. When I thought I wasn’t going to make it back to her. . . well, it was the worst thing ever. I had to make a promise to her when I got back on solid ground, and I did. And now, I gotta make it right. If you would please grant me the blessing, I would love to marry your daughter.”

James looked at him for a moment, the silence becoming so thick between the two men. Jake felt a cold sweat go down his spine, but then he saw a smile break out across James’ face, “I knew this would come sooner or later. I was hoping for later, but,” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black ring box, “She used to wear this around the house as a little girl. It was my mother’s.”

James placed the box on the table and Jake gingerly picked it up. Inside sat a beautiful diamond attached to a silver band. The diamond had to be nearly three carats and had smaller diamonds around it. Jake looked up at James, tears brimming his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask-”

James shook his head, cutting Jake off, “I did the same thing nearly thirty years ago,” James chuckled, “I lost my wingman and almost burned in myself. The moment I got home to Clara, I told her that I could not go back up into the sky without knowing I was going to have her forever. Then she dragged me to the courthouse that same day,” James shook his head with a smile, “I knew this moment was coming at some point in time, when 'dad' stopped being the only man in her life. The only man she looks at with those eyes. No dad is ever ready for that day, and one day, hopefully, you'll have the same experience."

Jake could only imagine the day he would have a little girl and hoped she’d look like Y/N. He could see it now, a beautiful daughter that had her mother’s beautiful eyes and smile, and her personality. If she was born with Jake’s. . . lord help them all, she was going to be a firecracker.

“Does this mean that I. . .”

“You have my blessing to marry my daughter.”

— — —

After dinner was over, Jake probably broke every traffic law to get home to Y/N. He smiled as he noticed the lights in the backyard were on and the sound of her giggle was in the air. He could hear the small barks of the German shepherd puppy he had gotten her as a companion for when he’s gone on deployments. Jake grabbed the bouquet of pink carnations and basically skipped to the backyard.

“Bring it back, Steve!” Y/N called as the puppy hustled his way back to his owner, “Good boy!” Steve’s attention turned the second that the gate to the backyard was opened. Even for a puppy, his barks were still loud, startling Y/N. She turned around, seeing Jake standing there with a goofy grin on his face.

“What are you-”

“Marry me,” Jake said, cutting her off.

Y/N giggled, “Sweetheart, I already said yes. Did you hit your-”

“Nope,” Jake shook his head and walked over to where she was kneeling on the ground. Steve growled a bit as Jake got close to his mother, “Hey, I was the one who adopted you and let you chew on the seatbelts in my truck.” Steve gave Jake a look, before trotting off into the backyard, “Animals.”

“Be nice,” Y/N playfully scolded, and sat down in the grass. Her hand rested on her growing bump, which had popped a few days ago, and had become Jake’s latest obsession to touch, “How did dinner go?”

“Went great,” Jake said, sitting down next to her and pulling her into his lap. He rested his large hand on top of her’s, “He gave me his blessing and gave me this,” Jake pulled out the ring from his pocket.

Y/N gasped, “My nana’s ring! Oh my god, I thought I lost that!”

“Your dad kept it and gave it to me,” Jake said. He grabbed Y/N’s hand and took off the fifteen-dollar ring he bought at Target that was slowly starting to turn green, “Now, we can make it official,” Y/N turned her head to look at him, “What do you say, Mrs. Seresin?”

Y/N smiled and turned in his lap so she was straddling him, “I think you should’ve told him I’m already Mrs. Seresin, but. . .” She tilted her head back and forth, “Baby steps.”

“Yeah, yeah, baby steps,” Jake smirked as he wrapped his arms around her waist and flipped them over. Y/N’s giggles filled the air as Jake pressed kisses all over her face. Her ring glittered in the moonlight.

note: happy Valentine's Day or whatever

taglist: @sio-ina-bottle @kmc1989 @soulmates8 @averyhotchner @fandom-life-12 @jazminlahey20 @jessicab1991 @reidshearts @princess76179 @dizzybee03 @dempy @kellyls04 @daddymack01 @beautifulandvoid @noonenuts @bradleybeachbabe @its-the-pilot @buckysteveloki-me @shibble @a-library-ofmy-own @fanfictionismyhobby @emilyoflanternhill @seitmai @moonlessnight14 @hardballoonlove @sgt-barnesveins @vhkdncu2ei8997 @1nterstellarcha0s @krispybearbouquet @a-serene-place-to-be @seresinslady @na-ta-sh-aa @milestomaverick @itsmytimetoodream @topgunslut @yuckosworld @angelbabyange @pedrohoe04 @midnightmagpiemama @lynnevanss @ummjustfics @thegoddessc @mrsevans90 @mjsvinyl @luversgirl @silenthappyplace @buckysvinyl

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twistedpink · 3 months ago

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Rook Hunt x Shapeshifter!Reader

The hardest thing you’ve ever done in your long, long life is climb the corporate ladder. The idol one, to be precise. Humans just can’t be pleased! It’s proven! With all your visual tweaks, and genre changes, and half-assed performances (that was later - your first couple debuts were flawless), you’re done. Officially, depressingly, quitting. The only thing to do with all the names and character ideas in the back of your head is retire, and focus on the “natural” path. Eating the people you wanted to have love you. In a way, it’s not all that different..

You’ll almost miss the limelight- Certainly not the stalkers and spandex, but definitely the attention. The best place in the modern world to avoid your past identities, believe it or not, is the city! Morphing into someone approachable’s easy game- You smooth out your celebrity cheekbones, let the fat of your chest and thighs redistribute into an average body, and when you’re just about done changing the shape of your teeth, it’s time to meet up with your date!

Humans are easy, a breed of mundane that you’d never find among your own kind- So unguarded in this era of seeing thousands of faces, how are you supposed to pick out things to steal if you don’t have firsthand experience? A mole here, or a scar there, human features definitely outweigh their.. Unfortunate intelligence.

Your date is perfect, as they always are with you. A tall, sunkissed blonde with a strong nose and stronger accent. He’s nothing short of beautiful- So much so you’d offered dropping by your place for some drinks. You wouldn’t mind taking a peek at something a bit more,, personal. He’s gullible enough to agree without further debate. They all are.

You’ve observed him the entire conversation- How his hands are calloused from work in the field, or the way his eyes react dollishly with your every word, not a thought behind those livestock eyes. He looks clean but doesn’t smell it.. He either doesn’t shower enough, or he’s peaked your senses,, You’ve been known for standing to attention with pretty boys.. Your eyes dilate when he speaks. He runs at 62 bpm, his eyes have little specks of gold, and GOD he’s trying to hold your hand! HOLD! HIS! HAND! YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DONT HOLD HIS HAND!

You’re sitting in the same booth, hot coffee sits in front of the both of you- You’re far too distracted to take a drink. You want him, Worse than you’ve ever wanted anything. The bay window’s light bathes him, like an angel.. You’re determined to make him a star. Once you’ve taken his body, of course. He’ll be your pretty muse! Give you motivation for the stage again! Your Rook. It’s torture to not lean into him, you want a bite,, :(

His vacant hand on the table reaches for his mug, and you see it happen like a stone coming at a glass house. It’d be too suspicious to react. You have to let it burn you. With a tink against the table, boiling coffee spills over the edge and onto your empty hand- Mercifully avoiding your date. While he goes to fetch a tissue, (stretching deliciously across the table) the offending wound flashes bright blues and greens in an attempt to colour match.. You really, truly hope you don’t have to explain away anything he might’ve seen. You don’t have the energy for that right now - much less to wipe yourself clean, so you let him do it. You’ve always fancied having a human or two wait on you.

“Ah! Ma puce! A touch off topic, but have you ever followed the lives of celebrities? I’m quite the fanatic, myself.”

Not one to fumble a hunt, you acquiesce. He’s a skilled multi tasker- The best a human can be, at least,,

“I do! I’m a super-fan of a newly retired poster girl for this hyperpop group,, totally gonna’ miss her stuff. Why do you ask?”

“Funny, you really do remind me of her.. In your own way. A fun coincidence, no?”

You consider, briefly, brushing him off- Ditching the project and skipping town,, There’s no point staying if your disguise isn’t perfect. Then again, why are you running in the first place from prey? This is your first human with the intuition to recognize you, even if it’s passing, you need to see how this plays out. You can’t help wondering if you might enjoy being hunted for once, if he’s really so good. The only way of knowing is to jump headfirst!

“So, how’s your schedule next Friday?”

@bju3c0re

#twst yuu #twst #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #yuu twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst x reader #twst rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #twst rook #rook #rook hunt twisted wonderland #rook hunt

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trickst3rs · 3 months ago

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me & you together song — jannik sinner x reader

"i've been in love with her for ages, and i just can't seem to get this right."

summary: jannik had been hopelessly in love with you for years but just couldn't find the courage to share his feelings. slightly based on me & you together song by the 1975

wc: 2k words

first jannik fic, kinda nervy!!! didn't really proofread bc i cba xx

Jannik wasn’t someone who was usually flustered. He had to maintain a level of focus at all times, keep his mind sharp, and most importantly— not get distracted. But you threw all his self-control out of the window. One word from you was enough to turn him into a blushing, blubbering mess.

He had been in love with you for ages.

Jannik had first laid eyes on you at Indian Wells. It was his first time competing there, so he was walking around the grounds absentmindedly paying attention as he passed the practice court you were on. He could still remember the way you had styled your hair and the outfit you wore, the image ingrained in his mind. He knew you were the one for him without even knowing your name.

You eventually noticed him too — his longing looks were anything but discrete — and struck up a friendship. Deep down Jannik hated this. He wanted you to be his. He wanted to go to bed with you next to him and wake up with you in his arms. But despite all of the pestering from his friends over the years, Jannik refused to make a move, instead deciding it would be best to keep his feelings bottled up because:

a) Jannik wanted everything to be perfect when it came to you. He wanted to confess his feelings at the right time so you would immediately fall deeply and hopelessly in love with him. Yet, he never knew when that perfect time would come.

b) He was a coward. He was terrified that you would reject him and knew that he would not be able to handle that heartbreak, especially after spending so many years pining for you.

Jannik both dreaded and looked forward to when your tennis calendars overlapped. Because while he found it hard to keep his feelings for you at bay when you were around, he also revelled in your presence.

He knew you were in the players’ lounge before he saw you. It was like he had a sixth sense.

He had just finished his training, with his tennis bag strapped over his shoulder. He spotted you in the corner of the room with your coach, the sight of your smile filling him with butterflies in his stomach as if he was a school girl.

He waved when you turned and met his gaze. Jannik watched as you murmured something to your coach before walking over to him.

“Long time, no see.” your melodic voice sounded. You smiled brightly and enveloped Jannik into a tight hug. “How was your off-season?”

Jannik blushed slightly at the intimacy and pulled back. “It was good. Busy,” he said, brushing his hair out of his face. “Lots of time skiing and fun with my family. But it’s good to be back.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re glad to be back here, my defending champ.” you joked.

Jannik looked away, unable to meet your eyes. How could you possibly not know the effect that your words, that you, had on him. “Well, Melbourne is a very special place for me.”

“So humble.”

Jannik broke out into a grin. “I always am, for you.”

“My, my Jan,” you gasped, feigning shock. “Are you flirting with me?”

I have been for the past four years, he thought somewhat bitterly. If only he could grow the courage to ask you out for a drink. Yet, he believed deep down you would reject him on the basis that you were ‘just friends’.

“I’m only joking, Jan,” you bring him back to reality. “What’s up with you?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Of course,” you nod. “Lots of press for the golden boy.”

“You know how it is,” Jannik smiled, looking away from you and clearing his throat for some courage. “Ah- have you got any plans for tonight?”

“No,” you shrugged. “Probably just dinner with my team. Why do you ask?”

“Would you like to go out for dinner together?”

“Just us?” you questioned.

Jannik took a step back from you as if your question wounded him. Because of course he wanted to take you out, just the two of you, he wanted to go to bed with you next to him and wake up with you in his arms. “I’ll invite some others,” he sighed. “So… would you like to come with me or not?”

“Shame, could have been a perfect date, but I’d love to come nevertheless,” you happily exclaimed.

“What?” Jannik’s heart dropped. He was certain he misheard you.

“Oh my god, have I said something I shouldn’t have?” your eyes widened. “There’s already someone, isn’t there?”

Jannik wondered if he should laugh or cry, of course this would happen.

You looked over your shoulder at your coach who was pointedly looking down at his watch before flicking his gaze back towards you. You sighed contentedly. “Text me, okay? I’m late to my practice, but I’ll see you tonight.”

Jannik watched as you walked away. He felt somewhat defeated. If he was in a romance movie he would’ve been smoother, more assertive. He would’ve properly asked you on a date. Yet, he had nothing to blame except for his own cowardice and inability to speak up for himself.

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ

Jannik felt relaxed as he stepped into the players’ gym. It was a great start to the season. He was playing with confidence, quickly settling back into the rhythm of the tour. You had a great start to the season too. You had made a deep run into the tournament, reaching further than ever before. Jannik tried to catch all of your matches live which was certainly difficult, but worth it. He had always said you played beautiful tennis, with your perfectly placed drop shots and powerful serve.

Jannik was happy. He felt good about his upcoming quarterfinal, his nerves vanishing at the sight of you cooling down after your own match. However, his feelings of calm quickly transformed into slight jealousy as he watched Carlos beat him in getting to you. Jannik noted the glint in your eyes as Carlos began talking to you, his Spanish charm making you smile brighter than Jannik had ever seen, making his heart ache.

It wasn’t that Jannik disliked Carlos. While they were rivals on court, they got along well off court. He just didn’t want to see you looking at Carlos the way he wished you’d look at him. He wanted to be the one to make you laugh. He wanted you to smile at him like that. Instead, he felt like an outsider, standing in the corner of the players’ gym, zoning out his coaches who were discussing strategies for his match.

“I’ll be a minute,” Jannik interrupted Darren, walking towards you and Carlos without waiting for his response. “Carlos,” Jannik called, causing the Spaniard to turn and break into his classic grin. “Are you ready for your match tomorrow?”

“We’ll see, we’ll see. Novak is always a difficult competitor.” Carlos turned to you and winked. “But nothing I can’t handle.”

“God, you’re such a tease Carlos,” you laughed.

Jannik tensed. “Congratulations on your win today,” he gaze instantly softened when he met your eyes. “You’re playing really well.”

“Thanks, Jan.” Your cheeks reddened. “Can’t believe I made it so far this Australian Open. Last year I got out second round.”

“I’ve been telling you, it’s because of the drop shot.” Carlos said.

“You’re just saying that because you gave me pointers, one time.” you shook your head playfully. “Can’t give you all the credit.”

“Ah… I tried, I tried.” Carlos smiled. “I should go, Juanki probably wants me back.” he grabbed his bag and slung it on his shoulder. “Good luck tonight Jannik.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Jannik nodded as Carlos began to walk away. He turned towards you, relieved that you both were finally alone. “So… are you going to wish me luck for tonight too?” he jokingly questioned.

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t need me to wish you any luck. I know you’ll win this.”

Jannik turned his head away from you as he tried to hide his blush. “Shut up,” he smiled.

“I’m serious!” you exclaimed, grabbing his hand. “Jannik, talk to me. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” he tried not to pay attention to the feeling of your hand on his. “Just don’t want to mess up and lose the title.”

“You’re not going to miss this up,” your joking tone vanished from your voice. “You’re going to win the title again because you’ve won this before. You know how the ball moves on this court. You can predict exactly where it’ll bounce.”

Jannik nodded. He knew you were right. You always knew what to say to make him feel better.

“Can I give you a hug,” you asked hesitantly.

“I think that would help,” Jannik said before you wrapped your arms around him, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Your comforting scent washing over him. This is it, he thought. The perfect moment to tell you how lucky he is to have you, that he loves you, and you will say it back– because why wouldn’t you?

Instead, as he began to pull away from you he heard Simone’s voice calling him to come back to his team.

“Thank you,” he smiled. “I’ll win this for you.”

“I’m sure you will champ,” you said, patting his bicep. “I’ll be watching from my hotel cheering for you. That’s what friends are for.”

Friends… That stung.

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ

It was almost 11 o’clock when Jannik heard a quiet knock on his hotel room door.

He let out a groan. It was probably a member of his team wanting to go over the same things they had discussed at dinner hours prior. He ripped the sheets off of his bed and placed his phone on the side table. He stood and slowly walked to open up the door, and the sight of you on the other side, looking small and miserable, made his heart break. He wondered for a moment if you were a hallucination, the exhaustion from the tournament taking over him.

Jannik opened his mouth to speak but was promptly cut off as you buried your face straight in his chest. He ached at the sound of your sobs. “Is everything alright?” he asked, pulling back to get a look at your face. “Come inside.” He placed his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside his hotel room.

“I’m sorry,” You broke away from him and sat on the side of his bed, immediately leaning over and placing your head in your hands. “I’ve lost before… I just don’t know why I feel so sad about it this time.”

Jannik came to sit beside you. “I would be surprised if you weren’t sad about the loss,” he said, looking at you sympathetically. “It was a tough match. You played the best you could and it wasn’t enough. I think that is devastating.”

You sighed, sitting back up and wiping your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “I’m more annoyed than anything else. I was so close to being in a Grand Slam final and I just couldn’t do it.”

Jannik stayed quiet as if he was assessing the situation, trying to figure out the perfect thing to say. He settled on placing a hand on your back and rubbing it up and down. Your body seemed to relax at his touch.

You turned your head and looked at him. “Thank you, Jannik, for not turning me away at the door.”

“I’d never do that.”

“I know,” you sniffled, putting your head on his shoulder. “I’m so glad to have you in my life.”

Jannik’s head spun at the words that had just left your mouth. He would stay like this with you forever if he could. Your side pressed against his. The small moment of intimacy left him weary. If he was braver, Jannik would finally kiss you, right here and now. Instead, he took a deep breath and settled for a lingering kiss on your temple. “I’m glad to have you in my life too.”

☼｡˚❀ * ꕤ

Game, set, match, Sinner

He had done it. Jannik had won the Australian Open for the second time in his career. Yet, the only thing he cared about was seeing you after his match.

He had dreamed of this– of you, cheering him on from his player’s box. He was convinced that his glimpses of you during the match helped him clear his mind, and immediately began to think of ways to convince you to come to more of his matches.

Jannik felt emboldened as he walked off Centre Court and through the tunnel. He smiled as people congratulated him, patting him on the back. But there was only one person who he wanted to hear such praises from.

“Congratulations!” you cheered, running up to Jannik and pulling him into a tight embrace. “I told you that you’d win it again, didn’t I?”

He smirked. “You did. Thank you for being here.” he said as he pulled away from you.

“Thank you for convincing me to extend my stay.” you said, looking at him with slightly parted lips.

And suddenly, Jannik finally found the courage to do what he had wanted to for years. From the moment he had first laid eyes on you years ago.

And, as his lips met yours, he knew– he had won in more ways than one.

#jannik sinner x reader #jannik sinner fic #jannik sinner #tennis fic

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nellielsss · 1 year ago

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+†+🪦 A Pɾσρҽɾ Bʅαƈƙ Bυʅʅ Wҽʅƈσɱҽ!

Summary: when you date a Magic Knight Captain, it's only a matter of time until you meet their Knights! A/N: just some fluff for Yami! I tried to include as many characters as I could but I'm still getting used to writing multiple chars in one scene. Pairing: Yami Sukehiro x fem!reader CW: swearing, suggestive jokes

╰┈➤ "Is this really where Suke lives?" you asked nobody as you approached his base. "He's always told me not to visit, but this place is just... creepy. Still, I feel bad for making him visit me all the time. Why not pay him a surprise visit?"

You had been dating the famed Captain of the Black Bulls, Yami Sukehiro, for a few months--4 to be exact--and things were starting to get serious with him.

But they were never serious enough for you to meet his squad.

Sure, you had seen them in passing, tagging along with him on missions, but you've never met the Black Bulls in person. It was like they were his kids that he never wanted you to meet for whatever reason. Whenever you tried to ask him if you could meet them, he'd always say: "Nah, not happening. I don't need you meeting those knuckleheads; they'd probably blabber some stupid story and scare you off, and I don't need that."

For the better part, he actually made the effort to go and see you wherever you were. He'd venture as many miles as needed in order to do so. He also just never introduced you to the public in general because he was scared of someone going after you for a vendetta or revenge against Yami (he was a man with many enemies, after all). So, he was content with just going on private dates in secluded bars or spending the night at your place. Any chance he could take to spend time with you, he'd snatch it right up.

Why did you venture to the secretive Black Bulls hideout in the first place? Well, Yami had been busy with training for a while. The missions were swamping him, and his efforts to keep the devils at bay were, inadvertently, keeping your relationship at bay as well. He never had any time to leave the hideout unless it was to go on a mission or to an official summons, and because you were basically forbidden from going to HQ, it meant all you could do was communicate via letters.

And you were sick and tired of it.

You were an impatient girl. You didn't like being basically banned from seeing your boyfriend, no matter how legitimate his causes or concerns were.

You haven't had dick in ages--you were starting to lose feeling down there!! And lord knows his dick was good, so good it left you unable to walk on several occasions.

But you weren't there just to fuck him (although it was a big bonus of dating him); you were there to mend your little broken heart.

So, that's how you wound up on their doorstep. You went at a time which you knew it'd be empty, so you were sure you wouldn't have to meet those bulls. Even if he, himself, was out, you could just wait in his room as a little welcome home surprise.

"I don't suppose I have to knock before entering," you muttered, grabbing the latch of the door and opening the giant wooden slab. Just as you'd expected: the place was empty. Not a peep to be heard throughout the entire tower of oddly shaped rooms and windows that were jutting out of the wrong places.

"Well, this sure ain't too bad. I thought it'd be in ruins by the way Suke described it," you thought to yourself. As you stepped on the cobblestone floors and ventured inside the place, you took note of it. It had a certain charm to it, like a cozy tavern you'd seek refuge from a storm in. There were torches lit up by mana, different flags hanging from the walls, and a big bar in the left side of the room. "If he wasn't so protective of me, I could imagine myself living here with him..."

"Hello... who are... you?" a ghostly voice suddenly said from the hallway.

"Gah! Wait- is it seriously haunted? Was Sukehiro telling me the truth this whole time?!" You immediately hid behind a couch when you saw the mint-haired man standing there.

"I'm... not... a... ghost! I... keep... this... place... running," the ghost said.

"Are you sure? Because you certainly don't look too- gah!" this time, you were surprised to feel that all your mana was being drained from you, simply by being close to the man.

"I'm.. sorry... I... drain... people's... mana... on... accident. Don't... stand... too... close."

"Figured as much," you muttered, somehow able to break free from the man's mana pull. "I knew I shouldn't have come here... I thought all of you would be out for the day."

"You... didn't... answer... my... question. Who... are... you?"

"Oh, right... sorry about that," you said, rubbing the back of your neck, "I'm, uh... I'm Captain Yami's girlfriend. I came here hoping that none of you would be around, but it seems as though I made a mistake. I thought all of you would be on missions for sure!"

The man's ghostly face lit up in surprise when he realized who you were. "Oh! I... know... you... or, at least... I've... heard... of you... Captain Yami's... always... talking... about... some girl... who... he's... been... dating. We all... just... thought... that he... was... lying."

"You seriously thought that he was lying?" you asked in disbelief. "Then again, he is an acquired taste... Anyway, what's your name?"

"My... name's... Henry. I... don't... go on... missions... because... I'm... too... weak, and I'm... bound... to... this... house."

"Too weak?" you asked, feeling a bit sorry for the guy. "Jeez, that must suck. Anyway, Henry, nice to meet you- ahhh!!" he started draining your mana on accident again and you pulled away.

"Sorry..."

"It's fine, Henry; I forgot about your little quirk," you reassured him with a wave of the hand.

"You're... really... pretty. Too... pretty... to... be... dating the... Captain," Henry remarked, making you snicker.

"Well, thank you, Henry! Yeah, you probably couldn't picture him and I together, if I'm being honest. I guess I just have a thing for oblivious brutes," you giggled, making him smile in return. "Anyway, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Captain Yami about my impromptu appearance; he doesn't want me hanging around you guys. Somethin' about 'putting me in danger'? As if I could be put in danger," you remarked rather confidently. "I'm not really the type to submit to his wishes all that easily, but he seemed pretty serious about keeping our relationship under wraps. If you don't mind me, I'll be on my merry way-"

"Wait...! The... others... are... supposed to be... back... soon! You'll... get... caught... if you... don't... hide!" Henry warned you suddenly.

"H-Huh? Really?!" you asked him, already freaking out.

As if on cue, you could hear several voices chattering from the other side of the door, and you looked around in panic, trying to find a hiding spot. Henry was blocking the hallway, and if you got too close to him, you'd probably faint on the spot. You tried to hide behind the bar, only for the door to literally break down as the rowdy Black Bulls made their way home. You knew they were loud, but you didn't know that they were the type to break down doors! At the sight of the bunch, you instinctively froze up in fear, akin to a deer in headlights. You ducked for the nearest couch, hoping that they'd choose to go in the opposite direction.

"Did you guys see the way I took that guy down?! It was awesome! I totally surpassed my limits out there!!" A rather enthusiastic, short boy said to the others. That must've been Asta: the anti-magic user.

"You were pretty good out there--not that I'm complimenting you or anything! I'm still royalty compared to you," a similarly short girl with silver hair said. Based on how she was jabbing the boy with her words, that was probably Noelle.

"Just you wait, Asta--I'm gonna get stronger than you!" another guy with a mohawk and glasses said. Magna, if you weren't mistaken.

"I'd like to see you try to get stronger than him! If you do, then I'll spar with you until I get even stronger!" a blonde boy with a psychopathic smile quipped. Luck.

"Just don't go around breaking shit, okay, you numbskulls?" your oh-so handsome boyfriend Yami Sukehiro sighed. "We don't have the money to keep repairing the damage you guys cause."

"I'm going to go worship my sister, Marie," a guy with an apparent sister complex said: Gauche, to be precise.

"What a weirdo," you said to yourself. A few of their heads turned in the direction of your voice, and you hid your entire body behind the couch.

"What was that?"

"Whatever it was, it was telling the truth."

"If you boys don't mind, I'm gonna go have a drink at the bar!" a female voice said, her words already slurred.

"Aren't you already drunk, Vanessa?" another guy asked the witch.

"What's one more drink, Finral? You should come join me!" she replied. You quickly realized you were in deep shit when you remembered that the couch you were hiding behind was right next to the bar.

Well, this is the end, you thought. There was no way you could hide from these guys now. Even if you tried to make a run for it, your boyfriend was right there, and he'd probably teach you a lesson!!

You braced yourself for when the witch, Vanessa, would see you... which was right at that moment. "Umm, guys? Why is there a stranger hiding behind our couch?"

Your eyes shot open in fear, and you looked up at the girl, your face red with embarrassment. "Vanessa, what are you talking about? Are you seriously seeing things?- Oh, hubba, hubba!" the guy named Finral said once he saw you. "If I knew that cute girls would be sneaking into our hideout, I'd leave the door unlocked more often!"

One by one, all the Black Bulls clamored around the couch, wondering who, exactly, the two were talking about. They were all in wonder until Yami came over. Oh, how you dreaded this from the moment you walked in...

"(Y/N)--what the hell are you doing in my base?!" said boyfriend asked, making you flinch with how loudly he asked that question.

"Heh... hi, Suke," you said quietly, only for the man to pick you up by the scruff of your collar and make you stand up.

"Wait, do you actually know that girl, Captain Yami?" Finral asked the man.

"He sure does..." you said meekly.

"Yeah, I do," he sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "Great, this is just what I needed: my Bulls slobbering all over my girlfriend..."

"Did you just say GIRLFRIEND?!" all of them asked in unison.

"I guess there's no time like the present," the man finally relented. Yami stopped pinching his nose and instead wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you next to him. "Everyone, this is my girlfriend of four months."

"GIRLFRIEND OF FOUR MONTHS?!"

"I didn't even know a woman could stand to be in your presence, let alone for that amount of time!" Noelle exclaimed.

"So, you mean to tell me that you bagged a babe like her?! Captain, you need to give me your secrets!!!" Finral said, practically on the verge of losing it at this revelation.

"Don't call my girlfriend a babe, pipsqueak!"

"THIS IS SO COOL!! SO YOU MEAN TO TELL US THAT YOU WEREN'T LYING ABOUT HAVING A GIRLFRIEND ALL THIS TIME?!" Asta exclaimed, his voice drowning out everyone else's questions. "PLEASED TO MAKE YOUR ACQUAINTANCE, MA'AM--MY NAME IS ASTA AND I'M FROM HAGE VILLAGE, AND YOU ARE VERY BEAUTIFUL!!"

"Stop yelling in my girlfriend's ear, are you trying to make her go deaf?!" Yami asked Asta before grabbing his lips and shutting him up forcefully.

"Would you like to spar with me?!" Luck asked, way too enthusiastically for his own good.

"How about a drink?" Vanessa asked.

"A nice, warm meal would be a great welcome for her!" Charmy proposed.

"I don't care if you're Yami's girlfriend: if you touch my sister Marie, I'll kick your ass," Gauche threatened you directly.

"Creep..." Yami muttered. "For the love of the Wizard King, all of you get off of her and stop harassing her with all your questions!!" he barked, now pissed off at the situation.

"Yes, Captain Yami, sir," all of them said, piping down finally.

"This is exactly why I didn't introduce her to all of you; none of you know how to act properly!" Yami yelled again, this time gritting his teeth in anger. You could tell he was getting riled up, so you put your hand on his chest and silently told him to calm down. His frustrated expression settled down to a simple frown, and he offered you a tiny smile. "Sorry, princess."

"I've never seen someone rein him in so easily," one of the bulls remarked in wonder.

"It's clear that Yami appreciates this woman and that we should treat her with the same respect with which we'd treat one of our own," Gordon whispered. Everyone still side-eyed him for how quiet he was being.

Yami took a deep breath and faced his subordinates again. "Anyway, this is my girlfriend of 4 months: (Y/N) (L/N). I expect all of you to treat her with the same respect you'd treat me, just as Gordon said." Everyone nodded, and for once he didn't feel like bashing their heads in.

"Captain Yami, if you don't mind me asking: how come we haven't met her before if she's so important to you?" one of them asked this time.

"Because, if I introduced her to all of you, one of you would blabber your mouths, and then word would get out that I had a girlfriend. That would put her in some serious danger, considering how many foes we face and enemies we have," Yami explained--and quite calmly at that. "And I like keeping my personal life separate from my life as Captain. I don't want the two to intermingle, even if both lives are equally important to me."

"I guess that makes sense..."

You decided that it was your turn to speak: "truth be told, Suke's always been so overprotective of me. He thinks I'm some delicate little flower who needs to be guarded at all costs, even if I'm a stage 0 mage. It's honestly ironic, considering how his type is strong women," you added with a giggle.

"Well, I can't let you get hurt because of me, princess," he said to you quietly. "Even if you are strong, there's always the chance that someone might go looking for you."

"Look at him, he's so protective of her! It's honestly kinda cute," Vanessa remarked, taking another sip of her drink. Yami merely glared at her before looking at all of them again.

"How come she found out about the base if you're so protective of her? Isn't its location supposed to be private?"

This was a question meant for you, it seemed, even if it was directed at Yami. "Well... your horse and buggy's a little quick to give up information if you're pretty enough," you giggled mischievously, playing with your hair as if you were innocent.

"Finral!" Yami said through gritted teeth.

"I-I just figured she was curious!" the boy said, trembling at the possibility of being punished by their Captain.

"I guess I just have my ways," you giggled again. "I couldn't stay away from my boyfriend for too long, not when I have needs!" you shot a wink at Yami, and all he could do was blush in place.

"I don't even wanna know what those needs are..."

"Don't speak of such things around my sister, Marie," Gauche quipped, making you furrow your brow.

"She's not even here--that's a picture you're holding!!"

"She's here in spirit."

"Stop starting fights when we have guests," Noelle interjected, being the voice of reason for once. She then decided to ask you a question. "So, I simply have to know: what possessed you to date the man for four months? From what I've seen, he's not the most perceptive man out there!"

"Noelle, you can't just say that about our captain in front of his girlfriend!" Asta said to Noelle.

She huffed in response. "As if you'd be any better!!"

"Slander my name to her like that and I'll kill both of you," Yami threatened them, making them both jump.

"But I didn't even do anything wrong!" Asta whined defensively.

"To be honest," you started, making everyone look at you again. "I was the one who initially had a crush on him. I know he's not everyone's type, but he sure is mine. Anyway, it was kinda hard getting him to notice my feelings for him. In the end, all it took was for me to simply confess my feelings for him and hope that he'd reciprocate them! And Suke may not look like the boyfriend type, but he's actually the most caring and considerate man I've ever met; he just doesn't show any of you that side... At least, not as forwardly as he does to to me."

Noelle thought about your words, and she couldn't exactly do anything but take your word for it. "If you say so... But, I still just don't get it! You're so... pink, and he's so... whatever he is!"

"Well, everyone has their type," you shrugged.

"But, how do you deal with his bowel issues?"

"Noelle!"

You couldn't help but giggle at her question. "By buying extra toilet paper, of course!"

"(Y/N)..." Yami trailed off, embarrassed by the topic. "All of you: bowel issues are no laughing matter! I go through battles every single day in that room."

"Yeah, we know."

After the Black Bulls laughed at your little statements, he decided to move on to the next part: "alright, enough of a Q&A session. Since you came all this way, I'd imagine you'd be staying over for dinner?"

Your stomach growled in response to his question. "Oh, yes, please. I'm starving--this place is so far from the nearest town!"

"Not to worry, my fair lady!" Charmy suddenly said, standing up on the table. "Chef Charmy here will cook up an amazing feast to welcome you to our humble abode!"

You looked at Charmy and then at Yami. "Can the half-dwarf really do that--cook well?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised. Her food is rich with mana."

"Fear not," Charmy repeated, "for you deserve a proper Black Bull welcome!"

Just as Yami promised you: Charmy cooked up a feast fit for several kings from far away lands and then some. Her cotton magic combined with her food magic made for plenty of meals and dishes to go around, and, although simplistic in their nature, each meal left you wanting more.

You were, of course, seated beside your boyfriend Yami (you were almost touching him), and the pink-haired witch, Vanessa, decided to sit on the other side. "You simply must try this drink, (Y/N)!"

"Oh, I don't drink much, but thanks for the offer," you said. Your efforts were in vain, seeing as she had already filled your cup.

"Don't overdo it, princess. I don't want you stumbling about the place. Y'know, since you can't really handle your liquor," Yami warned you.

"I'll try not to, Suke."

After filling up your cup, Vanessa decided to ask you a boatload of questions, as did all the other Black Bulls. Asta asked you about your family back at home; Vanessa asked you about your relationship; Luck asked you about your fighting skills; Gordon asked if he could be your friend (and make a doll that resembled you?); etc. All the other Bulls asked you unique questions that were different according to their personalities and interests, and you were happily to answer all of them. It wasn't everyday that you got to talk about your wonderful relationship!

As the night settled down, though, a certain personal question was asked by a certain witch who was to your right. "So, (Y/N), I hope you don't mind me asking you this, but... are you happy in your relationship?" It was on brand for the witch, considering that she liked to talk about relationships and was also quite drunk.

"Vanessa, don't ask those kinds of questions," Yami warned the witch. "You've just met her-"

You answered it, though, regardless of how personal it was. Maybe it was the alcohol that opened you up more, but you gave her a smile and said: "more than you could imagine, Vanessa. Suke makes me happy in ways I cannot imagine. Brash as he might be, he still cares for me, and I can see that he also cares about the lot of you in his own special way. You're his family, after all; I'm just the lucky girl who he chose to open up to." It was more than you intended to say, but it got the point across pretty well. You took another sip of your drink, unaware of the way that they looked at you.

"Wow, that's... I sure am glad that you're happy!" Vanessa exclaimed, throwing her arm around your shoulder (and almost falling out of her chair).

"We all are, (Y/N)," Noelle also said with a slight smile.

"We might've just met you, but if you're a friend of Captain Yami's, then you're a friend of ours!" Asta exclaimed.

"I hope we can be great friends," Gordon whispered.

With each praise, each remark of approval, you couldn't help but smile at them. Truth be told, you'd been longing for a group of people who you could call home. Much like Noelle, you, too, had been shunned by your family for reasons you couldn't explain. Yami had been your lighthouse, your guiding rock all this time, but the idea that there was a whole other group out there who you could lean on for support kept your spirits up.

You might've just met them, but you already felt at home.

"Welcome to the fold, kid," Yami muttered into your ear before kissing the skin behind it.

Now that dinner was all cleaned up and over with, the two of you retired to Yami's bedroom. He shut the door behind him quietly, breathing a sigh of relief. "(Y/N), you have no idea the heart attack you almost gave me back there." Although he let the stoic mask drop and be replaced by the softness that he showed you, he still couldn't help but scold you. "Seriously--I wasn't prepared to introduce you to all of them."

"I didn't mean to surprise you like that, I just... look, I planned on sneaking in and going to your room and surprising you there. I wanted to see you--you've been so busy these past few weeks! I really didn't mean to meet them so early," you said, taking your earrings off and putting them on the nightstand.

Yami took the opportunity to sneak behind you and wrap his arms around your body. "I know I've been busy, princess; I would've snuck you in if you asked me to, though."

"I was impatient, Suke. You know how long those letters take to deliver; I wanted to see you today."

He didn't scold you; rather, he chuckled deeply and pressed his lips to the top of your head. "Well, aren't you an impatient princess?"

"You gave me that title, Sukehiro," you quipped, making him chuckle again.

"I guess I did."

After a few moments of silence, and after you'd taken your jewelry off, he took the opportunity to hug you tighter and let his lips travel down your neck. "Well, since you're here... I might as well get that loving in, hmm?"

"You might as well," you quipped. You stopped talking, instead letting him kiss your neck and your shoulder. You were so small in his arms--like a goddamn kitten! Even though you were strong, confident & fierce in your daily life, when you were with your beloved, you were like putty in his big hands, reduced to mush in a matter of moments.

"Good god, woman, I've missed you," he growled, letting his big hand trail up your shirt. "You have no idea how hard it was to resist the urge to just drop everything and come running to you."

"That's no way for a Magic Knight Captain to behave," you teased him, making him spank your ass out of annoyance.

"I know, princess." He went back to kissing your exposed shoulder and decided to take it a step further. "Turn around for me, baby," he rasped into your ear. You obliged happily, turning around to face your boyfriend. "That's more like it," he said, cracking a smile before attacking your lips. His chapped, rough lips kissed your much softer & sweeter ones, his tongue intermingling with yours and tasting the sweetness of your mouth. "Missed this... the way your lips taste," he whispered, angling your head so he could kiss you deeper.

"Missed yours, too," you murmured to which he raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't you say I smelled like cigarettes and beer?"

"That was before I made you quit all that shit. Now, shut up and kiss me," you said before diving in again.

"As you wish." He spun you guys around so that he was sitting on the bed and you were in between his legs. "What're you standing there for? Sit on my lap, sweetheart." You happily obliged and straddled his hips, letting the man pull you in for another deep, passionate kiss. His wandering hands trailed up and down your sides until he finally decided to peel off your shirt.

"Suke, it's cold," you whined.

"Then lemme heat you up," he rasped, continuing to let his hands run amok. Every time he got his hands on your soft, supple skin, he felt his heart skip a beat. You were just so goddamn perfect for him--you were like an angel, sent to keep him tamed. He trailed kisses down your neck and to your chest, kissing and biting at the soft fat of your breasts. "Mind if I take this thing off?" he asked, sticking a finger underneath the clasp of your bra.

"Only if you take this off," you quipped, peeling your boyfriend's tank top off, giving you access to those sweet muscles that you were so incredibly attracted to.

"Like what you see?" he rumbled with a cocky grin on his face.

"More than you could imagine," you giggled, pushing him back onto the bed and earning a spank from the brute's big hand.

"Come here and give your man some loving, hmm? He's missed having you in his bed."

You promptly requested a change of squad the next day. The Crimson Lion Kings would understand.

Bσɳυʂ ʂƈҽɳҽ: Nαƈԋƚ Fαυʂƚ! ⋆♱✮♱⋆

"So, this is the girlfriend I've been hearing so much about, Captain Yami?" the man, who was his vice-captain, asked him. It was a rare occurrence for him to leave the shadow realm and go back to HQ, but when he heard that his old friend of so many years had gotten himself a girlfriend, he couldn't resist the urge to meet you. His eyes flickered from Yami to you, and you felt like they were staring into your soul.

"Yeah, this is her: (Y/N), (L/N). Try not to scare her off and say anything bad about me, 'kay?" Yami asked of the young man.

Nacht offered you a smile and even outstretched his hand from his coat. "Pleased to meet you, my name is Nacht Faust. I was wondering when Captain Yami would find someone who'd put up with his antics," he said, surprisingly friendly for how reserved he seemed.

"Do I really have that kinda reputation?!"

"Yes, you do."

"Um... nice to meet you as well," you replied, unsure if you should be scared of him or be glad he was so friendly.

"Anyway, I should get going. I can't exactly stand to be around your boyfriend for so long," he said in that eerily calm voice before slinking back into a shadow. "It was nice to meet you again!"

"Yeah, it was..." you trailed off as the man disappeared into the shadowy side of that wall. "Is he always like that?"

"He's usually worse," Yami sighed. "Anyway, let's go back to bed. I'm tired."

"But it's 3 pm!" you protested. He merely scoffed and threw you over his shoulder. "Hey, put me down!!"

"Does it look like I care? I'll cuddle my girlfriend anytime of the day I want."

#yami sukehiro #yami sukehiro x reader #yami sukehiro smut #black clover x y/n #black clover x reader #black clover smut #black clover fandom #black clover #finral roulacase #vanessa enoteca #asta black clover #luck voltia #magna swing #gauche adlai #gordon agrippa #noelle silva #charmy pappitson #nacht faust

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