#he's just saying the same thing over and over

[reignpage]

In which Nanami and his wife suffer a loss Tw: grief, death, miscarriage, depression

“Sweetheart,” he begins, a strain in his husky voice, “you should eat something.”

You don’t respond. There’s a lot to say, but none you can get through without crying, you think, so you sit in the garden, feeling a warm breeze brush over you. It had only been days since it happened, and a dull silence has filled your home, mocking and taunting. Practically catatonic, you only get up from the chair you dragged from the dining room to the garden to use the toilet or to lie in bed awake all night. 

Kento, ever the rock, has been picking up the pieces — he’s cleaned the blood from the floor, dealt with the paperwork, spoken to all the doctors, and has begun making those dreaded phone calls to your closest friends and family. He doesn’t sleep, either. 

“Please, honey. The doctors said you need to recuperate your energy.”

A scoff leaves you. “The doctors said a lot of things, Kento, and we did it all. We did everything right. Everything. And for what?”

He sighs. 

“I know.”

And that’s all he can say. 

He leaves a plate of food with you and disappears inside the house. You’re sure he’s just giving you space because that’s what he thinks you need or want, though, in truth, it only makes you feel worse. As if he can barely look at you, he never sits with you, never stays in the same room for very long after checking on your health, and doesn’t reach for your body at night or in the morning. Probably because he wouldn’t be able to stomach the reminder of what had been lost. Of what you lost. 

Or rather, what you took from him. 

Maybe some of those phone calls he takes are to his lawyers. Maybe instead of a fresh birth certificate, all you’ll have to commemorate those months you’ve spent creating life are divorce papers. You can’t blame him. You resent yourself, too. 

There are going to be a lot of changes in the house and none that you had been anticipating. The baby proofing will have to come off: the gates at the stairs, the rubber guards on the table corners, the locks on cabinets. And the nursery…

How long will that room stay as it is?

How long before those gentle clouds are painted over and the onesies are thrown away or donated? 

Your feet take you there on autopilot, you’re not even really sure where you are until you blink and realise you’re holding a stuffed toy of a giraffe to your nose. It doesn’t smell of anything, never had the chance to smell like anything, not baby powder or even vomit; it’s just empty. 

“Sweetheart?” Kento looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes, a scruffiness to his jaw that you’ve never seen, his hair is messy like he’s run his hands through it many times, and his socks are mismatched. You haven’t looked in a mirror in a while, so you can’t say if you look just as bad or worse, and nothing in how he looks at you gives it away. “Are you al—“

Always so thoughtful, he stops himself from asking what he knows is a ridiculous question. Of course, you’re not alright. How could you be? 

Even at his worst, he doesn’t ever want to hurt you. You come first, even if the whole world wouldn’t blame him if he was selfish for just one second. That's your husband. Always so perfect, so deserving of…well, more.

Without needing him to say the words, you answer the question that hangs in the air. “I just wanted to see this place one last time before we turn it back to a guest room.”

“Is that what you’d like? To clean the room out?” His words are measured, voice restrained, and it switches something in you, sparking guilt and life, both of which come hand in hand, you realise now.

You feel terrible; you haven't even considered what he wants.

He sees something in your eyes, something that softens his gaze and urges him forward, wrapping his arms around you. Gentle and warm, you immediately melt into his embrace — you’ve forgotten how good it feels, how right, and you slot back together like puzzle pieces. 

Holding him tight, you whisper, “I don’t know what I want to do with the room. It feels wrong to erase it all, but I don’t think it should just sit here, collecting dust, y’know?”

“I understand. But if it’s okay with you, I’d like to keep it around for a little longer. I’m not quite ready to say goodbye.”

You’re going to cry — you always did when he bares his soul to you. With a nod, you shuffle out of his embrace and make your way out, passing the toy to him, but he holds on, keeping you there with him. His grip is unsteady, shaky, and desperate. 

“Please talk to me, sweetheart.” His voice breaks, a sound you’ve never heard him make. You can’t bear to look at what expression has taken over his features. If you did, you’d break, and you know it. “Let me back in. I know you’re mad at me. I know I failed you and our b-baby, but please just look at me, okay? I need to know you’re alright. That you’ll be alright.”

The tears fall in waves. “I’m not mad at you, Ken. I could never. I thought you were mad at me. I thought you hated me 'cause it was my fault. I-I must have strained myself too much, o-or something. I’m sorry.”

Kento rushes forward and holds you as if you’ll vanish before him like the future you’ve been building. He holds you like he can will life back into you, even if it robs him of his, like he wishes he could take your pain and wash it all away. “No, sweetheart. God, please don’t talk like that. Please. I-I can’t bear it.”

He fights off the overwhelming silence of loss with admissions of love, filling the room with what it should have been filled with from the very beginning. No words of comfort can be given. Nothing about a grand plan, a test, and talks of a better place could ease any of what you feel. He makes no promises that it will get better; he can’t say for sure it will. But he’s willing to try, and that’s more than enough. 

At night, you lay on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. It’s intimacy you’ve been yearning for and didn’t realise it. He smells clean and familiar, and he radiates so much heat you hardly need covers. The hairs on his chest aren't scraggly or chafing; they're comfortable. And his fingers tickle, eliciting goosebumps as they dance up and down your spine. These are the things about him you've forgotten, that younger you would hate to ever forget, and yet you did. 

From the very beginning, it had been him who dealt with everything. He took you to all your doctors appointments, read out chapters from parenting books to you, practised studies about the benefits of talking to the baby, grilled sales assistants on strollers and cribs, threw out everything in the house that could be dangerous to you — alcohol, strong perfumes, snacks and foods unadvisable to be consumed — even installed a handle in the bathroom in case you slipped.

He spoke with great pride about your development, how strong you are for being able to bear so much weight, for powering through the lethargy to attend parenting classes, and for being so diligent in your diet. Every step of the way, he had gazed at you like you hung the moon and stars, stared in wonder and in awe.

In his wallet, he carries a picture of the sonogram. He showed it off to anyone he could corner, would even kiss it for luck. In the hospital, just hours after you’re been told the news, you caught him looking at it when he thought you were asleep. You wonder if he’ll keep it now that nothing more will come from it, now that it’ll only prompt awkward conversations and won’t bear any luck.

Quiet and brimming under the surface, you know he grieved like it would be a bother to you.

“You would have been a great father, Ken,” you mutter against his chest. “I’m sorry I took that away from you.”

Shushing you, he says, “You didn’t take anything from me. You’ve given me everything. Every ounce of happiness I’ve ever felt came from you. Every wonderful memory worth keeping has been with you. I know I would have made a loving father, but only because you’d be an amazing mother. I’d never want to do any of it without you, do you understand? For better or for worse, remember, sweetheart?”

“In sickness and in health…” The words carry a bitter taste in your mouth. “What if we can never…what if I can never…?”

“Then, we can adopt. Or, we can just travel the world together. That sounds fun, doesn't it?”

He brushes a thumb over the gold band on your finger like it’s soothing, but you only feel its chains tie him down. “Maybe you should start anew with someone who isn’t broken, someone who can give you—“

“That’s enough."

There's a finality to his words that shames you into silence. It's scolding, unyielding, and almost angry.

"Don’t talk about yourself like that — like you’re a breeding machine. I won’t let anyone disrespect my wife, not even you.” Your face is cradled in his big, firm hands, forcing you to see the fierce sincerity in his eyes, which don’t waver even in the face of the tears that threaten to brim over in yours. “I love you. I love you. Nothing will change that. Nothing. I already know, without needing to search for it, that my happy ending is with you and that no one else can make me feel the way you do. You’re the woman of my dreams, with or without a baby. You’ve given me more love and happiness than I deserve and I hate when you talk about yourself like that.”

“But, Ken...”

“No, sweetheart. Listen to me. What happened was terrible. Is terrible. And we’re both allowed to feel the loss, to feel however we need to feel to process it all. But for as long as we love each other, we can face whatever the future has in store for us. Together. Whatever you want. Whether it’s to try again or to find a child already out there to love, or if it’s just each other — I’ll be happy with anything because it’ll be with you. Because I love you, and I need you a-and if you suggest leaving me once more, I think I might just die.”

You kiss him through the tears. There are no words left to be exchanged; he’s made it abundantly clear what he wants, and only in your actions can you declare to him that you’re just as much in this as he is, that you’re just as willing to fight for your shared happiness as you were before. 

He clasps you to him like he believes you. Like he needs to.

For the first night in a while, you fall asleep lighter than ever, and it doesn’t feel so bad anymore. 

[dksfml]

EIGHTEEN - YANG JUNGWON (PART II)

pairing: fboy!jungwon x reader summary: where on your 18th birthday, you receive a blessing that lets you see the future, only to find yourself married to jungwon, the college heartthrob you’ve barely spoken to, with a child calling you mom. genre: university / college au, soulmate au, fantasy, fluff, slight angst, love triangle, pining, slow burn word count: 4.8k playlist: 18 - one direction, stuck with u - ariana grande & justin bieber, you belong with me - ts, lavender haze - ts, wish that i could - umi, meddle about - chase atlantic A/N: forgive me if this part's a bit short. i promise to make it up to you in the next ones, hehe

masterlist.

This is a work of fiction. It does not represent real people, events, or systems. Any similarities are purely coincidental, and all elements are created for fantasy purposes only.

The drama club’s room smelled faintly of old velvet curtains and cheap perfume.

Jungwon was half-distracted, mind somewhere else entirely, when the girl he barely remembered the name of tugged at his collar, lips finding the side of his neck. Her fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt, nails scraping lightly across his skin.

He let her.

Only because he wanted to get this over with.

The only reason he even agreed to meet her again today was to retrieve his wallet. The one he stupidly left at her dorm last night. He didn’t even plan on staying longer than necessary. Hell, he didn’t even plan on seeing her again. Jungwon didn’t do repeats.

But when she leaned in too close, smirking against his ear and said, "At least let me give you an advanced birthday treat, babe," he froze.

He should have walked away right then.

Instead, when she kept pushing, fingers pulling at his belt loops, mouth chasing his, he kissed her. Hard. Too hard.

Just to shut her up.

A mistake.

A fucking mistake.

Because that’s when the door creaked open.

And everything inside him seized up.

Through the tangled mess of limbs and desperation, his eyes locked onto a figure standing stiff at the door.

You.

Wide-eyed. Frozen. Like you’d just witnessed a car crash you couldn’t look away from.

Fuck.

He pulled back like he’d been electrocuted, his breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Y/N?” he blurted, voice rough and broken.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Just turned too fast and disappeared down the hallway, footsteps fading like a nightmare.

The girl beside him clicked her tongue, smoothing down her skirt, unfazed. She leaned against the desk casually, fixing her lipstick in the reflection of a trophy case.

“She’s pretty," she said, voice light, teasing. "Is that her?"

Jungwon stared at her, still breathing hard. “What?”

She tilted her head, smiling like she knew something he didn’t. “The girl who rejected you during freshmen year. Jake told me.”

His fists clenched at his sides. He stared at her, a million unsaid things clawing up his throat.

“I wasn’t rejected,” Jungwon snapped, sharper than he meant to. “And Jake doesn’t have the right to say shit. He’s in the same fucking position.”

The girl only chuckled, slipping her phone back into her bag like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb and walked away.

Jungwon stood there for a long moment, the stale, suffocating air pressing down on him.

He had come here for a wallet.

He had stayed because he was stupid.

He kissed a girl he didn’t even like because he thought it didn’t matter.

But it mattered.

Because for the first time in a long time, something actually fucking mattered.

And he might have just ruined it before it even had the chance to start.

It started small.

The kind of thing you wouldn’t even notice unless you were paying attention.

There was a vending machine tucked beside the science hall. Old, humming, half-forgotten. Students barely used it unless they were desperate between classes. But Jungwon did. And he always bought the same thing: the yellow-pack gummy bears.

Soft, sweet, just the right chew.

Something about them tasted like how he imagined being a kid felt simple and untouched.

Except, lately, they were always gone.

He’d walk up between lectures, coins ready, tap the scratched glass — and nothing.

Every other snack untouched.

Every other candy still neatly stacked.

Just the yellow gummies, empty.

It pissed him off a little.

He even once smacked the side of the machine in frustration, earning a few weird glances from passing students. He ignored them, he had bigger problems.

One day, he was earlier than usual. The hallways were half-empty, the vending machine still blinking lazily in the corner. And there you were.

Crouched low, head tilted, tapping the glass thoughtfully like you were deep in negotiation with the machine. In your hand? Two packs of the yellow gummies.

And in your bag? He caught the flash of even more, at least three, four crammed into the front pocket like a guilty secret.

You turned, mid-stuffing the last pack into your bag. Eyes meeting. Both of you frozen.

He recognized you vaguely. Freshman orientation, Jake's friend, the girl who laughed at his jokes but never stuck around for long.

And now? Now you were the damn vending machine thief.

You blinked, the barest flicker of surprise crossing your face before you straightened up calmly, like you weren’t doing anything remotely suspicious. You were.

Jungwon crossed his arms, smirking before he could stop himself.

"Leave some for the rest of us, maybe?"

You shrugged, not even guilty. "Survival of the fittest."

He huffed out a laugh. "You're hoarding them."

"They're the best ones," you said simply, like it was obvious. "Supply and demand."

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. You were something else.

"I’ve been trying to buy those for a week," he said, mock offended.

"You should be faster," you replied, voice light, teasing, as you zipped your bag shut and slung it over your shoulder.

Before he could think of anything clever to say, you tossed one of the packs toward him. He caught it, stunned.

"Here," you said.

A peace offering.

Or maybe just a dare to keep up.

Then you walked away, steps light, disappearing down the hallway before he could ask your name.

He stood there for a second, the vending machine humming behind him, the yellow pack crinkling in his hand.

Slowly, he smiled.

He didn’t know much about you yet. Only that you liked the same gummy bears. And that you didn’t apologize for it.

But that tiny, stupid moment? It stuck. Burrowed somewhere he couldn't dig out later, no matter how many months passed.

And later, when people joked about how he must’ve had dozens of girls chasing after him, he just thought about you, walking away without a second glance, leaving him standing there like some idiot holding candy.

After that day at the vending machine, Jungwon started noticing you everywhere. At first, he told himself it was coincidence. The campus wasn’t that big. Maybe your paths just happened to cross. Maybe you just happened to sit two rows ahead of him in economics. Maybe you just happened to linger outside the drama clubroom, laughing too brightly with Sunoo.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

He was looking for you now.

Tuning out the rest of the world, unconsciously drawn to the sound of your laugh, the flash of your bag stuffed with books and candy, the easy way you moved through life like you weren’t trying to impress anyone.

And you never noticed him.

Not really.

You barely even glanced his way.

He almost gave up then, almost let himself believe it was just a vending machine moment, a glitch in the universe that wasn’t meant to last.

Until rumors started.

Jake was courting you.

Jake, the golden boy with the easy smiles and a trail of admirers.

Jake, who was somehow close to you already.

Jake, who could make anyone fall for him if he really wanted to.

Jungwon told himself it didn’t matter. He lied.

It hurt.

More than it should have.

A stupid, sour sting every time he saw Jake walking next to you, tossing you candies or making you laugh in that easy, infuriating way of his.

So Jungwon, idiot that he was, joined the drama club. “I need the extracurricular points," he told everyone. Nobody believed him.

Mostly, he stuck to backstage work, fixing broken chairs, painting sets, running errands Sunoo barked at him with terrifying efficiency.

You were always around, helping, organizing, laughing. Sometimes you sat cross-legged on the stage sorting costume jewelry into plastic bins. Sometimes you passed him a bottle of water without looking. He said thank you quietly every time and you never noticed.

But he stayed anyway.

Because being near you, even if you didn’t see him, felt better than nothing at all.

Then one afternoon, everything shifted again.

He was fixing a crooked light rig when Sunoo’s voice rang out through the dusty club office.

"Y/N turned Jake down yesterday." Loud. Blunt. No room for misunderstanding.

The room went quiet. Someone gasped. Someone else whistled low.

Jungwon tightened his grip on the wrench. Heart slamming. Mind racing.

You turned Jake down?

"Yeah," another club member chimed in, dramatic as ever. "She said she's not ready for dating. Wants to focus on her studies first, plus she was thinking of running for the student council next year."

Sunoo laughed. "Classic Y/N. Always has her priorities straight."

Jungwon barely heard the rest.

All he could think was—

Maybe.

Maybe there was a chance.

Maybe he wasn’t as invisible as he thought.

He spent the whole night drafting letters he’d never send. Debating if he should say anything at all.

In the end, he didn’t write a love confession. He didn’t pour his heart out. He just kept it simple.

A bag of yellow gummy bears. And a note taped on it.

"I know this might not be the right time to give you something like this.

But I just wanted you to know,  you're interesting in every possible way.

You're the kind of person someone could admire quietly for a long time, even if the tides never turn in their favor.

I hope you keep smiling the way you do when you win arguments.

I hope you keep picking the yellow gummy bears, even if you have to fight for the last one.

No pressure.

No expectations.

Just... you deserve to know."

He left it in your locker early the next morning. Heart hammering. Hands shaking.

He thought maybe you’d know. Maybe the gummy bears would tip you off. Maybe you’d remember the stupid vending machine moment that never really left his mind.

Instead—

At lunch, he saw you. Marching across the courtyard. The bag of gummy bears clutched in your hand. Heading straight for Jake.

From where Jungwon sat on the stone steps by the library, he saw it unfold like a bad dream:

You smiling politely.

Talking softly.

Handing Jake the gummy bears back like they were some kind of apology.

And Jake—Jake just blinked, clearly confused, before awkwardly nodding and taking the bag.

You looked relieved.

Jake looked baffled.

Jungwon felt like something inside him cracked quietly open.

You thought Jake sent the gift.

You thought Jake wrote the letter.

And you turned it down.

Kindly. Gently.

And you never even knew it was him.

Later, Jake found him by the vending machines, tossing the crumpled bag onto Jungwon's lap.

"You’re a dumbass," Jake said, not unkindly.

"You should've put your name on it."

Then he left, leaving Jungwon alone with a silent, half-empty machine and a gummy bear pack that tasted a lot more bitter than sweet now.

Jungwon never said anything about it.

He just swallowed the rejection he was never even given the chance to earn.

And maybe that’s why now, standing years later in a messy drama room, when that girl tilted her head and said with a teasing smile—

"The girl who rejected you during freshmen year. Jake told me."

Because truth was… you never even knew it was him.

You never even saw him.

Not then.

Not yet.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Jungwon didn’t stop walking.

Down the hallway, past the bulletin boards, past the same scratched lockers he could’ve walked through blindfolded.

His fists curled tighter with every step.

Breath shallow. Mind buzzing.

He pushed outside, the night air slapping cold against his face. But the sick feeling in his gut didn’t go away.

He barely made it two steps across the courtyard when—

"Jungwon!"

He turned, shoulders stiff.

It was Sunoo, jogging up, frowning. "Dude, what happened? Why is Y/N storming out like she’s about to sue the entire drama club?"

Jungwon opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Rubbed a hand down his face.

"I messed up," he muttered finally, voice hoarse. "I didn’t mean for her to see... that."

Sunoo stared at him, mouth twitching like he wanted to ask a dozen questions but knew better.

Jungwon dug into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out the bright yellow pack, the gummy bears he'd bought earlier, before everything went to shit. Before he'd ruined it.

And then it hit him.

Today was your birthday.

You were supposed to have a good day.

You were supposed to laugh and smile and maybe — maybe — open your locker to find a stupid, cheesy pack of candy from someone who actually thought about you.

Instead, you found him like that.

Instead, he made you leave like your heart was breaking in real time.

A fresh wave of guilt slammed into him, sharp enough to make his stomach turn.

He shoved the pack into Sunoo’s hands, almost too rough.

"Give this to her," Jungwon said, jaw tight. "Tomorrow. Please."

Sunoo blinked down at it. "Uh. Okay? What is this, a bribe?"

Jungwon gave a humorless huff of air.

"Just... tell her I’m sorry. Tell her it’s from me."

Sunoo tucked the candy into his tote bag, still looking like he wanted to say more.

"I have to check our biochem lab results tomorrow," Jungwon added, half an excuse, half the truth. "I won’t see her before lunch."

Sunoo nodded slowly.

"You sure you don’t wanna just give it to her yourself?"

Jungwon shrugged helplessly.

"I don’t think she wants to see me right now."

A beat of silence.

The wind picked up, rattling the bare branches overhead.

Sunoo sighed, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Alright. I’ll make sure she gets it."

He started to turn away, then paused, glancing back with a small, lopsided smile.

"Oh—and, uh, advance happy birthday, Jungwon."

Jungwon managed the barest curve of a smile.

"Thanks."

And then he turned, hoodie pulled up against the cold, and disappeared into the night.

The morning Jungwon turned eighteen, the world stayed silent—for a moment.

The sun rose like it always did, pale and slow against the cracked skyline.

His apartment was still the same too: neat, spare, clean to the point of looking unlived-in. A couch, a low coffee table, a desk piled with textbooks he didn’t really touch anymore.

Nothing screamed special day.

Nothing at all.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the muted light seeping through his curtains.

In families like his, birthdays — eighteenth birthdays — were monumental.

Because here, you only got your blessing once.

It came exactly on your eighteenth birthday, and it never changed after that.

It was supposed to be a celebration. A doorway into the life you were meant to live. But in Jungwon’s family, it wasn’t magic. It wasn’t wonder.

It was a contract.

A cousin who awakened the ability to manipulate probability was immediately signed into risk management for the family's overseas holdings flown out within two weeks. An older sister who could predict crucial decisions before they happened became the sharpest negotiator in corporate mergers. An aunt who could sway opinions through subtle energy became a political lobbyist, shuffled from one continent to another, her life signed away to strategies and campaign wars.

The blessings were always bent, reshaped, weaponized.

Once your blessing appeared, you were sealed into it. Expected to serve it. Or get discarded quietly, like those who didn't "align" well enough.

Jungwon learned early not to hope. Hope made you vulnerable. Hope got you chained.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

🎉 Happy 18th Birthday, Jungwon 🎉

It's time to check your Blessing 💫

He stared at the screen but didn’t move.

Because once you checked it, there was no going back. Once the world saw what you were it would decide who you were.

The phone buzzed again.

A text from his mother.

[Mom]

Happy Birthday, my love. Remember, make today count. Everyone’s watching and waiting. We love you.

And then bleeding in like a crack through the wall  he heard it.

He can’t afford to screw this up. We’ve invested too much already. If it’s not useful, we’ll need to reassess him for overseas placements.

Jungwon stiffened.

It wasn’t a message.

It wasn’t in the text.

It was her thoughts.

He wasn’t reading her words, he was hearing the parts she didn’t say.

He sat there, frozen, as realization sank in.

With a slow, almost reluctant movement, Jungwon finally tapped the blinking notification on his phone.

The screen flashed once, then displayed in clean, gold lettering:

Blessing Activated: The ability to hear the thoughts of those you are conversing with.

And if he could hear it through this simple text conversation...

What would happen when he spoke to people in real life?

A sour, heavy feeling settled into his chest.

This blessing wasn't something he could turn on and off.

It wasn’t something he asked for.

And it sure as hell wasn’t going to make his life easier.

He pushed himself to stand, grabbing his jacket in a stiff, mechanical motion. Then powered off his phone.

When he left the apartment, the air outside was cold against his skin.

As he made his way down the street, he avoided conversation like it was poison. He ignored the greetings of the security guard in his building. He nodded mutely to the woman who sold coffee on the corner without saying a word.

Because he knew what it meant now. Because he knew the moment he exchanged words, he would hear the real thing hiding underneath. Not their smiles. Not their words. The truth they kept locked away.

And Jungwon had spent his whole life surrounded by that kind of duplicity. Family members who said "I'm proud of you" but thought "You better not ruin our name." Cousins who laughed over family dinners but secretly wished for each other's failures. An uncle who clapped him on the back and said "You’re lucky" while thinking "It should have been my son instead."

He grew up seeing it already. The way blessings, were twisted into weapons, into currency, into burdens too heavy to carry.

And now?

Now he would never be able to unhear any of it, would he?

By the time he reached the university, his head was already aching.

He remembered, vaguely, how Sunoo had clapped him on the shoulder yesterday, laughing, "Advance happy birthday, Jungwon!" before running off to one of his club meetings.

How easy it had been to smile back then.

He wished he could freeze himself in that moment before the world tilted sideways.

Now, everything felt heavier.

He was grateful for the excuse to be alone today. Hidden away in the lab under the pretense of gathering data for his project. The thick walls, the stale scent of old paper and chemicals, the silent machines, it was a kind of peace he didn’t realize he needed so badly.

Here, there were no conversations.

No words exchanged.

No truths bleeding through.

Just silence.

Finally.

Jungwon leaned back in his chair, staring up at the cracked ceiling tiles.

Was this what blessings were supposed to feel like? Or was this just another leash, dressed up like a gift?

He closed his eyes and exhaled quietly.

Happy birthday.

What a joke.

Jungwon stayed frozen by the wall, watching you cross the quad like you were some mirage that might dissolve if he blinked too hard. The lab data crinkled faintly in his fingers, forgotten. His brain, usually so sharp, so careful, now felt like someone had jammed it into slow motion.

Because you were here.

Because you had actually replied.

And he had heard it—your thoughts, clear as day, slicing through the usual static of the world.

Sorry I just saw this. Where are you now?

He’d read the text with a stone face. And underneath it, he heard it—the rush of your guilt, the tiny pang of something warmer, something unbearably human.

Not calculation. Not politics. Not some angle to manipulate him, like everyone else he grew up around.

You.

Just you.

The moment your gaze locked with his across the quad, something in his chest tightened painfully. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, stood straighter, forced himself to smirk internally even though his throat felt dry.

"Hey. President," he called, casual, careful.

Because he remembered the look in your eyes that day outside the drama room—how you flinched when he tried to apologize, how you wouldn’t even look at him.

The last time he said your name out loud, you flinched like he was something rotten.

So now it was just "President." A shield between you and him.

You approached, steady, distant. Your voice clipped when you asked about the lab data. Jungwon handed it over, his fingers brushing yours—and he felt it, again, like a ripple of static under his skin.

Your thoughts cracked into him like sunlight through a stained glass window.

"His hand’s warm."

"Focus, Y/N. You’re being ridiculous."

"Just get through this. Don’t let him see you melt like some idiot."

Jungwon almost dropped the papers.

He bit the inside of his cheek instead, forcing himself to stay calm, to stay cool. Because if he lost it now—if he said anything wrong—you might shut him out completely.

You thanked him in that same clipped voice, turned to leave.

And then he heard it.

"God, why does he have to look at me like that? I hate feeling like this"

"Ugh, why he out of all people? Everything was fine until what I saw last night.”

“Just forget it, Y/N. Forget that stupid future your blessing showed you. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“He’s not going to be your husband. No way. Watch me prove fate wrong.”

Jungwon's world tilted.

Husband? Your husband?

His instincts scrambled for something, anything, to tether him back to earth, to slow the pounding in his chest. The words just slipped out, raw and unsteady, the first thing his brain could grab onto.

“…You saw the file?”

You paused. Nodded. Muttered, “It’s good.”

Then you walked away.

Jungwon stood there, rooted to the spot, heart hammering against his ribs so loud he thought someone might hear it.

Because for the first time since he woke up this morning, with the whole damn world feeling like it was pried open, every thought bleeding through the noise, didn’t feel suffocating.

That night, Jungwon’s dorm was too quiet, but his mind is completely the opposite.

Jungwon sat hunched on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves half-pulled over his knuckles, phone glowing dim in his hand. He’d read your message probably a hundred times.

"Sorry I just saw this. Where are you now?"

So casual. So harmless. But the memory of your voice, your clipped tone from earlier, the way your eyes didn’t quite meet his. All of it kept repeating in his head like a glitch in a dream he couldn’t wake up from.

And worse than the silence was the part he couldn’t shake.

Husband.

The word had lodged somewhere in his chest and refused to leave.

He didn’t even realize he was grinning like an idiot until his reflection caught in the dark window. Quickly, he sobered, scolding himself but it was useless. That voice—your voice—echoed in his head with too much heat.

She saw a future where I was her husband.

She thought about me. Dreamed about me.

She didn’t just push me away for no reason.

His thumb hovered over your contact.

He wasn’t supposed to use his blessing like this. He knew it. It was too intimate. Too invasive. But tonight, he needed to understand. Because your voice inside his head didn’t sound like hate. It sounded like fear. And want.

He opened the chat.

[9:47 PM]

hey.

it’s jungwon.

He hit send, then hesitated.

Don’t text her this late, idiot. You’ll just look desperate.

But what if she thinks you don’t care?

He sent another.

thanks for checking the file.

Still nothing.

He tapped his leg nervously, eyes locked on the screen. His thoughts were a mess with half apologies and half what-ifs.

are you still mad about yesterday.

it’s fine if you are. just wanted to say i wasn’t trying to... make you uncomfortable or anything.

didn’t know you’d walk in.

The reply came fast. Faster than he expected.

[Y/N]

Don’t flatter yourself. You didn’t make me uncomfortable.

I’ve seen worse.

But your thoughts betrayed you, spilling into him like sparks on skin.

Liar. I felt like my lungs collapsed when I saw him.

Because seeing him with someone else felt like a punch in the gut. Because it confirmed he’d never be mine. Even if the blessing said otherwise.

Jungwon’s heart thudded, warm and dizzy. You wanted him. Maybe not openly, maybe not consciously, but it was there. Real and raw.

His ears burned. He grinned against his knuckles.

He typed again.

you sure? you looked like you saw a ghost.

Because I did, okay? You were the ghost of that stupid dream. That version of you who held my hand and whispered all those sweet things.

And then I saw you tangled up with someone else like a slap of reality. God, maybe it wasn’t a vision at all. Maybe it was just a stupid delusion and I was the idiot who let it mean something.

His smile faded, just a bit. He wanted to explain. He wanted to reach into your thoughts and pull that version of him out, hand him to you like a promise.

Instead, you answered.

[Y/N]

I was just surprised. That’s all.

Another lie. Another flicker of your truth curled under it:

You make me nervous.

You make me mad.

But worse, you make me want to hope.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

A soft laugh bubbled from Jungwon’s throat. It felt... new. Not like the practiced chuckles he gave to classmates or the stiff polite ones he reserved for teachers. This one felt like sunshine cracking open in his chest.

sunoo said you looked pissed.

[Y/N]

Well, maybe tell Sunoo to mind his business.

That little traitor.

But... he’s not wrong.

I was pissed. Still am. But also, ugh. Why do I want him to keep texting me? NO, every text from him makes my head boil.

His chest ached in the sweetest, most unbearable way.

He barely realized what he was typing next.

you don’t like me much, do you.

The silence stretched just long enough to make him nervous. But your thoughts answered before your fingers did.

I don’t know how to not like you. I don’t know how I feel about you. That’s the problem.

You make me mad. But you also make my hands shake.

He sucked in a breath.

You were trying so hard to protect yourself. And yet, your walls had tiny cracks and through them, he could feel your heartbeat echoing like his.

[Y/N]

I don’t really know you.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Jungwon stared at those six words for a long time. And when he finally replied, it came from somewhere deeper.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

then maybe let me fix that.

The words were barely on the screen before your thoughts fluttered again.

What does that even mean?

Is this how he talks to the other girls? That easy, casual charm?

God, I hate this. I hate how I want it to be different with me.

Is it stupid… that a part of me wants to say yes?

Jungwon pressed the phone to his chest, eyes closing for a second.

For once, the world was quiet.

Except for the soft, dangerous hope blooming between your mind and his.

And god… he hoped you could feel it too.

That night, Jungwon thought maybe his blessing wasn’t so bad after all. Not loud. Not suffocating. Just... quiet enough to feel like something sacred.

He fell asleep on his birthday without telling anyone what he’d received. No big announcement, no family expectation, no performance. Just him, alone with the memory of your thoughts that are honest and vulnerable echoing softly in his chest.

It might’ve been his favorite birthday yet.

Because for the first time in a long time, he dreamed not of pressure, pleasure, or perfection, but of you.

And when morning came, groggy and golden through his window, the first thing that surfaced in his mind wasn’t the dread of responsibility.

It was you.

Now, hours later, that same girl—the one who’d occupied his mind all night, maybe even all these years—was clinging to the back of his shirt, arms wrapped around his waist as his motorbike hummed down the empty road.

And Jungwon smiled, wind in his hair, heart louder than the engine.

masterlist.

sorry for another cliffhanger hehe, notes and comments are very much appreciated :D

permanent taglist:

@1starqi @imfuckingwhipped @moon0fthenight @jiawji @shawnyle @simja3 @babyboomysweetie @50-husbands @charlizefaye @anudocuments @ooriwoo @sa-brinaaa @luumiinaa @personallyminelol @yjwonsgf @lvvstruck @leah-rose03 @kanonjji @kyunlov @somuchdard @seongiewon @theothernads @luumiinaa @enhaverse713586 @lynanist @moriwori

@han-to-my-minho @hhyvsstuff @gardenwons @frankenstein852 @firstclassjaylee @lamin143 @serenadehera @elove2047 @cookiesha11 @enhamysunshines @tkooooop @lizdevorak @hoshilysm @meggxsxs @deluluscenarios @babyboomysweetie @tinycatharsis @leesolbeesol @jayjw16enxp @seongiewon @wonislife17 @lixiebokie @wonys-won @morganaawriterr @wonwon1e @rjssierjrie @won1yoiz @merakicafee @in-somnias-world @drunkjazed

@maewphoria @wondash @dawngyu @14-hibiscus @woofie-nctzen-fanarts @coucopuffs @minjeong28 @povjin @jaerisdiction @sweetwonieee @haerni @meowwwon @rooomeo @avadie @kyutiepeachy @jjongmi @hollxe1 @gyubindrift @i-am-not-dal @sumzysworld @jellymiki @cutehoons02 @bxcndd @tunafishyfishylike @rialikesbts @miumiuoi @tobiosbbyghorl @cherr-y-eji @tasnemluvs @lucysteponme @yoojiy @hayana-rchves @snesible @onlyywwon

[merakidoll]

i had this funny little thot about munch!geto! i picture him to just be addicted to eating your pretty pussy! he always needs to sniff it, it was a ritual to eat it at least two times a day, it was just his favorite thing to do! so one day when he came home from wherever and caught you using the pastel pink rose, he became very intrigued. his mouth salivated at how creamy the little thing got you. buzzing again your puffy nub and making your legs quiver and shake.

he knew it wasn’t as good as his mouth, but it worked - and it worked well. so a thought came to him. now, hovering above him with shaky thighs, a seeping cunt, and worry - you watched the pretty man have the same rose in his mouth. his eyes gestured down, and mumbles as his spit came from the conner of his mouth while he tried saying what he wanted, but it came out as mumbled words. you knew what he wanted; and like a good girl complied.

crying out at the buzzing going onto your clit. geto, now satisfied slapped your ass and moved your hips for you. his warm breath fanning on your pussy as the toy buzzed sent a shiver down your spine. and when he began to move you, letting the buzz go through your cunt and the tip of his nose rub against your clit? you all about passed out.

“g-geee-!” you whispered breathlessly letting all the weight you tried to hold up onto him, to which he sighed lovingly. his face wet from your cream, your jucies dripped down your thighs making his white beater damp at the neck line. your hands gripped the headboard, working your hips on your own at this point. you no longer cared about anything but wetting the mans below you face. geto’s cock had already let out cum, still hard and pulsing in the basketball shorts.

he was happy to be used, face messy, small amouths of your cunt jucies slipping into the crakes of his mouth making his tummy bubble in glee. he shook his face making the vibration move. your thighs tried closing in around his head. chest going up and down from how good everything felt. your toes curled just as geto spread your ass and tried attacking your other hole. one small buzz to your puckered area sent your back straight and squirt shooting out of you all over his face - just as munch!geto anticipated.

[arkaiveofurown]

he overheard you saying you love him

Pairings: Sabo x Reader, Ace x Reader, Law x Reader, and Zoro x Reader

Word Count: ~1,000 - 2,000 words each character

tags: pre-relationship, fluff, confession

my masterlist here ♡

——-

Sabo

You weren’t sure when it had started.

Maybe during that first mission with Sabo—when he pulled you out of a collapsing tunnel with smoke in his lungs and soot in his hair. Or maybe it was the way he looked at you during meetings, when everyone else spoke over each other and his eyes quietly sought yours like they were the only steady thing in the room.

Regardless, you’d never told him.

Instead, you wrote letters. Quiet, aching, folded-up things in the corners of notebooks and between pages of Revolutionary Army maps. Pages filled with things you could never say aloud. Sometimes it was just a sentence. Sometimes full confessions. But you never gave them to him. You didn’t need to. Writing them was enough.

Tonight, the base was quiet. Outside, a soft breeze shifted through the trees, and the only sound in your room was the scratch of your pen.

You were curled up at your desk, writing again. Candlelight flickered beside you. You didn’t hear the knock. You didn’t notice the door creak open.

“Y/N?”

You jolted. “Koala—!”

She froze in the doorway. Her eyes dropped to the open page on your desk before you could hide it.

“Wait. What is that?”

“Nothing.” You slammed the notebook shut, your voice too sharp.

Koala blinked. Then her eyes narrowed.

“…That’s your handwriting.”

“So?”

She stepped in, shutting the door behind her. “So that was definitely Sabo’s name.”

You groaned. “Koala—please.”

She raised a brow. “Is that a letter to him?”

You turned away. “It’s not for him. I mean—it is, but—I wasn’t gonna give it to him.”

A beat of silence passed.

“…You’ve written more than one, haven’t you.”

You didn’t answer.

She came closer, her voice gentler now. “Y/N.”

Your shoulders dropped.

“It’s just… easier to write it than say it,” you whispered.

Koala sat on the edge of your bed. “You really like him, don’t you?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

Your voice cracked a little when you said it. You didn’t even mean to. You covered your mouth, eyes burning suddenly with tears you hadn’t expected.

You hated this—how hard it was to hold it all in sometimes.

“I like him so much it hurts,” you confessed. “And he doesn’t even know.”

Another voice answered:

“Yes. I do.”

⸻

Your head whipped toward the door.

Sabo stood there, hand still on the knob. He looked as if he’d frozen in place. Behind him, the hall was dark—he’d come alone. No footsteps, no warning. Just his silhouette framed in low light.

You stared. “Sabo—?”

He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I came to return Koala’s map notes. I wasn’t—” He cut off, brow furrowed, and looked at you. “You really meant it?”

Your throat felt tight. “I—I didn’t know you were listening.”

“I was,” he said softly. “Every word.”

You turned to Koala, but she was already slipping out the door with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry!” she mouthed before vanishing.

Now it was just the two of you.

“I didn’t plan to say that,” you said, voice trembling. “I just… It’s been a long time. I’ve been trying to keep it in.”

Sabo’s steps were slow. Careful.

“How long?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “Since Baltigo.”

“That long?”

You nodded.

He moved closer. You felt him pause just beside you.

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

You hesitated. “Because we’re in the middle of a war, Sabo. And you’re important. And brave. And reckless. And always getting yourself into danger—”

“That’s not a reason not to tell me.”

You looked at him then.

His eyes were soft. No teasing, no judgment. Just that same steady, thoughtful Sabo you’d always known—only now closer than he’d ever felt before.

“I was scared it would ruin everything,” you said quietly.

He gave a small, almost broken laugh. “I’ve been scared of that too.”

You blinked. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Y/N.”

You stared, stunned.

He gave a small, sheepish shrug. “I never wrote letters or anything, but… if I had, I probably would’ve filled a hundred pages by now.”

Your breath caught. “You really mean that?”

He looked away, ears turning red. “Yeah. Every word.”

A laugh broke from your lips—half disbelief, half relief. “You idiot.”

He looked back at you with a faint smirk. “Says the one who actually wrote letters.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

And suddenly it felt all real.

——

A few days later, Sabo knocked on your door. When you opened it, he was holding something out.

Your notebook.

“The one with the letters,” he said with a grin.

Your eyes widened. “Where did you—?!”

“I didn’t read them,” he promised. “I swear. But… if you want me to, I will.”

You stared.

Then you reached out—and flipped to the last page. Your handwriting was still there. The ink fresh. The one you’d been writing the night he overheard.

You tore it out, folded it neatly, and handed it to him.

He blinked. “Just this one?”

“For now.”

He looked at it like it was something precious. “Can I read it in front of you?”

You nodded.

He opened it slowly.

You watched his eyes move across the page—watched the flicker of a smile, the subtle shift of his expression. By the time he finished, he was quiet.

Then, carefully, he looked at you.

“Do you want a letter too?”

You blinked. “You’d write one?”

He leaned in, closer than ever before. “I’d write one every day.”

And when he kissed you, it felt like the answer to every unsent word you’d ever written.

——

Ace

It was a quiet afternoon on the Moby Dick. The sun hung lazily above the sea, casting golden warmth over the deck. Laughter echoed faintly from the other side of the ship, but Ace wasn’t with the others. He sat alone near the back, arms crossed over his knees, a troubled expression clouding his usually bright face.

He’d overheard a few new crewmates whispering—again.

“Roger’s son, huh? No wonder he’s so reckless.”

“I still don’t get why Whitebeard lets him wear the mark.”

Their voices replayed in his head, sharp as knives. No matter how far he came, how hard he fought, those words always lingered. Was he just his father’s shadow? Was he even supposed to exist?

You found yourself talking to Marco later as you leaned against the rail, eyes watching the horizon.

“You think Ace is okay?” you asked softly.

Marco raised a brow. “You’ve been watching him all day.”

You hesitated, then sighed. “He always looks like he’s trying to prove something. Like he doesn’t believe he’s enough. I just wish he’d let himself feel… loved.”

“You’re in love with him, huh?” Marco said with a smirk.

You didn’t even deny it.

“Yes. I love him.” Your voice dropped. You hadn’t noticed Ace was nearby—standing still behind the corner, frozen as the words sank in.

——

Ace kept tossing fire between his fingers like nothing happened, but his heartbeat wouldn’t slow down. She loves me? The words played over and over in his head.

He approached casually, as if he hadn’t just overheard something that shook him to his core.

“What are you two whispering about?” he asked, flopping down beside you, a teasing grin on his face.

You jumped a little. “Ace! Uh—nothing really. Just… talking.”

Marco snorted and walked off, giving you two space.

Ace tilted his head, pretending to look bored. “Sounded like something deep.”

You hesitated, then offered him a gentle look. “I just… worry about you sometimes.”

His smile faltered slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“But I do,” you insisted. “You’re always trying to be the strongest, the most reliable… You don’t need to carry it all alone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to his hands.

“Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve been born at all,” he said quietly, voice barely audible over the waves.

Your heart clenched. “Ace…”

“I hear the things people say. About my father. About me. It never really stops.”

You touched his arm gently. “You’re not your father.”

He glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“You’re you, Ace. I care about you because of who you are—not because of your name, and definitely not in spite of it.”

⸻

Ace couldn’t sleep that night. He paced the deck in the dark, wrestling with your words. He’d heard so many lies in his life. So many people who wanted something because of the blood in his veins—or wanted nothing to do with him because of it.

But your voice was different.

He found you in the galley, wrapping up a late-night snack. You turned, surprised.

“Ace? You okay?”

He looked… unsure. And for someone like Ace, that was rare.

“I heard what you said to Marco earlier,” he admitted, leaning against the doorway.

You froze, eyes wide. “You… you did?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, but it was hollow. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just… kinda happened.”

You shifted awkwardly. “Well… I meant it.”

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

“I’m not my father, Y/N. But sometimes I think people only ever see him when they look at me. Like I’m just waiting to become him.”

You walked up to him, eyes soft.

“You’re not him. You never will be.”

Ace stared at you, caught in the sincerity of your gaze.

“I love you,” you said, voice steady. “Not because you’re Gol D. Roger’s son. Not because you’re Whitebeard’s commander. But because you’re Ace. And that’s enough.”

Ace stared at you, his eyes flickering with something raw and real. Then he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he breathed. “Not just because you see me… but because when you do, I finally feel like I deserve to be here.”

Your heart swelled as you wrapped your arms around him.

“You do, Ace. You always have.”

And for once, he let himself believe it.

——

Law

The Polar Tang was unusually quiet that evening, save for the hum of the ocean against the hull. You sat in the galley with Shachi and Penguin, half-listening to them banter while organizing mission notes. A familiar name drifted into the conversation.

“I’m just saying,” Shachi smirked, “if Captain has a secret admirer, it’s gotta be someone on board. Who else could handle that grump 24/7?”

“Yeah, right. Can you imagine anyone confessing to Law?” Penguin snorted.

Your hand froze over the page, heart thudding. You gave a weak chuckle, trying to stay casual.

“…I think he’s different than people think,” you said quietly.

The two fell silent, glancing at each other before looking back at you. “Different how?” Shachi asked.

You stared down at your notes, unsure why you were still speaking. “He’s cold sometimes, yeah, but there’s a reason. He’s… carrying a lot. But underneath that, he’s kind. Steady. I admire him. I love him, actually.”

You didn’t notice the door slightly ajar—or the shadow that had paused just outside. Law, on his way to the infirmary, heard every word. He didn’t move. Just stood there, stunned, your voice echoing quietly in his chest like a scalpel carving into old scar tissue.

——

Later that night, you found yourself sitting near the back of the ship, watching the stars shimmer through the porthole. You didn’t expect company—until his footsteps neared.

“Working late?” Law asked, standing behind you.

You turned, startled. “Oh. Hey. Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

He didn’t sit. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and added, “Neither could I.”

You nodded slowly. There was something unusual in his gaze—measured, intense. Like he was holding back words with every breath.

“I heard you,” he said bluntly. “In the galley.”

Your heart stopped. “What?”

He didn’t look away. “You said you loved me.”

The silence stretched long between you. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t mean for you to—”

“You meant it though,” Law interrupted. “Didn’t you?”

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “I did.”

He stepped forward. Just one step, but it felt like a line being crossed. His voice softened. “Why?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Why me?” His tone was flat, but his eyes betrayed the storm behind them. “Why would anyone… love me?”

You swallowed hard. “You’re strong. Not just in power—emotionally. You always show up. You carry so much but never drop any of it. And you… you protect people. You saved me more than once, Law. You care, even when you act like you don’t.”

He looked away sharply.

“You don’t have to earn it,” you added quietly. “Love doesn’t work like that.”

His breath hitched.

Law didn’t answer for a long time. Then, quietly:

“You sound like him.”

You blinked. “Who?”

He sat down at last, elbows on his knees, eyes far away. “Corazon. He told me once, I didn’t need a reason to be loved. That someone could love me just because.”

“…He was right.”

Law’s hand twitched. “I hated hearing it back then. Thought it was a lie. After he died… I convinced myself I wasn’t meant for that kind of thing. Not after what I did to survive.”

You looked at him—truly looked. His jaw was tense, but his shoulders were slumped like someone carrying too many ghosts.

“Sengoku told me, after everything… that Corazon loved me like family. And I kept asking myself why. Why me? Why would he care so much? I’ve been so bad to him. Even now, I still don’t know.”

Law leaned back against the wall, head tilted up toward the ceiling.

“You know,” he said, “I used to think if I kept everything locked up, it wouldn’t hurt. That if no one knew what I felt, no one could use it against me.”

“That’s a lonely way to live,” you whispered.

“It was.” His voice was quieter now. “Until you.”

You inhaled sharply, heart catching in your throat.

“I’ve been watching you too, Y/N. I always noticed when you sat closer during meals. Or brought coffee when I was holed up for hours. You always knew when to say something—and when not to.”

He looked over at you now, eyes unreadable but softer than you’d ever seen.

“You’re not a secret I want to keep locked away anymore.”

The words hit you like a wave. “Law…”

He stood slowly, stepped in front of you, and reached out—hesitating just for a breath—before his fingers gently cupped your face.

“I’m not good at this,” he said. “But I want to try. With you.”

Your eyes stung with tears you hadn’t realized were forming. “You’re already doing just fine.”

His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then fuller, deeper. You melted into him, and he kissed you like someone who finally let the gates fall. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead resting against yours.

“No more secrets,” he whispered.

——

Zoro

The fight had been brutal. Zoro, despite his immense strength and endurance, had taken a hit he couldn’t recover from quickly. Blood stained his clothes, and the crew had rushed to stabilize him, quickly patching him up as best they could on the ship.

You were a wreck. Despite being part of the crew for so long, despite the battles, seeing him hurt like this… it was too much for you to handle. You were pacing back and forth near the medical room, your heart in your throat as your mind raced with worst-case scenarios. Nami and Robin stood nearby, trying to comfort you, but nothing could settle the growing panic inside.

“I—I can’t do this,” you muttered, wiping away the fresh tears that had formed. “What if—what if he doesn’t make it?”

Robin placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her voice soothing, but there was an undercurrent of concern there too. “Zoro’s strong. He’s not going anywhere.”

But you couldn’t stop. You couldn’t stop worrying, couldn’t stop the tears from falling. Your chest ached at the thought of him not making it through this.

Nami’s voice, usually so steady, was now quieter, though there was still a reassuring edge. “You need to calm down. He’s tough. Zoro will pull through.”

But no matter how much they tried to comfort you, the fear was too overwhelming. You couldn’t stop thinking about the worst outcome—what it would be like to lose him. How he was always so strong, always so dependable, and yet, this time, you weren’t sure it would be enough.

“Please,” you whispered through your sobs, barely audible but full of pain. “Please don’t leave me, Zoro. I love you… I love you so much. I can’t lose you.”

You didn’t realize how loudly you’d said it. You were too caught up in the panic, in the fear of losing him, that the words just spilled out without thinking.

In the shadows of the hallway, hidden from your view, Zoro had heard everything. He had been leaning against the doorframe, trying to muster the strength to stand up on his own after the injury, when your words reached him. At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly. But when you repeated it, in that broken, desperate tone, he felt the weight of your confession hit him like a freight train.

He stood there, frozen for a long moment, a strange mix of emotions swirling within him. His heart thudded in his chest, and for a moment, everything felt overwhelming—more so than the injury itself.

——

Zoro had managed to make his way to the deck quietly, not wanting to disturb you. He needed a moment to process what he’d heard. But it wasn’t just the words that had shaken him—it was how much they revealed. How deeply you cared, how much you were hurting, how afraid you were for him.

He’d always known you cared for him. You had always been there for him, quietly supporting him, and he’d grown fond of your presence more than he ever intended. But hearing it like this, in a moment of vulnerability, brought something to the surface that he had spent so long suppressing.

The wound on his side throbbed painfully, but it wasn’t the physical pain that weighed him down. It was your words. The quiet admission that you loved him. Zoro leaned against the railing, trying to clear his head, but the ache in his chest wasn’t going away.

Meanwhile, you had secluded yourself in your room. The crew had calmed down enough to leave you some space, but you couldn’t stop thinking about Zoro. You kept replaying the words over and over in your head, cursing yourself for letting them slip. You didn’t want to burden him.

But what if he didn’t feel the same? The uncertainty gnawed at you, and you hugged your knees to your chest, your face buried in your arms.

——

It wasn’t long before there was a knock at your door. You didn’t want to face anyone, but the soft voice that called your name made you hesitate.

“Y/N? It’s me. Can I come in?”

Your heart jumped in your chest. You didn’t have to ask who it was. You stood and opened the door to find Zoro standing there, looking tired but determined. His clothes were stained with blood, and his usual carefree posture was slightly off, but there was something in his eyes that made you freeze.

“You shouldn’t be up yet,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re injured. You need rest.”

Zoro smirked, but there was no usual arrogance in it—just a tired, soft kind of affection. “I’m fine. I’m not the type to stay in bed when I’m still breathing.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Zoro cut you off before you could speak.

“Listen,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, “you don’t need to apologize for what you said earlier.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Zoro, I didn’t—”

“Don’t deny it.” Zoro took a step closer, his hand reaching out and gently lifting your chin so that your eyes met. “I heard you.”

You swallowed, heart racing. His gaze was intense, but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant. It was something more—something you hadn’t dared to hope for. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to make you feel awkward.”

Zoro’s fingers brushed lightly against your skin, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to apologize. I just—” he hesitated, his usual tough exterior faltering for just a moment, “I need to say it too.”

You blinked, your heart thumping painfully in your chest. “Say what?”

Zoro’s eyes softened, his usual guarded nature slipping just slightly. “I’ve known for a while now. I’ve just been too stubborn to admit it to myself. But I care about you too. I think… I think I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You were both standing there, both finally facing what had always been there but had remained unsaid.

“I—I love you too, Zoro,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I was just too scared to say it.”

Zoro’s lips tugged into a faint, almost shy smile. Then, without another word, he closed the distance between you and kissed you softly, his hand still gently holding your face. The kiss was slow, tender, filled with everything that had been left unspoken for so long.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. “I’m not going anywhere. Not if you’ll have me.”

And at that moment, everything fell into place.

——

a/n: my first ever multi-character fic phew that’s challenging! haha hope you guys like it ♡ feedbacks are greatly appreciated xoxo

[dcxdpdabbles]

Has Menace!Danny ever gotten into a fight at school?

Bruce's emergency phone goes off in the middle of a WE Board meeting. He had always started any meetings by explaining that his emergency phone was the one he used for his children's emergency contact listings and for the children themselves to reach him if they absolutely needed to.

He would always have it on to answer, no matter how important the meeting was. They have all accepted it long ago that Bruce would never back down on that rule.

It was a necessity after all the kidnapping attempts on his children, and it's unfortunately rung before. Still, this knowledge doesn't stop the cold terror from sinking into their stomachs as Bruce scrambles to answer.

The board holds their breath as Bruce rasps, "Hello? Yes, this is he."

There is a moment of silence before the CEO jumps to his feet, scrambling to gather his things. He doesn't look in their direction, eyes unusually serious as he listens carefully to the other person.

"Which hospital was he taken to? How bad are his injuries? The ones who did that to him, where are they?"

Oh no. A few board members think. One of the Wayne boys was attacked.

Bruce pauses in his movements, going white. "He what?"

Susan from Accounting gasps, pressing her hands over her mouth. Seh recognizes that look on his face. Bruce wore the same look the night he had heard about Riddler taking a entire school bus of children- in including his second oldest, Dick- and three of the students had not made it before Batman was able to take him down.

She sends Tom a horrified look as the man grimaces, tapping on his phone to check in on his teenage daughter. She goes to school with a few of the Wayne children, which means that if something happened, she may have been affected.

Susan can't blame him. Her nephew is two years older than Danny Fenton-Wayne, and the number of attacks targeting the Academy to reach that boy had gripped her in worry for years. She pulls out her phone to send him a text, too, praying that whatever happened, it happened to one of the younger ones or away from her nephew.

A horrible thought to have, but one she has often.

Thankfully, Alex was set to graduate soon and was no longer in danger, which is her only comfort as she presses send.

"How bad was it?" Bruce finally whispers, face white as milk. The board stiffens, glancing at each other, but no one dares to say anything as Bruce finishes packing up and running to the door. He doesn't even give a by your leave, which means that it was bad. " I understand. Yes. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

The door slams closed behind as multiple pings go off in the room. Tom and Susan are the fastest to check their phones. They blink at the letters before Tom rubs his face with a sigh. "Of course it was about that one."

"What?" Amy gasps, rubbing her hands. "What happened at Gotham Academy? Someone tell me something, my little cousin isn't answering!"

"Danny Fenton-Wayne happened. He sent the entire football team to the ER." Tom sighs, waving his phone. "My daughter said they found out there was a hole that let them see into the girls' changing room and had spent the last few months taking videos and photos. The photo of an underwear-clad Barbara Gordon got passed around, with none of the team players admitting who took it and shared it. The school discipline board was going to just slap them all with a three-day in-school suspension, and Fenton-Wayne thought it wasn't enough. He took matters into his own hands. He jumped the team."

"Wait, the kid took on the whole Football team?" Neil scoffs. He wasn't from Gotham, so he's not in the know about the eldest Wayne child. "No wonder, he ended up in the hospital."

"No." Susan gasps, watching her nephew's texts come flying in at neck-breaking speeds. "No, Danny Fenton-Wayne isn't the one in the hospital. He.... he beat the entire team, including the ones on reserve, and then drove them to the ER. Technically, he kidnapped them for medical attention for injuries he caused. He was lecturing them the entire time about respecting women."

The room is silent, and then they all shiver. That kid was not normal.

"I think they are going to expel him." Tom continues, face pulled into a tight frown. His phone screen is also blowing up with updates from his girl. Susan can see a lot of rage emojis. "My daughter and almost all female students are going to protest his punishment since he was the only one protecting them. She wants me to help plan a walk-out at the next PTA meeting."

"Are you?" Amy asks.

Tom's eyes flash. "Of course. My daughter uses that changing room. How dare they."

"I'll help," Amy announces, tapping on her laptop keyboard. She's the youngest in the room a intern that just got hired while in her first year of college. Her whole job was to take notes, which is why her fingers fly at a speed that's almost awe-inspiring to see. "I just made a post to the Phantom's official blog. We'll have a mob in an hour."

Two hours later, Amy's words came true as the school was surrounded by half the city demanding that Danny Fenton-Wayne's punishment be overturned or lowered. Many of them were mad for the crime the football team committed, but most are there after a video of Phantom reacting to the News was posted.

The hero had cried at the horrible news. He personally went to Gotham Academy to fix up the girls' changing room, installing changing rooms with curtain walls, sad that he had to resort to that measure.

The people were ready to riot in his name.

[haztory]

bias.

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (reader is late 20s, jack is mid-40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, character harassment (from an original male character), mentions of grief, mentions of jack's late wife, mentions of racism against staff, sexual content (mild), mentions of death, protective jack abbot, medical inaccuracies, mentions of needles, these two taking care of each other without realizing, ohio slander (srry!)

— word count: 11k

— summary: A week on the floor with Dr. Jack Abbot. Or: The multiple shifts in which Dr. Abbot's bias towards you shows.

SHIFT ONE, Sun-Mon, 4:15 AM:

“Did you tell Reno you were going to shove your foot up his ass?”

You pause your charting at the rolling cart outside of North 12 and look over your shoulder. 

Jack stands behind you, arms crossed, with a raised brow and his lips pulled thin. Not sternly— you're familiar with what that looks like, have been on the receiving end of that a few times. This is a tempered concern, one he pushes down lest he get too involved.

“Yep.” You answer, simply. You return to your charting, fingers clacking loudly on the keyboard as the truth buoys in the air. 

He huffs a breath, heavy. An attempt to roll out the strife that comes with the burden of being an attending. “You trying to make my Monday shitty?”

“Trying to keep you on your toes, old man.” You return.

He steps in beside you, leaning his good shoulder against the wall as he faces you. He keeps his gaze beyond you, scanning the movements of the ER.

“You wanna tell me why?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“I don’t.” He agrees. 

“So, why are you asking?”

“Morbid curiosity.” He admits, dryly. Hazel eyes fall to you, swimming with a suppressed amusement that only a poet could accurately describe. “And he wants me to write you up.”

A sigh escaped your mouth, heavy and inconvenienced. You turn to him. “He told Anna Maria to spend less time speaking ‘her language’ and more time speaking ‘ours’ so she could fulfill his orders.”

His lips flick downward, heat infusing with the twitch. “You see it?”

“No. Caught her in the stairwell crying and she told me. Apparently, he’s been picking at her all night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the first one he said this to. So, I told him if I ever see him speaking like that to one of my nurses I’d take him to the parking lot and shove my foot up his ass.”

Jack nods. It’s weighty and slow as he digests your words, but there is otherwise no conflict on his face. The heat from before extinguishing. No shade change, no visible opinion. Resolute, resound, completely normal, when he says, without much effect, “Okay.”

The typical smart quip dry remark remains nowhere to be found.

He steps away from you and walks the short distance to the front desk and settles behind it. You watch him quietly, clueless as he grabs a post-it note from behind the desk and a pen from the cupholder and begins writing something. Completely unable to read the man.

“Okay?” You probe, drawing closer to him. 

“I believe you.” He says. 

A beat passes, filled with the low hum of the moving ER and the faint sound of his pen scratching on the paper. He puts the pen back into the cup holder then folds the paper up, tucking it into the breast pocket of his scrubs. It’s a simple thing yet the charged silence makes it feel like a great epic.

The fated paper written on account of your words. His face makes no betrayal of its contents. Even in your own obvious glance down to the paper then to his eyes, he makes no movement to provide clarity.

“I’m not apologizing.” You say after a minute. 

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jack tilts his head to the side. “Would’ve done the same damn thing.”

Silence stretches, long and heavy as your eyes hold on his.

“I don’t like him.” You explain, as if that could help anything. Jack nods and this time you understand it to be one of agreement. 

There’s no doubt of the new transfer’s value as a knowledgeable doctor, just as there is no doubt that PTMC needs another night shift doctor on the rotations. But within those resounding truths comes another of equal importance.

Dr. Maxwell Reno, the new fellow on the floor transferred from Cleveland three months ago, is a dick.

“Neither do I. But I don’t like anybody.” A flicker of understanding sparks in his eyes. “I’d pay good money to see you take him in the parking lot, though.”

A smile finally breaks onto your face. “Give me Friday off and I’ll do it right here.”

“Yeah, and get stuck with paperwork? Try again, city girl.”

“Worth a shot.” You shrug and he shakes his head. Only a slight downturned smile gracing his face..

A steadied quiet fills the space. The ER only slightly awake tonight with the small troubles. A young boy who had fallen off his bunk bed, a teenager on fluids from a stress induced migraine, and some other small plights that have trickled onto the floor. It’s hardly ever like this, the forbidden “quiet”. Usually a storm falls in shortly after but tonight, the quiet has been just that. Quiet.  

There’s a slight wariness in everyone, the other shoe dangling from the ceiling that everyone keeps glancing to. Waiting for it to teeter, maybe even thud violently against the floor. And yet, nothing. For once, it’s a nice thing to wade into, because it leads to moments like this. Pleasant exchanges and generous smiles from the man usually averse to those.

“I can tell Anna Maria to come talk to you.” You supply, only to make his life easier. 

He shrugs, considering it. “Sure, only if she wants to. But you handled it. Should be fine.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Write you up?” He asks. You nod.

He walks around the front desk, his slow gait bringing him before you. “Do I look like a school principal?”

“Grey hair had me convinced.”

He glares. The edge of your grin cracks wider. “I can’t professionally condone fellow-on-fellow crime—”

“—You have got to stop hanging with Shen—” 

“—but you’re my only brawler on the floor and we’re running low on those. So no.”

“Brawler? It was one time!”

“You tackling that 37-year-old meth addict is a fan favorite.”

“Is that why you’re keeping me around?”

“It’s not because of your suturing, I can tell you that.” He leans comfortably against the desk, and for all the quiet murmurs that have gone around about Jack and his hard sarcasm and no-bullshit attitude, he is wildly comfortable in this moment. Eased, despite the constant glancing at the other shoe. Joking, at your expense. As he settles into an easy tease and his body relaxes, you find that you don’t mind him poking at you all that much. Not if it gets him like this.

You raise a brow at the mention. “Didn’t realize you all were thinking about it that much.”

“Every night before bed. Your screams help me sleep.”

You hit his arm playfully. “You’re so morbid.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I use to meditate.” 

You feel, then, the tingling sensation of an audience on you. Glancing up, you see the quick scurrying of some nurses pretending to be occupied. The whites of their eyes seen at the very last second, just as they pull their stares away from the quiet moment. 

“You should get out of here before the peanut gallery starts accusing you of bias.” There’s a thrum of dismay that pulses through you at the suggestion. The feeling of a good moment ending that you unknowingly try to cling on to. You stampen it out before the possibility of it shows on your face. 

“Bias? Of what? I don’t like you that much.” The tone is dry, wholly Jack, and yet his eyes make home to a low burning whim of trouble like it always belonged there. “If anyone says anything, I’ll just take it from the expert and shove my foot up their ass.” 

He taps his hand on your desk, a finalizing drum before he departs. 

“Hopefully the metal one.” You call after his retreating figure.

“You know it.” He says without looking back.

The sound of your laugh resounds through the halls.

SHIFT TWO, Mon-Tues, 9:17 PM:

Meredith Sakman, a 67-year old woman who fell off her kitchen chair as she was trying to clean her kitchen light, sits before you in the examination room as you suture the superficial laceration sustained to the right side of her head.

Her hands, wrinkled with age and wisdom, fiddle with each other incessantly. Passing from twiddling with her wedding ring to drumming on her thighs as you weave thread through skin.

Sensing her discomfort, you fill the space. “So, Mrs. Sakman—how long have you been married?”

She seems startled out of the fog of her head, ”Oh, uh, 42 years.”

“Wow. Congratulations.” You hum, sincerely. “What’s the secret?”

“I don’t know. All these years and he’s still the person I look for when I walk into a room.”

“Must be an outstanding man.”

“When he wants to be. He’s a little bit of a grouch, but he makes me laugh.” She laughs, and the wistfulness of her voice grounds the room. You smile inadvertently at the details of her love.

 “Are you dating anyone?” She asks curiously, just as your forceps tie one end of the suture.

“Uh, no. I am not.” Saying it isn’t a confession of fault. It’s fact. 

The priority has always been your career. School first to get you to the good job that can get you to the rest of your life. You weren’t made for much of the troublesome youth, a fortunate detail your parents never took for granted. Smart head on your shoulders that got you the New York residency for three years, that led you to pursue the Pittsburgh EM fellowship—year one of two already knocked off your belt. 

Dating—as desirous as it could be on the lonely nights—didn’t fit much into that picture. The type of men that were interested in dating you didn’t fit into that picture. 

“Well that’s odd.” Mrs. Sakman heaves, truly stunned by your admission. “You’re a beautiful young woman. And a doctor. They should be rushing to snatch you up.”

“Well, you know. Guys my age tend to find that intimidating and often can’t measure up.” You explain simply and the older woman scoffs. 

“You need an older man.” She smiles knowingly. “One who knows a couple of things and can be your match. I’ve had my fair share of them and they were quite the memories.”

You don’t settle too long on her words, no matter how much you agree with them. Have always been told that you needed someone mature, like you. 

You move on. “I bet you were a hot gun back in the day.”

“Still am, sweetheart.” She giggles. “You know, my son is single.”

You give her a deadpan stare from above, halting the thread of your needle to meet her gaze. 

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You scold and she holds her hands up in defense.

“He’s a very smart man! Has his own accounting firm, very sweet and I’m not saying that because he’s my son. He’s 40 and you’d make a good match. And with that face of yours, you’d give me beautiful grand babies.”

You laugh, tying up the final knot in the suture and setting the forceps on the cart beside you. The excess thread is cut off with your scissors. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of dating anyone related to my patients.”

“Then I’d like to see another doctor, please. So that way I’m not your patient.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You are a trip, Mrs. Sakman.”

The exam room settles into a comfortable silence, filled with the overheard sounds of the life of the ER around you. The small chatter in the curtained room beside you, the hum of machines, the occasional shout or laugh from the nurses desk. 

Just as you finish up your dutiful matters to her laceration, slipping the gloves off and directing your attention to her to explain proper suture care—

—she’s calling out to someone over your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir! Can you be my doctor?”

Turning around, you see Jack is caught mid-stride walking past your room. His face scrunches in concern. 

“Everything alright?”

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You begin hastily, mortification burning through you as he steps into the enclosed space. 

Mrs. Sakman, in her rosy glory, plows on. Meeting the man with an effervescent grin that gives no cause for caution. “Oh yes, your doctor here is lovely and has taken such good care of me, but I’d like you to be my doctor.”

A brow raises, his eyes flicking to yours for explanation. 

You flounder for a moment, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly. The chagrin you feel is red hot and there is little hope that it doesn’t reflect obviously in your face.

“Dr. Abbot—” You sigh, begrudgingly, fingers at your forehead as you try to rub the embarrassment away, “Mrs. Sakman is trying to set me up with her son but as I said, I do not date relatives of my patients.”

“Ah.” He takes the information in stride, nodding his head with latent interest. Cool, calm, and collected while you fluster over the discussion of your dating life.“You trying to take one of my doctors from me, Mrs. Sakman?”

“If you’ll let me.” She smiles

“You don’t have to put your son through that torture. Order me a pastrami deli sandwich and I’ll give her to you for free.” Jack tilts his head to the side, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. He pointedly ignores the loud offended gasp you emit. 

“Let’s take a look at you.” Sliding the gloves on and stepping up beside the older woman, he begins a gentle survey of the laceration. Fingers slightly touching the wound, turning his head this way and that in review. 

“Sutures look good. CT clean?”

“Not even a hairline fracture.” You present, “She’ll be tired, maybe a bit dizzy, but otherwise she’s good. Anticoagulants have been prescribed along with tylenol for the next couple of days. Gonna keep her for another hour for observation before discharge with a wonderful guide on how to clean her sutures.”

“Good.” Jack nods. “Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Sakman, there’s not much more for me to do that your current doctor hasn’t. So you will have to stay in her care.”

“You can’t make an exception for a poor woman?” She sweetens. 

“Your flirtations won’t work on me, young lady.” He issues, low and exceptionally playful.

Mrs. Sakman giggles akin to a teenage girl, her face turning rosy as she waves Jack away. 

“Besides—” Hie head gestures to you as he speaks to Mrs. Sakman, “—we call this one Rambo behind her back. We give her up, we gotta spend more money on security and that’ll come out of my paycheck.” 

Jack takes off his gloves and tosses them into the bin, giving you a long, knowing look. Mirthful and wry, it holds against your dry, scolding one. Waiting for you to make a rebuttal, calculating the moves and ways it would come out of your mouth for him to counter. You anticipate it, depriving him of the reaction that he’s looking for despite the way his eyes dig into yours, searching for it. Looking like he couldn’t stop looking for it, like it would make his whole night if you just caved.

You stick your tongue in your cheek and he watches, fixated—the ghost of amusement casting over his face as he sidesteps you by the curtain’s opening. 

Your eyes trail after him, doing so well in withholding until he tilts his head at you. Beckoning. Your lips quirk upward then, and it’s all he needs.  

He breaks the prolonged charge with a sweet goodbye to your patient. “Have a good night, Mrs. Sakman.” Then, to you, he innocently says. “Holler if you need me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving from whence he came. The crater of his weighty presence settles in the room. 

You turn to Mrs. Sakman, with a shake of your head and an exasperated smile on your face. “And that is why you don’t want Dr. Abbot as your doctor.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” She laughs. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a daughter you want to set up, too.” You admonish.

“No. But you should pursue that one. That look, I’ve seen that before.”

It’s a splash of cold water over the heat that was simmering within you. At the embarrassment, at his teasing. A voiced thought that has no place for existence in this room—in this department, in this moment, in your life.

(A voiced thought that has infiltrated your own a time or two. That has wiggled its titillating fingers into the wayward dream, made a mountain out of a molehill, leaving your chest heaving, your thighs clenching, and the thought of Jack Abbot vivid on your mind.)

You push on, clearing your throat and detouring before your embarrassment escalates to humiliation. “Alright, Mrs. Sakman. I’m going to print out a guide for you that tells you how to take care of your sutures.” 

“I’m serious. Rules be damned, life’s too short. And he’s too handsome.” She insists just as you mean to step out of the exam room. You see only sincerity and genuity in her features. “I can see you with someone like him.”

Your mouth opens to find a response only to be met with the drying of your tongue. Words suddenly hard to connect, meaning difficult to find. 

Finally, with little resolve and even less polish, you mutter, “Be back soon.”

SHIFT THREE, Tues-Wed, 12:05 AM

“Hey! You think you can take my shift, sunshine?”

Ellis’ voice stops you from your walk from the bathroom and into the break room where she and Hilly gaze curiously back at you. The resident and the nurse are two of your favorites on the night shift, stopping for them is akin to stopping for air. 

“Rambo, brawler, sunshine. I’m getting all the nicknames this week.” You lean against the doorframe, peering at the two women who smile easily at you. “When?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Can’t. I’ll be on vacation.” You tell her with pity. 

“Oh shit.” Her voice is light despite the disappointment. A welcome refresh on the night shift. “Where you going?”

“Florida.” The excitement is barely contained in your words. The prospect of a long vacation—away from the noise, away from the stress, away from disinfectant and in the sun—is a long overdue one. That excitement is shattered upon Hilly and Parker’s audible groan of disgust. Your mouth drops in shock as you defend. “I’m visiting my sister!”

“Don’t get eaten by a gator.” Hilly mumbles.

“Or a disney adult.” Parker pokes and you roll your eyes.

“I will be at the beach, thank you very much. A whole week with a piña colada in my hand and a tiny bikini on.”

Parker stands from her seat at the break table and fills up her thermos from a water bottle in the fridge. “If you come back with sun poisoning, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I’m a pro at tanning.” You insist. 

She raises a brow. “Even with a tiny bikini on?”

“Especially with a tiny bikini on.” You assert. 

She shrugs with a smile. “We’ll see.” 

“Talk to Abbot.” You tell her, returning back to the topic, “He might cover it.”

It’s almost comical the way Parker and Hilly’s faces scrunch in unanimous uncertainty. 

“Not today.” Ellis says. 

“It’s one of those days.” Hilly supplements. You nod in understanding, not entirely faulting the reasoning. Warnings were issued throughout the crew the minute the shift started. Steer clear. Dr. Abbot woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. 

Or maybe he didn’t sleep at all.

“Unless you wanna ask him for me?” Ellis counters, curiously.

Your brows furrow. “Why me?”

“Because you would get a much different answer than I would get.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” You insist, off put by the implication that you have any kind of weight to you in respect to Jack. Jack doesn’t lean on anything, for anyone. He doesn’t waver, he doesn’t reconsider. He’s a straight shooter, calling things like he sees it, having answers before the situation even arises.

If anything, your familiarity and comfortability with him makes you more prone to being at the short end of his sticks. Voluntold for things less than appealing—like picking up more shifts, by his steadfast hand.

“He’d say the same thing to me that he would to you.”

Hilly and Parker, in another feat of supernatural alignment, look at one another. A silent discussion translated in the look before they return to you.

“Sure.” Hilly nods. 

“Whatever you say.” Ellis supports. Your guffaw is met with Hilly’s boisterous giggles. 

That is, until her laughter is unceremoniously shot dead. An arrow to the heart, a quick and frigid silence encompassing the room. A glance at her reveals widened eyes fixated on something over your shoulder. 

The man in question stands behind you, lips in a thin line as his gaze bounces between the three of you. 

“Are we a hospital or a talk show, now?”

The two women quickly make their excuses, shuffling out of the room in a speed remarkably unlike either of them.

“Nope, on the way out now—”

“—I just remembered I’m so busy—”

Leaving only the two of you to occupy the break room. You half expect him to throw a comment out to you, expelling you back to the trenches of the ER but he doesn’t. He steps into the room with a low mutter. Unintelligible and gruff, resounding of the ire that has become him since the night started. 

The smell of his aftershave wafts past you. A cool mist twined with a musk. Inexplicably, him. Resonant of the stoic confidence that emanates off of him. Resounding man.

He’s tense as he approaches the counter, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and flicking on the coffee machine. It’s visible in the way he carries himself. The stance of a soldier back on war grounds, eyes skirting, glancing over his shoulder, listening for something. Not the sound of an incoming ambulance, not the sound of an intern struggling during a procedure. Something almost quiet, imperceptible. Known only to him, familiar to the memories that live in the lines of his face. A call with no name. 

A call that will bring back all that he’s lost. 

“Ellis needs her shift covered next Tuesday.” You toss the test balloon out, wondering if it’s enough of that kind of day for him to shoot it down with a precise blow dart or if there’s enough gentility in him to at least let it float by. 

“Sounds like an Ellis problem.” He mumbles.

“Just throwing it out there. In case you happen to have a solution.”

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes clearly bounce between yours, digging for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the coffee machine. 

“I’ll see.”

Floating by, it is.

“Everything good?” You ask his turned figure. Stepping further into the minefield, seeing what lands, which foot you place will step on the mine. “You’ve been working all week.” 

He snorts, but there’s no humor to be found. “So have you.”

“Yeah, but I’m off for a week starting Saturday. When are you off?”

”Saturday.”

A quiet hangs in the air, filled with your expectancy. ”…that’s it?”

“And Monday.”

“You need more than that.” 

One shoulder raises in a shrug. The smell of ground coffee fills the air as the pot bubbles to toil with the brew. Nothing particularly interesting and yet his attention is fixated. “Not dead yet.”

You hum, suspicious enough. “Rough night?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

The edge to his tone, that’s identical to the edge in his posture, that’s exactly like the edge in his attitude. Any and all of the above.

“You’re wired, today.” 

The observation isn’t groundbreaking. It doesn’t shatter windows, or break the sound barrier. It is a recognized truth that sits in the air with little disruption. He says nothing. Only pours the pot of black coffee into his mug. 

He’s not wearing his ring. 

The black one that has stayed permanently fixed on his left hand, third finger. 

There’s only been a handful of shifts in your year at PTMC that you’ve seen him without it—and they all felt like this. Rough. Tense. Like someone is one misstep away from receiving the glare that maims the career.  

It’s not a secret that Dr. Abbot lost his wife to cancer a few years after he was medically discharged from the Army. Just the mythology that lingers in the air like antiseptic. It’s easy to piece together that the days of his rigidity happen to coincide with whether or not his ring is on. 

And maybe that’s why you’ve been able to gravitate towards him. Not out of pity, but understanding. Respect. Admiration. Anyone with two eyes can tell that Jack carries himself with a significant weight—a testament to the life he’s lived, all that he has learned and lost. It’s a quiet confidence, an assumed burden that shows in his gait. A shining light that draws the helpless to him.

It’s hard to not be drawn to someone like him. 

So, you try. Out of some loose notion of affinity, respect, out of some desire to give back, you push where you know you probably shouldn’t. 

“You know…if you ever want to talk— about life, your day, what you ate this morning, something stupid you saw—” Your voice falters, hesitant for a moment before you find your steel commitment and push. “—grief. You can always talk to me. I’m here. At work. Out of work.”

His body goes still. Rigid. And stupidly, you wonder if this was the call he was listening for.  

“I won’t pretend to know. But, I can listen. If you want me to. Just ask.”

You don’t think he’ll ever take you up on it. In fact, it’s laughable to think that your attending—the man leagues above you in experience, and knowledge, and wisdom, would willingly stoop down to his fellow’s standing and talk about his feelings. Men like him compartmentalize. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. The immovable rock under the beating current of the river. The beacon in a rushing trauma room.

But a foolish part of you tries because… well, because you want to. 

Because it’s Jack, at the end of the day. Battlin’ Jack with the edge in his eyes and the razor on his tongue. The first one you look for in a busy operating room, the last one you spot as you're packing up for the night.

Hazel eyes turn over his shoulder and find their spot on you with immediate precision. Boring a hole into you. Analyzing, configuring, understanding. He stares at you, in a charged stillness, almost like he were doing all three things at once and coming up empty on whatever he was trying to find.  

“…Sure.” 

You understand in the hesitancy that there is something hidden that he’s not wanting to share. You try to reason that his answer, as vague as vague comes, is a good thing, if only to save yourself from the disappointment of realizing that your attempt for connection has met a stoned wall. His words ring of finality, his signal to end the conversation. 

It’s here where the berth between you two feels so enormous, the difference in your stages of life. Not in the quips of the shifts, not in the jests of your being his junior and your teases of his age. Not when you’re beside him manning a procedure and working in tandem with the makings of a well-oiled machine as though you were always meant to work with him. But here, where you catch Jack in the hush and see glimpses of the man under the doctor is where the reminder is so pointed.

Signed, sealed, and delivered with red tape in your line of sight. Caution, written in his crow’s feet. Tread lightly, in the wrinkle of his smile lines. Warnings you should heed.

And yet, keep pushing, echoes in the beat of your heart. 

You nod, a small, resigned smile crossing your face. Leaving well enough alone. 

“Okay.” Tapping a hand against the doorway, you begin to take your leave from the room.

“Oh!” You stop yourself, turning back to him only to find that his eyes are still trained on you. “Uh, your patient in fourteen said he was experiencing a burning sensation in his penis when I walked by.”

“He’s in for heartburn from eating a shit ton of takis.” He says, diffident. 

“Guess he didn’t lick all the dust off his fingers.” You shrug. 

“Sounds like it.”

You take your leave and in the wake of your absence, Jack takes a harrowing breath.

His therapist’s voice lingers in his head. 

Doesn’t have to be the whole fleet. Doesn’t have to be announced. Just one is enough. Just a status update is all they need. All you need.

And maybe it's because he knows the sincerity behind your words, the invitation doesn’t feel like a hanging noose like it usually does. The prospect of talking about it—giving the status update—is akin to a standing death sentence for a man like him. Giving the unnamed a name, voicing it into existence, giving it the power to consume. 

He’s getting better at it. Giving the small doses in the official setting, where it's him, four beige walls, and a man with a PhD. Taking it outside of there, though, is still the battling challenge.

But—when you say it, when you offer—  

He pushes past it, doesn’t try to think too hard about it. Stocks it up on a shelf out of reach. Something to handle later, to forget about when he remembers to toss it out. Or, if the mood catches him just right in the safety of Dr. Mott’s office, he’ll bring it up. Discuss what it means, what he should do about it.

He doesn’t know. Only knows that a door has been left ajar, breadcrumbs of care and comfort leading a trail through and to you. Cracked open by your gentle hand.

Only knows that in the dormant hold of a wounded man and the slow becoming of a new one that he’s pushing himself to, Jack finds himself feeling the faint pang of hunger for something other than self-inflicted guilt and shame.

He eyes the breadcrumbs you left behind. Wondering, deep in the recesses of his conflicted mind, how they would taste.

He chugs his coffee, burns the taste buds on the tip of his tongue. Hopes that it erodes the want right where it began, cripples the potential to even try.

(It doesn’t.)

Thurs-Fri, 11:35 PM:

Jack is two forearms deep in the cracked thoracic cavity of an intubated 46-year old woman performing an EDT when the doors to Trauma One open. 

“Dr. Abbot, can I speak to you?” Dr. Reno, communal night shift’s bane of existence and general nuisance, shouts into the operating room. 

Jack has no more of an issue with the man than he does with anyone from Ohio—a general sense of pity coupled with a scrutinized squint of the eyes at some unsavory opinions that tend to come from the Buckeyes, particularly when the Steelers are playing—but the general opinion of the team’s feelings are not lost on him. 

He’s heard the whispers, seen the way the crowd parts like the Red Sea when the man is around. Jack keeps his head down, for the most part. He’s not Robby. Aside from the general check-in and check-out, he doesn’t want to manage people. Personalities exist, but they don’t matter in the heat of the moment. He leaves them be, pointedly making quirks and general tendencies a side effect of the job. Pointedly makes it not his business.

Until it is.

“Don’t know if you have eyes, Reno, but I’m kind of busy.” Jack responds, quick and cool, before turning his attention to Ellis’s intubation, “Drop the left lung and pump another three CC’s. Pericardium is getting cut.”

“Find me after.” Reno says briskly, the doors shutting loudly. 

Something vile and uncouth springs to his mind, annoyance cutting through Jack like a stabbing knife at the summoning. Something inappropriate, unprofessional, mildly threatening on a good day. Its sentiment is met in equal parts with Ellis’ mumble of “dick” which only makes Jack feel slightly better. 

Scissors cut through the thin wall of the heart’s membrane and quickly spot the torn ventricle that’s spouting blood profusely. 

“Found our geyser.” Plugging the hole shut with his finger into the rupture, he looks over to Walsh. “Ready to stop twiddling your thumbs, Dr. Walsh?”

“About time.” She rebuts, moving in beside him and beginning the suturing of the heart. 

Then a moment later, as her forceps pull thread through delicate tissue, she says, “You should handle that.”

He doesn’t need clarification to know what she means. “And you should handle this.”

“I’m doing my job.” She pushes. “Do yours.”

12:05 AM

“I’m concerned about your other fellow.”

If time could be rewound, he’d go back to this morning and let the phone ring into oblivion. Ignore the call asking him to come in tonight and spend the rest of his day watching the Pirates play the Yankees. Would rather watch his team get their asses handed to them than have this conversation—knowing where it’s going, knowing who it's about. The regret of his decisions only grates him further.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t find Dr. Reno. Dr. Reno finds Dr. Abbot—contrary to the directive that interrupted the procedure in South-13.

Just as he’s stepping out of the OR and chucking his bloodied gloves into the trash bin, Maxwell is on him without preamble. That stabbing feeling—the unabated annoyance— creeps up his neck like a fucking burn. So much so that Jack has to roll it out before even looking at the new fellow. 

His eyes flick to the man, deeply unimpressed at how dogged the man appears to be. He continues his path towards the workstation. Dr. Reno follows after him, quick on his heels. 

“Her charts and prescriptions are suspect.”

“What, is there not enough work, man? You’re reading other doctors’ charting notes?”

“She and I have disagreed too often about standards of care.”

“Then leave it as a disagreement and move on.”

“Just—” Dr. Reno grabs onto Jack’s arm, halting him in place. It earns the man a putrid glare, Jack’s eyes boring into the hand that lingers on his bicep until Dr. Reno takes the hint and quickly removes it. “—look at it, Dr. Abbot. I’m concerned.”

Reno holds out a folder, one that Jack fights the urge to grab and chuck across the ER. There are no niceties when Jack takes it, his ire blatant as he yanks the folder from the man’s hand. 

Your name is the first thing he sees on the document. A usual tender, easing thing within him that Jack refuses to draw attention to—the sight of your name below his on the schedule set for the same shift, the pop-up notification of your name in the work group chat whenever you send a text. Something he would continue to dutifully ignore were it not for the fact that the notes labeled as “suspect” are notes you’ve made on a patient dated a week and a half ago. 

He scans the timeline, red quickly filling his vision. Steel becomes him the minute his gaze flicks up to Reno, finding the man looking back at him expectantly.

“This is your smoking gun? Really?” Reno nods, emphatically. Jack grits his teeth. “Get back to work, Maxwell.”

“The patient was coughing up blood and complained of chest pain. CT confirmed it was a pulmonary embolism which should’ve resulted in a cardiac catheterization.” Reno insists, bulldozing past the point of professional restraint.

“Not if it wasn’t severe enough.”

“It was enough for the patient to be transferred for admission and OR to take care of it. This is a clear case of delay in proper care.”

“You’re upset that one of our doctors isn’t trigger happy with a knife? That she—” Jack looks to the chart record again, spotting a note that makes him more irritated, “That she correctly prescribed and provided anticoagulants that reduced patient discomfort and clearly instructed the patient to follow up with their PCP the next day.”

“And him being on the schedule for the upstairs OR today?”

“A week and a half after the patient’s visit to the ER. Clearly not admitted through us and yet treated in our hospital. Wonder what that could mean.” Jack bites sarcastically. “Oh yeah, that the patient followed up with their PCP and it was decided to remove the clot.”

“Dr. Abbot—“

“Stop following up on other doctors' charts. Focus on your patients. And don’t bother me with this shit again unless it's serious.” The folder is shoved unceremoniously into Reno’s chest. “Whatever beef you got against her, don’t bring it to my floor.”

It’s when Jack is halfway down the hall that another remark is called out.

“I didn’t realize you were so biased.” 

His leg aches in the socket of his prosthetic, a sign of his lowering threshold. The pulse of blood felt worse in the stub more than anywhere else. Turning, his eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

”You should’ve written her up. You know you should’ve.” Reno explains as Jack steps—stalks—closer. “It was a threat against another doctor. Management won’t be happy that you’ve overlooked it.”

Abbot stands before him, his chin tilting up just as his jaw clenches. “I didn’t overlook anything. I’m well aware of what happened and I’m choosing to handle it differently.” 

“You handled it wrong.”

Jack's eyes narrow. A long steadied exhale is released, like a bull catching sight of the red. “You caught me on a good day. Take a walk, Dr. Reno. If you can’t be a team player and get your shit on straight, then consider this permission to get out of the ER for the night. Your choice.”

“You can’t—“

“Make. Your choice. Before I make it for you.” 

12:17 AM

You’re on the back of a motorcycle with the wind in your hair when a phone call interrupts. Opening your eyes is like pulling yourself out of tar, but the caller ID does the hard work of taking you out of the depths of your REM cycle.

“Hello?” You ask, voice groggy and tired. 

“Sorry to be calling you so late. I know it’s your day off.” Hilly’s voice sounds on the other end of the phone. “Any chance you can come in and work an 8-hour?”

“Why? What’s going on?” You’re already sitting up in your bed, the decision to head into work practically made. 

“Reno had to head out for an emergency. We’re short one.” 

“Oh shit.” You mutter. You raise the heel of your palm to rub into your eye. “I didn’t realize I was next on the rotation.”

“You aren’t. Dr. Abbot asked for you.”

If the decision wasn’t made before, it was made now. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“You’re the best.” Over the line, you hear from a familiar but faint voice in the background, “She coming in?”

“Yes!” Hilly calls, before turning her attention to you. “Dr. Abbot gave a thumbs up, but it was a grateful one. I can tell.”

12:52 PM

“What took you so long?” Jack calls over his shoulder, seemingly already knowing you’ve entered the ER without even glancing backward. 

You watch as the back of his head tilts up to the status board, then back down to his notes. You saddle up beside him, placing your bag onto the nurses desk for shoving into a locker later and lean against the workstation. 

“Yankees beat Pirates ten to four. I should be out on the town. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” You push back and he tuts, annoyed. Whether at you or the game, you’re unsure, but it brings a smile to your face. 

You peer into his notes. If he minds, he makes no visible sign of it.

“I’m delighted, truly. Nothing screams lucky more than watching the unit crash and burn while we wait for you to grace us with your presence.” He retorts, but there’s no venom to his bite. 

“You’re smart, Dr. Abbot. You can handle it.”

”Yeah? Then what do we pay you for?”

“PTMC needed the city flair.” You smile widely at him. 

“The shitty one?”

“The New York state of mind. The wins and all. You’ll understand when the Pirates finally fix their offense in the outfield.” 

“Don’t forget the stellar humility.” He hums, noncommittal. “And leave the Buccos out of this.”

You tilt your head at him. “You don’t like me because I’m humble.”

“Like implies affection.” He replies, easily. “Tolerate is more accurate, city girl.”

“Whatever you say, old man.” You sigh. “I get to leave early tomorrow though, right?”

“Extortion.”

“Tit for tat.” 

An announcement rings over the intercom. An inbound GSW, four minutes out. The room turns then, those settling in the front half of the floor preparing in an orchestrated chaos for the arrival. Jack grabs a pair of gloves from the box affixed to the wall, tossing them over to you before grabbing and slipping on his own. Jack finally looks over to you, his eyes doing a quick once over of you before he settles back on your face—readied, but easy. 

Seamless and still anticipation constructing your features, determination filtering in through the artful weave of your calmness. You stand sliding gloves onto your hands welcoming the impending disaster like it were an old friend.

If there were nerves to be had on you, he couldn’t find them. 

It only compounds the ridiculousness of Reno from earlier. Only furthers Jack’s unwavering lack of doubt when it comes to you. You stand awaiting the incoming trauma like you hadn’t just woken up half an hour ago, like you’ve been standing beside Jack the entire night when it should be Reno, and relief hits him like a truck. 

A semi that’s caught him like a deer in the headlights, loosens the strain that’s fixed permanently in the column of his neck, makes the ache in his shoulder pointedly less. One held breath away from feeling. 

“Thanks for coming in.” He says, suddenly serious. 

Thanks for coming when I asked, he means.

It startles you, the turn. The unexpected stoop into sincerity. Eyes bounce between his, unaware of where it comes from. He stares back, unabashed with the earnest yet otherwise unreadable. 

Nonetheless, you take what he gives you. 

“Yeah. Of course.” There is equal genuinity in your voice. You nod your head, softly. “Anything you need.” 

He nods, once. Then turns to watch the loading bay doors. “Make me proud tonight and I’ll think about Friday.”

“Getting soft on me, Dr. Abbot.” You tease, but it holds no real feet to fire. It’s not ribbing, nor is it a condemnation. Just an observation that sits between you two like a shared secret.  

“Yeah, well.” Jack shakes his head, but there’s no concealing the way his lips twitch upward. You both decide to leave well enough alone.

Turning in time with him, you pull on his surgical gown and tie it at the back. He ties your own, his hand lingering on your back when he finishes.

SHIFT FOUR, Friday-Sat, 8:47 AM:

You don’t get to leave early. 

You take a sip from the porcelain mug of lukewarm coffee you’ve taken from the breakroom and continue your endless stare into the slow revival of the world. 

The dark of the sky begins to dilute with the morning rise, the cold breeze of the spring air a welcomed remedy to your flustered skin. The benches at the park beside the hospital are uncomfortable, pointedly so. The longer you sit, the further the aches in your back that made their wonderful appearance halfway through your shift demand your attention—but this is what you need. 

A tether to reality, a removal from the endless spirals of a hurried mind. A way for your feet to finally settle on the firm, stable ground. No running, no long stretches of standing, no burning in the flex of your calves. Just dirty sneakers on the gravel, feeling some semblance of stillness even as life begins to slowly wake up around you. Hands feeling the fading warmth of the drink you hold tightly.

Birds chirp melodically as streaks of orange break up the sky. Your chest starts to feel like it isn’t on the brink of collapse from the erratic beat of your heart. You can finally breathe. 

The new day, in. The old one, out. 

“It’s not the worst of vices to have, but a sixth cup of coffee is pretty drastic. Even for my standards.”

It’s rather difficult to align your inner chakras when Jack’s voice grows closer to you.

The heavy sigh you exhale conveys exactly how you feel about it. “I’m not in the mood, Jack.”

“First name, huh?” The sound of his voice is another stabbed knife into the pantheon of wounds that decorate you today. 

“Off the clock. Formalities be damned.” You return, annoyed.

He steps in beside you, his steadied gait and imposing figure filling your periphery. A vision cladded in black scrubs that you refuse to look at. He makes no further movement, surveying you with a neutral look on his face. Not a new thing from him, and certainly not for the first time it’s happened tonight. 

Jack has a staring problem. Always watching, hawk eyes knowing things before they reach his ears. A dutiful sentinel on the floor and the subject of the running joke you have with a few of the nurses about the amount of eyes he has on the back of his head. Lisa and Hilly think there’s at least four, one for each cardinal direction. You’ve got money on the table that there’s eight pairs, minimum.

It’s his job as attending to be tuned in to everything that happens on his shift but it’s uncanny the way he notices everything. 

(“Military.” Ellis had said simply, eyes focused on charting. 

“X-ray vision.” Shen chirped with a shrug and a sip of his iced coffee. You nodded in agreement.)

It’s not a hunch, or a theory, or a girlish fantasy to say that all eight pairs of Jack’s eyes were on you tonight. He appeared out of thin air when things went sideways on your cases. Seemingly easy patients turning chaotic within the blink of an eye and each time, he was there. Beating Ellis and Shen to the punch, pulling gloves over his hands and giving his assessment in steady confidence and simple authority as he fell into step beside you.

Assisting you with perfect timing the first two times your patients coded, leading the procedures for the next one, and taking over completely on the final one. 

With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his hand shoved in the pants of his scrubs, Jack does as he’s done all night long and stares at you. Deeply, intently, unnervingly. His face betraying no tangible thought as he keeps you within his line of sight. 

And just as you’ve done all night, you keep your gaze in front of you. Fixated on the park before you.

There’s no telling if he watches out of concern for your wellbeing or others. Determining if you were a complex puzzle needing to be solved or maybe a potential bomb needing to be diffused. 

He’s got a morbid connection to the latter. All the more reason for him to stay away. 

In standard Jack fashion, he doesn’t. 

“That bad, then.” His words are light, almost blasé. It fuels a fire that you were unsuccessfully trying to stampen out. 

You scoff. “Yeah. Pretty fucking bad.”

He moves, then. Shrugging his backpack off, he places it beside the bench and sits next to you. Close, too close. Out in the open and away from the confines of sterile white walls and yet you still feel like you’re cornered. Drowning in the nearness of him, in the substantial feel of his presence.

He takes a breath before finally saying, quietly, like a man trying to tame an angered animal, “It wasn’t personal—”

“Felt personal.” You bite back, bitterly.

“You were clouded.”

Finally, your head snaps to him. Disbelief furrows in your brows. “That’s bullshit.”  

Your heated and sharpened fury meets his stoic and anchored one, looking at him for the first time since you were pushed aside in trauma three. No betrayal of guilt resides in the lines of his face, only true honesty and sincerity. 

It only makes you angrier.

“You undermined me in the middle of a procedure. In front of interns, in front of residents. This isn’t my first time around the block, Jack. It was a resection. I can do those in my sleep and you know that. This was no different.” Your head shakes incredulously, the frustration surging forward with little reservation. And while the anger is there, simmering deep in every crevice of your words, pinching your lips and narrowing your eyes, the hurt bleeds through, try as you might to hold it back. 

“You might as well have just told the whole team you think I don’t know what I’m doing. That would’ve been infinitely better than telling me to step aside.”

The corner of Jack’s lips flick downward, a sign you’ve come to understand as his clear disagreement. They purse forward as he thinks for a second. Registering the extent of your words.  

He leans his elbows on his knees. Thinking for another moment, until he says, “This isn’t New York.”

Your head pulls back in offense. “What the hell does that mean?” 

“It means you’re not alone in a department doing drastic shit by yourself because you have to, anymore. You’re here, we’re a team and in case you forgot, you’re my senior fellow. My responsibility. And I’m not going to let you drown.” 

“I-I wasn’t drowning. I had cases, they got resolved and I moved onto the next one—”

“You had four codes today.” He interrupts. “You don’t just move on from that.” 

Your breath hitches. It’s the actualization of the heavy weight, the one that’s been sitting on your chest all night. Constricting your breath, keeping your feet moving, and hands fidgeting. Somewhere in between keeping your head down and switching from one patient to the next, it hadn’t registered that he would have tucked the information away as something other than a performance metric.

A stupid notion, one clearly without any semblance of thought, because it’s Jack. 

(The Jack you’ve had all week, the one who teases as a means to compliment, who has quietly deferred to you when questions arose during procedures, who has given approving looks from the doorway over the course of the week. Jack that has brought you coffee on random occasions when the lulls have kicked in, in the mug he knows belongs to you, the one you sip at now. Jack who knows you’ve entered a room before a word comes out of your mouth. 

Jack, who is both a breath of fresh air and the halting cause of your own when the hazel of his eyes fall on yours from across a hectic room. Concern etched in the irises, a quiet check-in, a quick review of your status, before moving on to the next thing.

Jack, Jack, Jack—whose name fits too well in your mouth, that you’re too keen to speak out loud just because you want to.)

He says the truth simply. Without blame, unlike the raging guilt that courses through you. Without lecture. Words uttered incredibly soft for a man forged from fire and brimstone. 

“None of them were easy and none of them were your fault. Just really bad fuckin’ luck that they landed on you. It’s enough to weigh on anyone.” 

“My day had nothing to do with that procedure. I’ve been through worse, I can handle it.” You lie, stubbornly.

“It had everything to do with it.” He continues, holding your gaze dutifully. As though he could stare his truth into you—make you physically see his meaning. “I saw that look in your eye. You were gonna hack at that man’s body if it meant a single chance of survival.”

“Because there was a chance, Jack. If you had just let me—“

“Sepsis from secondary peritonitis. The bowel was necrotic. There wasn’t.”

“Then let me find that out! You push Shen, you push Ellis, I’ve seen you push Mohan. I get one bad day and I’m treated with baby gloves? I get kicked off a procedure? I’m a fellow, Jack. I should’ve been allowed to do my job.”

“I push when there is something to learn. He was gone the minute he rolled in through those doors. There was nothing to learn in that.”

“So I get punished for wanting to try?”

“I stepped in because you weren’t doing it for the betterment of the patient, you were doing it for yourself.” 

He renders you speechless. Your face falls from tense anger to a shattered hurt. You fall against the backing of the bench with defeat. The throat tightens in that familiar way that it’s been doing all shift. Your eyes start to sting with the swell of tears that you try to swallow down, force away before they threaten to spill. 

Still, Jack watches. Assessing, preparing, readying himself for the fall that he’d seen coming from the beginning. 

“This isn’t a question about what you can do.” He says quietly, a whisper in the wind. A reassurance uttered in the safe space between you, broken only by your shuddering breaths. “You’ve been off kilter on me since you got that little girl. I get it. No one blames you for that. You went into this one hoping you could get a save after the ones you lost. And if you want to pretend there was a chance, fine. You can sleep knowing that I made the call on this one. That this falls on me. Not you.”

And you’re smart enough to read between those lines. 

It was never about competence. It was a staged intervention. Jack’s way to release some of the pressure off of the cooking chamber that has been you all day. To place part of your burden on his shoulders.

Making sure that the four codes you were responsible for tonight didn’t turn to five.

The heat of your bruised ego simmers low, water poured onto the embers and leaving a smoking ash of your tender and fragile heart. Heavy with the stress of today, fraying from the guilt that eats at you. You turn to him, your eyes red-rimmed and burning with unshed tears that only inch forward the minute you meet his gaze. 

His focus on you isn’t intimidating. It’s a familiar shroud of comfort, a soft place to land. He listens, watches, waits. Beckoning you into him, wanting you to let go. 

“It was just like New York again, Jack. It felt like everyone I touched died.” Your voice breaks at the admission. “I can handle it, you know, when it’s bad. It sucks, but I can put it away and keep going. But today it was—these were simple ones.”

Your breath catches when you feel him move closer to you, his thigh intentionally pressing into yours. Another tether to the ground. 

You rub your hands against your face roughly. “Like what— what do you mean I lost an eight-year old to pneumonia? That’s routine, we go through that all the time. I did a year in peds for fuck’s sake. I had her— for a second I had her.”

An incredulous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Absurdity is hardly a humorous thing and yet, it escapes with the fall of a tear that you quickly wipe away. “Then it was the dad with the DVT who just dropped on me. He was ready to be discharged. I was on him for two hours and nothing.”

“Then the car accident came in and I—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t shake them from me. It was just one after another. And I tried but…just wasn’t good enough.”

He interrupts quickly, leaning in close to you. His voice fusing with a well-meaning reprimand, “Don’t do that. That doesn’t do anyone any good.” 

You sigh, tearfully and look to him. He’s close, close enough in your space where his shoulder is touching yours and you see how the lines on his face deepen with his intentful stare into you. It only capitulates the need to fall. 

“I know Reno’s been looking at my charts. And I know he brought it up to you.” You tell him. The careful composition of the man made of stone fractures, then. Surprised, aggrieved, almost furious. “And I guess—I don’t know. When you told me to step aside, it felt like you were believing him a little bit.”

The speed in which he dissuades the thought is comforting. “That wasn’t what that was. That’s not why I took you out.”

“I know.” And you do. But it still felt like it. 

Jack shakes his head, drilling truth into you with an emphasis that could hardly be missed. Needing you to understand exactly what he meant. “Whatever Reno thinks about you, fuckin’ forget about it. It doesn’t matter—”

“I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an idiot. And he’s from Ohio.” You scoff. “I care what you think.”

It’s his turn to be rendered silent. Not out of shock or stupor—but at the need to hold back everything that creeps up in that moment. Tiny gospels that bang against the caverns of a hollowed heart, carved empty from the brutal grip of a world that has taken too much. Truths that beg to be let out. The unnamed that claws up the soft tissue of his throat that begs to be given a name, to be heard. 

The truth is that you had been thorough all night, fast on your feet, a helping hand where needed. A forceful hurricane blazing through the trauma bay with a proficiency that justified your standing as a fellow. And Jack had an eye on you all night not because you were cracking but because he had to make sure you were still standing. Still breathing. Not as part of his job but because—

He needed to. 

And the minute he saw the slight waver, saw the way it was beginning to seep into you, he became a man of two minds. No longer able to compartmentalize. His eyes focused on the patients in front of him, his ears attuned to the sound of your voice on the other side of the room. Listening to the rises and falls like a hymn, reverent in his pious focus.

How his only way to fix all that was wrong for you was to be involved himself—handle it himself. Wedge into the web of you that’s been stretched thin and mend the cracks, bring you back to steady and safe ground. 

Bring you back to him. 

He doesn’t say any of that. Restrains the flooding thoughts with a wrangled rope and ties it hard enough to cut circulation. Ties the yearning before it makes an ample fool out of everything. 

Instead, he goes for the standard. The known truth, the easy one that lives beneath the dry teases and offhand remarks. 

“If it matters that much, you knocked it out of the fuckin’ park today. You touched more patients today than anyone else on the floor, gave excellent care in the chaos. You did damn good, today.”

Your nod is empty, tired. Dry of any attempt at human dignity. And it humors you that just a few days ago you were the one offering him comfort. 

“How’d you know how many I was on?” You ask after a moment. 

“…I was keeping count.”

“Really?”

”You drink more when you’re stressed. Like caffeine will make you focus harder.” He huffs at the surprised look on your face. “Told you. You’re my responsibility.”

“MD, therapist, dietician, and babysitter.” The laugh that comes out of you is wet. You sniffle. “Sucks to be you.”

“Most days, but not today.” You huff out a laugh and his smile slants. He flicks his head to the side. “C’mon. You need to sleep. Florida’s calling your name, God knows why.”

He stands with a grunt, working out a knot in his neck before turning and holding a hand out to you. You take it, allowing him to lift you from the bench with your own pained sigh. 

You rub at the ache on your back. “I’ll try but I’m five coffees deep—“

“—six.” He corrects.

“Six.” You repeat, feeling gently warmed at his record keeping. “Don’t think my buzz is going to let me sleep. Try to get some shut eye for me, though.”

“Don’t waste your wish on me. I don’t sleep much.”

“Do—do you wanna get some breakfast, then? I just—” The words come out before you have much cognizance to reel them in. Exhaustion and guilt and all of its disarming siblings pushing the request out. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Just as they hit the air, you realize how silly it is. You don’t expect him to take you up on it—too aware of the gap, the existing berth that lives loudly in between you two. 

“Yeah. Of course.” He interrupts. Says it as sure as the air he breathes. Says it without hesitation and even less reservation. As if you couldn’t have asked anything more obvious. 

“Anything you need.”

And in your colored shock, in the repeat of the words that were once aimed at him, here—that’s when you see it. Or rather, feel it. The charge, the shift, the inkling of something else.  

Something beyond your attending. Beyond the stature of the leader who knows everything, who can impart wisdom just as much as he could take it away. Beyond the monolith who pushes you to be better, that draws the lines firmly in the sand of duty and obligation, of giving it your all and knowing when to let it go. 

There, in the softness of his hazel eyes settling on yours and the small tilt of the corner of his lips pulling upward, is a man. A gentle one, with something soft wedged in the center of his steel chest that he’s torn down a wall and unlocked just to show you. 

Only you.

Something on the precipice of becoming sweet, almost ripe for picking. 

Something you don’t know the name to, yet, but can feel deep in parts previously unknown to you that you desperately want to learn more of as the sun rises on the two of you. 

SHIFT ONE, Tues-Wed, 6:48 PM

“Look at what the cat dragged in.” Dana’s smile bleeds into her voice as you step onto the floor. “Smelling of coconut and looking sunkissed.”

The familiar smell of sterile sanitizer and disinfectant is a welcome one. The pat of your sneakers on the tile floor is a familiar anthem as you enter the ER. 

You hold your hands out and bow to your awaiting crowd, “In the very flesh.”

“Surprised you don’t have a flower in your hair.” She teases, her smile growing warmer as you draw in closer.

"Thought about it but I figured that’d be bragging.”

“Indeed it would.” Dana busies herself with the final details in preparation of handoff. You come up to the desk, leaning your elbows against the surface. A quiet moment before your shift starts. “You get to stay at the beach?”

You hum, pleased. “All week. In the tiniest bikini known to man.”

“Atta girl.” She smiles.

“There’s sunshine.” Ellis calls from down the hall, and you see her approach the workstation looking like she’s already gotten a head start on her rounds. “Welcome back. How’re the nieces?”

“Too stinking cute. I got some photos you’re gonna die for.” You sigh, wistfully. “I missed them.”

“Not gonna leave us for Florida now, are you?”

“Ask me at the end of my shift.”

“Nah, she won’t.” Dana coos, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and giving your arm a loving rub. “Pittsburgh won’t force our sunshine out just yet.”

“Abbot would put a stop to that before it even started.” Ellis jests, and you raise a brow.

“What?” You ask. 

Dana ignores you, directing her stare to Ellis. “Maybe even get some people written up.”

“Maybe even put some people in a disciplinary hearing.” Ellis returns.

Your eyes bounce between the two. “Okay, what the hell don’t I know?”

“Nothin’.” Ellis smiles, turning on her heel. 

Dana pats your arm, lovingly. “Happy to have you back, sweetie.”

7:47 PM

“Hilly, I’m going to put in an order for an EKG for Mr. Breyer. You mind making sure that he’s bumped up on that one?” You tell the nurse as you both exit the exam room.

“Can do!” She chirps. 

“Oh! And—“ She turns on her heel at your call, looking at you curiously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Her brows furrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something with Abbot.” Understanding floods her face.  

“What have you heard?” She asks, voice dipping low.

”Just a comment. Something about a disciplinary hearing.”

”Oh my god, I can’t believe no one’s told you.” She crowds near you, excitement radiating off of her. “Not confirmed, but heavily suspected because Anna Maria heard it from Jesse who heard it from Perlah who saw Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot talking about it. But— Dr. Abbot got Reno suspended.”

“What?” Shock raises your volume, which Hilly quickly shushes you. You lower your voice in apology, “For what?”

“Harassment. Unprofessional conduct.”

“Against who?” You ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Four people. Three nurses—” 

“Three!” You gasp. You had only known about the one incident, heard some things about from the others. But the extent remained only in what you saw in the stairwell with Anna Maria.

“All Latino. They all went to Dr. Abbot. Apparently he was keeping notes on certain racist comments made.” Your mind flickers to the image of the note he tucked into his breast pocket, and its unsurprising then that he would’ve known about it all along. 

Eight pairs of eyes always watching.

“And the fourth?” You ask, curiously.

Hilly’s eyes seem to gleam brighter when she says, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Dr. Abbot raised it up to Dr. Robby who raised it up to Gloria and so on.” 

“Harassment against me?” You ask again, unbelieving.

“Yeah. Something about sabotaging your performance. Depending on the source, some say he talked about some of the comments he’s heard Reno say to you or the arguments he would start in the operating rooms.  But everyone agrees—” 

Hilly pauses for a moment—whether for dramatic effect or to convey the extent of the magnitude of her next. Either way, you remain fixated on her. Waiting, watching for her. 

“—they’ve never seen Dr. Abbot angry like that.”

9:51 PM

You don’t get the chance to talk to him—officially. 

Only make him out in the background of the hectic shift, see him at the bedside of an incoming trauma before rushing into an OR, stepping in beside him and slipping the gown on to assist. 

There’s the sly comment about your absence—Hope you didn’t forget how to do your job, city girl. 

One you meet in equal time—Watch and learn, old man. 

Sly smiles exchanged, the meeting of tender glances, the return of the familiar. Into the feeling. 

He catches you at the rolling cart outside of North 12 again. A moment finally spared in the frenzy of the night that he willingly decides to lean into. He puts his good shoulder against the wall, surveying you with a steadied eye. 

“How you feeling?” He asks, but you can make in the tone that something belies the words. A veiled test, the subtle making of your person upon return to work. A gauge of what you’ve heard. 

You meet his test balloon with an easy smile. Happy, content. 

“Good.” You say to him, true and meaningful, “How are you?”

He watches for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “Good.”

There’s not much to say about what may or may not have happened while you were gone. At least nothing you trust to not lay waste to the goodness of the moment. There’s nothing to explain or be explained. 

You know why he did it. He knows you know why he did it. You both decide to leave well enough alone. Trusting each other like second nature. 

A beat passes. “D’you relax? Take photos?” 

You nod, emphatically. “Yeah. I gotta show you the ones I got from this alligator farm we took my nieces to. You’d get a kick out of it.”

“So long as you skip over the bikini ones.” A smile etches on his face. Loose and light, the same familiar song and dance. 

“C’mon. You don’t even want to take a peek?”

“Not unless you want to keep me up at night.” He raises a brow. “You can keep your Florida sunburns to yourself.”

“Well, just picture my screams, then. That always puts you to bed, right?”

“Not this time, it won’t.”

You take it to mean that the image of your body will scar your attending, which forces a scoff out of your mouth. Rolling your head to him, you intend to make faux hurt known. But, in meeting his gaze, you see something else entirely. 

A toiling knowing that runs the quip on your tongue dry. It’s that something from before, tainted with a depth that you haven’t seen from him. 

The air heats slowly, flint to stone igniting the mutuality of piqued interest. 

For a second you realize that maybe, the heavy gap that you’ve always figured lies between you two wasn’t so hefty from the extent of the said differences in life and experiences—but heavy for another reason altogether. For all the things left unsaid.

It brings an image to your mind—one that has entered into the realm of consciousness on nights where alcohol has made you too loose and latent desires infiltrate the privacy of sleep. 

An image of you and him.

Rough, calloused hands running over flustered skin. Tugging shirts off, stripping pants down, pulling panties to the side to take a peek. The heat of his breath fanning over the side of your neck, the pads of his fingers swiping through the wet. Circling, playing, a tease whispered in a husky tone just before he—

Your breath shudders. 

“Welcome back.” Jack says lowly, turning on his heel and trekking down the hall. 

a/n: of course it would be a a traumatized forty-nine year old man that would break my eight month hiatus. my first dip into this man, and i want more

let me know your thoughts!

[melancholymetropolis]

“I heard the twins were back in town."

My husband’s voice floated about the room as he dried his hair. Bill was only wearing his pajama bottoms and his chest was bare. Stray droplets of water dripped from head, down his pecs and along his abs. I broke my gaze once he pulled a shirt over his bare skin, disturbing my view.

"They are," I sighed, rubbing lotion between my palms. "I saw Stack near the station, while I was picking up the shipment. Along Mary and Preacher Boy."

A shiver ran down my spine at the mention of her name from my lips. I had tried my best to avoid her at all costs. But, just like Stack, she wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. She sent letter after letter to my house. Begging and pleading to have a conversation. Claiming that her guilt was eating her up something fierce and she could barely sleep. 

That was right after Maddie was born. 

She even tried to come over to my house, but Bill stopped her before she could get too close to me. Practically tore her a new one for disturbing my nap after nursing the ever-hungry newborn. 

I knew right then that I wanted to marry him. 

Through the mirror on the vanity, I could see him rise from the bed. His fingers pressed tightly together and a deep frown on his lips. He took small steps toward me, hesitation oozing from his being. Several deep breaths fell from his lips before he met his gaze in the mirror.

"He spoke to you, didn't he?" The look of sadness deepened to one of sorrow. Almost like his soul was aching at the statement.

“He did,” I said, massaging the cream into my neck. “But, your daughter called him ugly and sent him away with a glare.”

The smile turned into a sad smile at the statement. “Fearless little thing. She gets it from you.”

I hummed softly as he reached for the cream and took a dollop from the top. He rubbed it between his palms just like I had moments before. With a firm grip, he kneaded the lotion into my shoulders. My eyes rolled closed as I leaned into his touch and moaned. 

“Baby, I need to ask you something,” Bill said, after a silent moment. “Promise me you won’t be upset.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“Do you still have feelings for him?”

I shot from the bench of my vanity and spun around to face him— causing him to stumble back a few steps. “William Chow, explain yourself this minute!”

He raises his hands in surrender and takes another step back. “Baby, you knew this would come up. You always said they would come back home eventually. Part of me thought that meant you wanted to see him again.”

“No,” I snapped back. “That meant that I would have to explain to your daughter why she looks damn near identical to an absolute stranger. Not that I was in love with him!”

“Y/N, we never talk about it,” Bill rebutted, his tone softer than mine. “Not since we first got married. You pretend like the man doesn’t exist and it has left me wondering a few things.”

“Like what?” I interjected. “I will take Maddie and run away with him?”

Bill flinched like I slapped him, but didn’t say a word. 

That was exactly what he thought I’d do.

A lone tear rolled down my cheek as my lip began to quiver. I turned my back to him and placed both palms on the edge of the vanity. A million thoughts swirled in my mind. Images of Stack laying his head on my chest, Mary gloating about how he did the same thing to her, Bill holding my hand during my delivery because Anne was too far away and my baby girl crying for the first time after 12 hours of labor. The vow that I made to her that I would choose a better daddy than her lying, cheating sperm donor. Someone that was kind, patient and full of love; ready to give it away at any moment. 

Someone like William Chow, Bo’s baby brother. A Malaysian immigrant turned baker, damn near identical to his kin with hair past his shoulders. His strawberry and cream donuts were all I ever craved while pregnant. I would gather as much change as I had to snag two at the end of the week, he would alway sneak me an extra one. Bill was the only one to speak to me after it became very obvious I was pregnant. The whole town knew it was Stack’s, since our relationship was hardly private. But, when he left, everyone treated me like spoiled goods. Barely made eye contact and snickered behind my back. Fearing that Stack would shoot them where they stood for looking at me funny.

But, Bill was not scared of any of that. Stack loved his strawberry donuts just as much as I did. Meaning, that Stack would rather cut off his own pinky than cross Bill or the Chow family. 

“After all this time, you still think he has a hold on me?” I whispered as another tear rolled down my cheeks. “After everything we’ve been through?”

“Honey, he can give you things I can’t,” Bill countered. 

The silent part hinted loudly: He could give you more children.

That was William’s only fatal flaw, if one could even count it as such. He was impotent. The possibility of having children together was slim to none, which was why he remained single all that time. Some women wanted a family and others needed a kind of pleasure only a certain an could give. But, that didn’t matter to me. Sex wasn’t a deal breaker for me. I had learned that sex didn’t mean love, nor affection. It was a simple pass time that felt good. It didn’t hold emotion, unless you wanted it to. And like an idiot, I held enough emotion for Stack and I both. Yet, it still wasn’t enough to make him stay. 

We had tried all kinds of herbs, old wives tales and remedies, but it hardly ever worked. His member would stiffen, but not long enough to really have fun. Still, I didn’t care. Bill more than made up for it with his mouth and fingers. He would have me screaming all the way to sunrise.

I turned to face him. I could see tears starting to form in his eyes. His tanned skin turned a faint red, as he pressed a hand to his mouth to stifle his whimpers. Bill’s shoulders shook with sadness as his chest rose and fell rapidly. The sheer thought of losing me, of losing Madeline, was tearing him apart at the seams. I had never seen him cry until that moment and it broke my heart.

I took several strides over to him, leaving a foot of space between us. “Can I hold you, baby?”

“Please,” he sobbed, lifting his head.

I took a final step and pressed my body against his. My head resting on his shoulder and my arms hugging his upper back. Bill gripped my waist with a pressure that was almost painful, but it didn’t bother me. I knew he needed me close.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I’d lose you two,” he whimpered into my hair. “I don’t  think I would survive, Y/N. I truly do not.”

“I would’ve been maggot food if it weren’t for your generosity all those years ago,” I said, rubbing his back. “No man was willing to marry an already pregnant woman. Let alone the broken possession of the Moore twins. Only you would talk to me. Not only talk, but smile. God, your smile would be like sunshine on a rainy day. It kept me warm for hours.”

Bill’s whimpering stopped, but his hold was still firm. “You don’t have to lie, Y/N.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Bill. Not once since we’ve met,” I said, drawing circles on his back. “I’m not about to start now. I love you far too much to let a criminal come between us.”

He pulled back gently and faced me. Tears streaming down his face, he looked at me like I was his entire world and it broke my heart. I brought a hand to his face and placed it on his damp cheek. He leaned into the palm and placed a hand atop mine. His eyes fluttered closed as a shaky breath fell from his lips. Bill's entire body relaxed at my unwavering presence. The floodgates were completely lowered as the tears continued to fall from his eyes. But I knew they weren't for sadness or desperation, like before. These were tears of relief and compassion.

“I love you, William Chow,” I said once our eyes finally met. “More than you'll ever know. More than I can put in words.”

“You are my world,” he replied, pressing his forehead to mine. “And Madeline is my sun. I would be dark and lonely without you both.”

A tear spilled from my eye, which he caught with his thumb and swiped away. His lips were on mine before I could blink. Our bodies pressed together so tightly we could crack an egg. He held me in his arms if I would disappear at any given moment. Kissed me like I would be stolen away from him. The action made the tears pour faster. Our hands gripped each other's clothes before the desire to tear them off struck. 

My hands slithered up his pajama top slowly. Fingers brushing his toned abdomen and structured hips. My touch moved from front to back— I dragged my nails against his lower spine. Bill shivered at my touch and moved his kisses from my lips to my neck. A gasp escaped my mouth as his tongue licked a sensitive part of my neck. A moan followed shortly after as teeth found that vein and dragged it across it. A lovely nip earned him another moan. His hand kneaded my soft rear as he sucked the delicate skin of my neck. His hips ground into mine and I felt his member between us. Stiff and ready to use. 

“Tell me how you want me, suga,” he purred in my ear. “My head between your legs.” Bill’s hot tongue ran across my ear. “You sitting that pretty pussy on my face.” He gave it a little nip. “Or, we see if the new herbs are really up for the challenge.” He ground his hips into me once more and I moaned loudly. 

“Yes,” I replied, breathlessly. “All of the above.”

------------------------

a/n: where did all of y'all come from?! i did not expect this but hey! i'm happy you're here! once again, let me know if you wanna be in the taglist. Smut will be in the next chapter.

also, bare with me. i might not be able to post regularly, but i will try my best to post often.

----------------------

Taglist

@lov4gor3 @marley1773 @thegreatlibraryofalex @beverly-991 @depressedandhornyfl @rollingraypurrr @mea-bby @heyyimmisunderstood @harleycativy @childishgambinaax @mskirara @bishhhitsaurion @daughterofapollo-7 @thickianaaaa @capswife @hrlzy @melodyofmbaku @skywalker0809 @asterizee @nooooonooooonooooo @jackierose902109 @wabi-sabi1090 @rolemodelshit @naebae14 @christinabae @thedondada05 @simpingfor-wakasa @lovesickbwnny @brattyfics @saintsir4n @abriefnirvana @tforpresz @sinflowersugar

[kxsagi]

imagine the blue lock boys as dads seeing their children with plushie versions of themselves.

like the boys have just woken up or come home and their young kids are all over this giant plushie of their dad, and its like the same size as their kid too.

the babies just missed their dad 🩵🤭

“𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐭𝐞”

a/n: alternated between boy and girl toddlers depending on which one i thought suited them best!

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, bachira meguru, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, nagi seishiro, ness alexis

isagi yoichi

he’s barely taken two steps into the house before his suitcase slips out of his hand. 

he’s exhausted, bags under his eyes, hair a mess, and all he wanted to do was collapse into bed or maybe your arms, whichever one’s closer. 

but then he sees it. 

on the living room rug, bathed in soft morning light, is your toddler in a tiny blue jersey snuggled up on top of a nearly life-size plushie of him. it has the same blue eyes, ahoge, and even stitched-in messy black hair. 

isagi’s heart does a triple backflip. 

he doesn’t even say anything. he just crouches down slowly, wide-eyed, mouth parted like he’s seeing a miracle. 

his son looks up blearily, rubbing his face into the plush. 

“daddy…?” he mumbles sleepily, blinking at him like he’s a dream. “you came home…” 

his voice cracks. “yeah… yeah, i’m home.” 

then he gently scoops him up, still tangled with the plush, and holds him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. 

later, he sits on the couch holding both his sleeping child and the plush and quietly asks you, “where’d you get this… and do they make me in travel size?” 

itoshi rin

rin’s still in a half-zombie state, hair unbrushed and hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, when he walks into the living room and just… stops. 

his brain is buffering. 

because there’s his child, kneeling on a giant plush version of him, using its face for makeup practice. 

“daddy, you’re so pretty!” 

the plushie, now with blush and messy lipstick, has his exact flat expression stitched on. 

he blinks once. twice. “… what the hell is that.” 

“it’s you!” your daughter yells, grinning. “but softer!” 

you’re trying so hard not to laugh from the kitchen. 

rin glares at you, then glares at plushie-rin like it personally insulted him. 

his toddler slides down, toddles up, and wraps her arms around his legs with a pout. “you were gone so i used fake-you. but real-you is warm, too…” 

his face crumbles. he picks her up instantly, muttering something like, “you don’t need that fake one. i’m real and better.” 

but that night you catch him curled up next to both the baby and the plush on the couch… fast asleep, arms around both of them like a grumpy cat with too many feelings. 

itoshi sae

sae opens the front door, tosses his keys on the counter, and fully expects the usual: you cleaning around the house, the toddler trying to feed the fish crayons, something normal. 

but instead he finds his child absolutely sprawled out across a plush version of him, limbs tangled with the thing like a koala. 

“... are you serious right now,” he mumbles. 

the plush even has his crooked ahh bangs and bored stare. it’s wearing one of his old jerseys. 

the kid looks up and beams. “fake papa kept me company!” 

“... fake what?” 

“he’s so squishy,” his daughter says, patting its chest. “but not as squishy as real papa!” 

she leaps at him like a flying squirrel and he catches her with a soft “oof.” 

after a few moments of silence, sae glances at you. 

“… did you commission this? did you bribe our daughter into replacing me?” 

he pretends to sulk, but later you find him napping on the couch with the plush under his arm and your toddler tucked into his side. 

he doesn’t let you bring the plush to family events, though. “i’m the real deal. they can meet me in person.” 

kaiser michael

he walks out of the bedroom shirtless, yawning and dramatically scratching his abs, only to stop mid-stretch. 

“what the hell…” 

in the middle of your living room, his toddler is standing on the shoulders of a life-size kaiser plushie like she’s posing for a music video. 

it has everything – his smirk, his stupid little eyebrow slit, even a tiny gold crown. 

“i am… baby daddy,” she announces. “king of the house!” 

kaiser puts his hands on his hips. “hey, i didn’t retire. i still live here, you know.” 

your toddler gasps. “the real one? you’re alive?!” 

he fake-sobs. “replaced by my own child… betrayed…” 

you roll your eyes as he dramatically throws himself onto the floor. your daughter giggles and pounces on him instead of the plush. 

he’s smug about it for days. starts using the plush to teach the baby “cool” poses. 

you overhear him muttering one night: “maybe i do look good in plush form…” 

bachira meguru

bachira sprints out of the hallway the second he hears his kid yell, “BEEEEE PAPA!!!” 

he thinks something’s wrong. 

nope. he walks in and finds his toddler straddling a massive plushie version of him, holding toy paintbrushes and doodling little smiley faces on its cheeks. 

the plush has his chaotic hair and the stitched-on goofy grin. 

“look, papa! now there’s two of you! double bees!” 

he clutches his chest. “two of me?! i’ve always wanted a twin!” 

the boy giggles, and bachira plops down next to him, already reaching for glitter glue like he’s not a grown man. 

they spend the next hour giving plush-bachira a makeover while he tells it, “you’re handsome, brother. you’re the prettier twin.” 

you come back to find him asleep next to the plush, your toddler drooling on his chest, and all three covered in stickers. 

he refuses to let you clean it. “it’s a masterpiece. it’s art. leave it forever.” 

mikage reo

there’s a plush version of him – no, a glamorous, smug-faced, model-tier plush version of him – sitting on a beanbag chair. 

his toddler is sitting on its lap like it’s santa claus. 

“dada number two said i’m his favorite.” 

reo blinks. “... he did?” 

you walk in sipping coffee like this is just another thursday. 

“she missed you while you were in meetings,” you say. “so i got her a luxury stand-in.” 

“luxury stand-in?!?” 

he’s laughing but he’s offended. “baby, i’m your real dada!” 

“but plush-dada’s always here…” 

he ends up buying five more just in case one breaks. 

starts calling them “my stand-ins for investor dinners.” 

genuinely considers launching a plush reo merch line for fun. 

poses with both the plush and your toddler for a fake magazine cover titled “rich, soft, and cuddly.” 

chigiri hyoma

he comes home from training sweaty and flushed, untying his hair as he walks in… and stops dead in his tracks when he sees it. 

his child is brushing a giant plush version of him, humming while carefully braiding the strands. 

“so pretty…” she murmurs. “papa’s so pretty…” 

his heart flips over like a pancake. 

he crouches beside his daughter slowly, fingers twitching like he doesn’t want to interrupt the salon session. 

“hey, sweetheart,” he says gently. “what’s all this?” 

“this is fake-papa. he stayed with me while real-papa was kicking the balls.” 

he chokes. “kicking the… yep. that’s right.” 

she presses a kiss to plush-chigiri’s head, then turns and smushes her face into his. “but i missed this one more.” 

he’s instantly scooping her up with a little laugh and a kiss to her temple. 

asks if she’ll braid his real hair next. 

you come back to find your daughter sitting behind him, brushing chigiri’s actual hair while the plush sits beside them like their assistant. 

nagi seishiro

it takes everything in him just to make it back home. 

he’s dragging his feet like a sleep-deprived ghost, hair messy from the flight, phone barely hanging onto 2%. 

“i’m gonna sleep for five days,” he mumbles, pulling open the front door. 

what he doesn’t expect is to see your toddler curled up like a sleepy dumpling on top of a giant plush version of him. like same white hair, same half-lidded sleepy eyes, same slouched posture. the plush is even laying down with its arms open like it’s always ready for a nap. 

your toddler is lying right on its chest, using its stomach as a pillow, cuddled under one of your oversized hoodies like it’s a whole bed. 

nagi stares. blinks. softly says, “... yo.” 

the baby boy lifts his head blearily. “papa?” 

“mhm.” he walks over and flops right down beside them. “who’s this lazy guy?” 

“it’s fake-you,” your son says proudly, clinging to the plush’s arm. “he naps with me when you’re gone.” 

nagi hums. “figures. he looks lazy. just like me.” 

you peek in and see them both lying on the floor – your real baby curled up with two oversized plushies: one soft and fake, one sleepy and real. 

he’s out cold within five minutes. 

later, when you ask what he thinks of the plush, nagi mumbles, “it’s chill. keep it around. less work for me.” 

ness alexis

the second he opens the door, he’s already calling out, “i’m home! did you miss meeee?” 

he’s expecting your toddler to come barreling down the hallway, as usual. but the house is suspiciously quiet. he tiptoes in, peeking into the living room… and stops dead in his tracks. 

there, smack in the middle of the floor, is a giant plush version of him. same brown/purple hair, same sweet smile. 

your toddler is curled into its lap, cradled like a baby, wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by picture books and little toy animals. 

“... huh? when did i become a babysitter and a pillow?” 

your toddler perks up immediately. “real papa!” 

your son clambers out of the plushie’s arms (it sort of flops over sideways), racing over to him with a huge grin. 

“you came back! fake-papa was here ‘cause i missed you so much.” 

ness’s face melts. 

“you… you replaced me… with me?” he laughs, picking his son up and spinning him around. “that’s so cute it should be illegal.” 

he nuzzles his face into his toddler’s cheek and coos dramatically, “i can’t believe you made me into a plush. i’m already soft, though! did you need softer papa?” 

your toddler nods, whispering, “for snuggles.” 

“okay, that’s fair,” he whispers back, suddenly very serious. 

he ends up taking the plush everywhere in the house like it’s part of the family now. dinner? plushie gets a chair. bedtime? plushie gets tucked in. 

he even jokingly gets jealous when the baby says he loves “both papas.” 

“i love you more, right? right??” 

(you catch him whispering to the plush one night: “i guess we’re co-parenting now. don’t you dare steal my spot.”) 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[sinofwriting]

Engineer in Law - Max Verstappen

Words: 1,758 Summary: Max and GP are far more close than most race engineers and drivers, which might have to do with the fact that Max is dating his daughter. Note(s): Takes place in 2021. Reader is GP’s daughter. Reader is 21, Max is 23. I don’t know what GP’s wife’s name is IRL but in this fic her name is Sarah. Also, reader is only given one physical descriptor which is that she has GP’s eyes, apologies if (like me) you don’t know have that eye color, but we can imagine and/or wish! This might end up getting a part two.

Masterlist | Support Me! 

“You're happy.”

It’s not something GP normally comments on, Max’s moods. Not unless it’s to make a sarcastic comment about how thrilled he looks to be going to a press event or something of the sort, but Max is beaming like he just won a race. It’s an odd look on the young driver, an unusual one, sadly.

“I asked the girl I was seeing to be my girlfriend, she said yes.” Max’s voice is quiet and GP leans in, his eyebrows going up at the news, at the soft but excited tone the words hold.

He smiles at the younger, reaching forward and clasping him on the shoulder. “That’s fantastic, mate. Want to tell me about her?” It’s a rather stupid question because if Max didn’t want to talk about her, he wouldn’t have said anything. And GP is rather happy to sit here and listen to Max talk about this new girl in his life.

“She’s amazing, GP. I mean really smart, funny, and she never backs down. She always has a response to anything I say. And even if I’m in a bad mood, she doesn’t let me just sulk. She knows exactly how to get a response from me and she knows it. She’ll get this little smirk on her face after I snap back at her and she’s great.”

GP has to stop himself from clearing his throat at how head over heels in love Max looks. It was oddly like looking in a mirror when GP was just four years younger than him and seeing his wife holding their newborn daughter.

“I hope you're not snapping at her too much.” His dad mode is in full force, nearly shuddering as he thinks of his twenty-one year old daughter getting snapped at often by a boyfriend. He further shudders at the reminder she currently has a boyfriend.

“Not like that.” Max reassures. “It’s kind of like us in the simulator.”

GP lets out a laugh.

It wasn’t often he joined Max in the simulator but every time they did, other people would gather around to hear the pair mock argue with each other.

“Well I’m happy to hear she’s keeping you on your toes.”

—

Max is practically vibrating in his seat as he waits for GP to sit down.

“She planned a date.”

GP stills from where he was about to reach for his water.

“Like a whole date. From everything, the food, the drinks, what we watched and it was all stuff I liked and fit in my training plan.”

He watches the younger closely, hearing something off in his voice.

“I thought I missed something. Like an anniversary or something, even though we’ve only been together five months.”

GP eyes shut for a second, rage threatening to overtake him. Max was never treated kindly enough and Max had never really talked about his few previous relationships before and he can’t help but wonder if this is why. Because Max never felt truly happy in them. Always something just wrong, always on the edge.

“She just wanted to do something nice for me. Said it wasn’t fair, I had been planning most of our dates.” Max looks confused, but there’s a slight flush to his cheeks.

“Y’know, my wife and I trade off.”

Max tilts his head a little.

“I mean, we only do a date about once a month, but we trade off. I did the last one, so tomorrow, she’s planning our date. We used to do the same with vacations, but the whole thing stresses her out a little too much, so I plan them and get the travel plans sorted while she handles looking at things to do and places to go while we are there. It's a partnership, Max. It should be an equal give and take. And that doesn’t mean that it has to be you guys both are giving and taking the same thing equally, you just need to find the balance that works for you. Like you take out the trash, she does the dusting.”

“She has a dust allergy. And we aren’t living together yet.”

GP smiles, coughing to hide his laugh. “Yet, I see. And if she has a dust allergy she needs certain pillowcases and sheets, I’ll send you the ones I bought for my daughter last Christmas.”

“Thank you, GP.”

“I’m always here for you, Max.”

—

“You were out again.”

“Good morning to you as well, dad.” His daughter says, eyebrows raised even as she steps closer to press a quick kiss to his cheek before going to the fridge.

He glances at the clock, slightly miffed to see it is just after eleven am. “Closer to the afternoon.” He comments.

She signs, leaning against the counter, a Red Bull in hand, and he watches as her fingers play with the tab but not open it. It’s a habit he’s never seen from her before. “Dad,” He looks at her face at the sound. “Is me having a boyfriend bothering you that much?”

He softens a little. “No, well, yes. It’s just I don’t know anything about him. All I know is you have a boyfriend and that’s it. I don’t know his name, how old he is, what he does for a living, if he treats you well. And you're spending an awful lot of nights as his and I’ve never met him.”

Her fingers still against the can’s tab. “Is that something you want?”

“Well I’d prefer to meet him before you fully move in with him.” He gives her a look. “But yes, I would. He makes you happy.” It was a hard pill to swallow, the reason for his daughter seeming to be so happy being a boy, but that was the reason.

“Alright, I’ll text him and maybe tomorrow we could do lunch?” She offers.

“I’d like that.”

—

“I’ve been listening to Max talk about our daughter for months.”

Sarah’s lips thin as she struggles not to laugh, running a soothing hand over her husband’s back. “You said it was sweet how he talked about her.”

“Well, I didn’t know he was talking about our daughter then did I?”

His head somehow manages to drop further into his hands. “He talked for thirty minutes straight about her eyes. Her eyes, Sarah. She has MY eyes.”

Sarah can’t help the laugh that spills from her lips. “Well at least it was just her eyes you heard about.”

GP’s face screws up at that remembering the hickey he had seen high on Max’s neck last week and apparently he had some interesting scratch and bite marks as well. Those thankfully he had not seen. “Please, love, put me out of my misery.”

His hands fall into his lap and he presses his face against his wife’s neck, smelling the slightly faded scent of her perfume and her lotion.

“Oh hush.” She says, lightly swatting his shoulder. “It could be much worse. You like Max, you know Max. He’d never hurt our baby.”

GP softens, pressing a kiss to her neck before sitting straight, his back thanking him for it. “No, he wouldn’t. I just,” He sighs. “This is serious for Max and it’s obviously serious for her. She’s never invited a boy around the house that she’s been seeing. When she said lunch, I thought she had booked our usual table.”

“I know. You were all ready to go, wallet and keys in hand.”

“She let me think that as well you know.”

Sarah hums, “I wonder who she got that from.”

He smiles at her. “No clue, love.”

Her eyes give a slight roll and then she’s leaning forward. Brushing their lips together. “Max is good for her and it’s obvious that she is good for Max as well with what you’ve told me. And just think you always joked that Max was like a son. Now it’s just more official.”

“Oh my god, they’re going to get married.”

Sarah laughs at the horror and awe in her husband's voice. “I’d say don’t get ahead of yourself, but you saw exactly what I did at lunch.”

—

“Max, if you talk about my eyes one more time, I’m going to report you to HR.”

Max snickers at the older’s expression. “But, I’m not talking about your eyes.”

“She has my eyes.” GP cuts him off immediately, already knowing his defense. “We have the same exact eyes.” He holds up a finger, silencing Max. “And don’t even think of starting to list the difference between them.”

He kicks a little at the ground, faking a sigh. “Fine. Can we at least talk about you talking in the braking?”

GP sighs, but nods. “Yes, we can talk about it.”

They both fail to notice the Sky Sports camera that had been filming the conversation until much later, when Max is sitting in his driver’s room, chuckling at the broadcast that had just ended and the tweets on his phone.

“Listen to this one, Sky Sports seriously reporting that a female employee is threatening to go to HR because of Max’s comments while playing the video of audio of GP, his MALE race engineer, is seemingly joking about going to HR, is sending me. How is this a serious news source?”

GP snorts, looking at his texts with his daughter. “She just sent me this one, ‘Sky is doing nothing but proving their British bias and stupidity. How much do you think they suck Lewis’ dick for every year now?’ Honestly, they have a point.”

“More than a point.” Max says, tossing his phone to the side. “It’s one thing to say I’m a shit driver that shouldn’t be anywhere near Hamilton, but this? This is ridiculous even for them. They have the footage and audio, aired both, and are saying that it’s a female employee. Vicky is having the time of her life right now, and so are my lawyers.”

“Your lawyers?”

Max shrugs. “They’ll be working with Red Bull’s as well, but this is more than that.”

“It is.” GP agrees. “Sarah was with her when it aired. She was livid.”

“I could tell.” The driver chuckles. “My texts are filled with it. She wants to come to the next race, well, two.”

“Team home race. That’s a statement.”

His cheeks are a little pink. “She wanted to wait for Zandvoort to officially come as my girlfriend, but she wants to be with me for these next two now.”

“It will be nice to see her at both.”

[arrenjo]

Summary: Your apartment floods and you do your best to make it on your own, but when Robby finds out he takes matters into his own hands.

Notes: I’m a slut for a one bed trope, whoopsie. These can probably be stand alone but I like having somewhat of a series going. Obviously inspired by Whitaker’s whole living-inside-the-hospital deal. Also omfg I’ve looked at this draft for so long I might die.

Back | Next

“Shit shit shit!!” You jumped at your alarm from a dead sleep and threw on your scrubs. Resting in this hospital was fucking impossible and you had finally gone to sleep— and subsequently overslept.

You ran a brush through your hair and brushed your teeth in the bathroom in a matter of about a minute before you threw on your shoes, slung your backpack over your shoulder, and raced out the door. Thankfully you only had a couple of flights of stairs to go down.

Your apartment had flooded earlier in the week and everything was a total loss. You had the things you had in your work bag and a bag you kept in your car, and that was it. You weren’t really sure how your apartment complex got away with not offering you another place to stay that wasn’t triple your rent, but you were fucked. You went to Gloria in a desperate time of need and she was kind enough to let you use a spare hospital room for the week and promise her discretion, but you were running out of time to find something else and there were no options.

Dana, Donnie, and the rest of the ED nurses would absolutely have your ass if they knew you refused to ask them for help, but it wasn’t their problem. You ran into the nurses station, out of breath, and got report on your patients. After a bit of running around to play catch up, Dana caught you at your workstation charting.

“Hey kid, you alright?” She asked, placing a cup of coffee in front of you.

“My angel,” you said, taking a sip and giving her a grateful smile. “Yeah, you know how I struggle with being on time for dayshift sometimes. Your girl is not a morning person.” You lied with just a little too much enthusiasm. It was partially true, dayshift really did turn your world upside down. You and mornings did not particularly get along.

“Yeah, uh-huh, okay,” Dana said and rolled her eyes. She patted you on the shoulder and walked away. You’ve got to find a place. Your exhaustion was starting to show and people were starting to notice.

__

“Hey,” Dana’s voice snapped Robby’s attention to her face as she pulled out a chair and sat down beside him. Oh shit, he thought, whatever Dana was about to talk to him about, she was serious.

“What do you think’s going on with our girl?” She nodded in your direction. Your back was to them, your head in your hands. It was clear that something was up, but Robby hadn’t put his finger on exactly what yet. He had been watching you, observing your every move. The casual touches had stayed casual, but he could feel the increased tension in your body when he first made contact. When the touch lingered for more than a second, he could feel you relax into his touch. He didn’t say anything to you. To tell the truth, he liked it, but he didn’t like that you were so tense to begin with.

“I don’t know,” He muttered, his eyes still on you, looking over the rim of his glasses. He paused for a moment to wonder if he should play it cool or lay his cards on the table for Dana.

“Abbot’s got a big mouth you know. Heard he and Princess had a bet going on and that Princess won.” Dana interrupted his thought process with a knowing smirk. Robby sighed and took his glasses off, reaching to rub the side of his head in the same motion, his eyes searching to find you across the nurses station again. You ran your hands through your hair and got up, starting towards the med room.

“Abbot doesn’t know half of what he thinks he does,” Robby countered, glancing at Dana after the med room door had closed behind you.

“I’m just sayin’, you watch her every move. I’ve seen how you look at her when you think no one’s paying attention.” Dana said with a shrug.

“Dana!” Whitaker appeared out of a room, beckoning the charge nurse to him. He looked bewildered and a little scared, but Robby had come to realize that was his normal facial expression.

“Saved by the bell,” Robby said with a chuckle.

“This conversation isn’t over, but check in with her, will ya?” Dana said, already starting towards Dennis, mentally preparing herself for whatever was behind the curtain that he had just popped out of.

__

An exhausting twelve and a half hours later, you feel disgusting. You had blood, sweat, and bodily fluids— none of which were yours— what felt like everywhere. After you gave report to the night shift nurse, you slung your backpack over your shoulder and headed for the stairwell. All you wanted was a long, hot shower and the one good thing about the hospital was that the hot water never ran out. You had one more pair of clean scrubs for the week and then you had to figure out what the hell to do about laundry. Your thoughts preoccupied you as you walked, never noticing Robby several paces behind you. He had called your name once, but when you started up the stairs instead of outside, he made the decision to follow you.

You entered the hallway on the 4th floor and ducked into the first room to the left. The hallway was empty except for you, no nurses working upstairs meant that there were no patients and the entire 4th floor was shut down. You pushed the door closed behind you with your foot, leaving the door just slightly ajar. The tunnel vision had really set in on that shower. The small crack between the door and door frame spilled just enough light into the dark hallway for Robby to find where you had gone. He pushed the door open and opted to stand in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. It only took him seconds to assess the scene and figure out what was happening. There were half dried out pictures laying on a few surfaces, your duffel bag sat on the chair with a towel draped over the back on the opposite side of the room. You had dropped your backpack just inside the door with your shoes. The cot in the middle of the room looked tiny and uncomfortable, no wonder you were exhausted.

In the bathroom, you had just taken your hair down and were just about to start the water for your shower when you realized you had left your towel draped over the chair in the next room.

“Shit,” You muttered and stepped out of the bathroom, looking down to untie the waistband of your scrubs as you did. The stupid fucking knot wouldn’t come out and-

“Ahem,” Your head snapped up to the sound of someone clearing their throat. Robby stood in the doorway, arms crossed across his chest, leaning cooly on the doorframe. Oh fuck. You pressed your lips into a tight line and closed your eyes for a brief second.

“Robby,” You breathed, opening your eyes to look at him. He was silent as he took you in, his eyes catching for just a split second at your exposed skin. Your cheeks immediately heated and you knew your face was red.

Fuck, how do I explain this?

“My apartment flooded,” You began as you grew uncomfortable in the silence. He had been staring at you for a solid ten seconds, never offering a word. “The only places they offered me were triple my rent and I can’t afford that,” You met his eyes from across the room.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” He asked, taking a step towards you. His hands moved from across his chest to inside the pockets of his hoodie again.

“I’m not your problem,” You said with a snort, shaking your head.

Robby groaned your name and ran a hand through his hair, resting his hand at the back of his neck before he dropped it to his side.

“Let me help you. You tell me that I have to take care of myself, but you have to take care of yourself too.” Robby’s eyes were set, determined.

“Let me spot you the cash and-“

“No, Robby, I can’t-“ You stopped short, feeling the hot tears threatening to spill. The embarrassment made your chest tight.

“Okay no, bad suggestion, I’m sorry,” He immediately apologized. You took a steadying breath, opting to come clean.

“I can’t afford it, and I don’t want to be a burden or a freeloader. It makes me feel weak when I can’t just do everything myself, y’know?,” You told him, avoiding eye contact, desperately trying to regain your composure. The tears were threatening to spill again. Robby gingerly walked towards you and stopped just in front of you. He took your face in his hands and tilted your chin up to him.

“You are not a burden. You could never be a burden. Sometimes you gotta have help.” He said, you felt your muscles relax into his touch.

“I have an apartment,” He started slowly.

“No, Robby. They said it could take months,” You said softly. “I don’t know what I’m going to do but I can’t ask you to do that.” You put your hands on top of his, he searched your eyes for a moment before continuing.

“You’re not asking, I am, please stay with me. I won’t be able to sleep knowing that you’re here, and then both of us will be exhausted and cranky.” He gave you a small smile, his thumb gently stroking your chin. Your cheeks burned at the contact, your gaze dropped to his mouth. It seemed like he was having the same thought, because when your eyes found his again, he was staring at your mouth. His eyes snapped back up to yours, waiting for an answer.

“Why do you care where I sleep?” You asked softly. He grinned and shook his head

“You want to stay with me or not?” He asked rhetorically.

“Okay,” You started “-But just until I figure something else out.” You said. You already had feelings for him and this was about to get a hell of a lot more complicated if you acted on them. You dropped your hands to your sides with a small sigh. His hands lingered on your cheeks for another second, then he ran his hands down either side of your neck and across your shoulders, he stopped at your biceps and gave your arms a reassuring squeeze.

“Come on, we gotta be back early tomorrow.” He said casually, dipping his head to look at you. The trail that his hands had made felt like your skin was on fire, and him using the word ‘We’ made your stomach turn flips. Your eyes widened. He was asking you to come home with him now.

“You mean… tonight?”

“Yeah, you have to sleep, and just looking at you being so exhausted makes me tired.” He feigned a yawn and a stretch that made the corners of your mouth twitch.

“And just how hard have you been looking, Doctor Robinavitch?” You teased, turning back towards the bathroom. He rolled his eyes at you and pulled a box from the closet.

“You coming or not?”

“So impatient,” you shot back, but then quickly started gathering your things. Fuck it, might as well go all in. Robby snorted and started helping you gather your clothes and the few personal belongings you had left into the box. You worked together in silence until Robby picked up the box and slung your bag across his frame. You reached for the box and he shook his head.

“I got it, it’s a little bit of a walk.” He said, you held your hands out for it again, making a ‘gimme’ motion. “I said I got it.” He insisted, pulling the box out of your reach to the other side of him.

Most of your walk with him was quiet, you were deep in thought about how in the hell you were going to live in the same house as this man and not embarrass yourself. Your skin still ached for more of his touch.

“You don’t have to do this,” You said suddenly as he took his keys out to unlock the door to his apartment. He glanced up at you before turning his attention back towards his keys.

“I know.” He said simply and unlocked the door. “But I want to,” he said and held the door open for you. You felt your cheeks flush as he turned on the lights. His apartment was clean and simple, the most decorations he had were books on shelves and a blanket folded on the end of the couch. He had the basics: a couch, TV, a kitchen that looked functional, coffee table. You didn’t get red flag vibes from being here, but you could tell that this was a place that he didn’t spend a ton of time. Robby walked through the apartment and you trailed behind him. You walked past the kitchen and into a hallway, and into what looked like a bedroom. He turned the lights on and you could quickly tell it was Robby’s bedroom.

“Oh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“ you started but he cut you off.

“No, this is where you’re going to sleep. I have other rooms but there’s not another bed.” He placed the box on the bed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Never really had the need for one.” He admitted sheepishly.

“No, Robby I’m not coming into your house and taking your bed,”

“I’m not asking.” He said simply, locking eyes with you. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” He said matter-of-factly, like there was absolutely no question to it.

“Shower is off the bedroom, it’s the only one.” He pointed to the door in the corner of the room. “I changed the sheets on the bed this morning. There are towels in the cabinet, and the laundry room is through there if you need to wash anything.” You nodded, giving up on fighting him about the bed for the moment.

“Is it okay if I shower?”

“You don’t have to ask, make yourself at home, I’ll be in the living room.”

By the time you hopped out of the shower half an hour later, you found Robby sitting on the couch, reading. He had a pillow and blanket folded up beside him. You stopped to take him in, he was sitting with his legs crossed, glasses perched on his nose. He didn’t even make a move when you walked in the room, hair still wet and falling down your shoulders. Robby patted the seat next to him without looking up from his book. You sat down next to him and pulled out your phone, scrolling while nervously chewing on your lip. When you looked back at him, his book was closed on his lap and he was studying your features.

“What’s wrong?” He asked softly. You turned your phone so it was face down on your lap.

“I don’t want to fight with you about the bed, but I don’t want to sleep in your bed, Robby. You’re doing enough by letting me be here.” He chuckled at the response and took his glasses off.

“Here I am thinking that you’re in some emotional distress and you’re upset about sleeping in my bed?”

“Robby,” You sighed, running a hand through your hair.

God, no. I’m not upset about sleeping in your bed, I’m upset that you won’t be sleeping in your bed with me. You decided that confession would be a little too honest.

“I just don’t want to overstep,” you settled on that response and he gave you a grin.

“I promise it’s fine, couch is comfy.” He shifted back into the couch and spread his arms. One settled behind you and the comfortableness of the gesture made your stomach flip.

“I am going to go shower though,” He said and started to stand. You nodded and pulled out your phone again, but as he turned you looked up from the screen, watching him walk to the bedroom. You let your mind wander for a split second and a heat rushed across your chest and down your abdomen.

A hot shower with Robby was probably the best thought you had had in a while. You lingered in that thought for a moment and then shook your head to clear it, pulling your phone back out and settling into the couch to scroll. You must have been more tired than you realized, because the next thing you felt was warm hands sliding up under your back and your legs and lifting you in the air. You started to scramble and were immediately comforted by Robby’s voice.

“Shh, shh,” He soothed, “I’ve got you.” You felt him making his way towards the bedroom and your heart rate picked up. The way he picked you up with such ease made your stomach flutter.

“Please don’t drop me,” you mumbled with a half hearted giggle into his chest, clinging to his shirt tightly. Robby snorted.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair. He continued walking down the hallway, carrying you with ease. When you got to the bedroom, he eased you down on the bed, gently laying your head on the pillow. He hovered above you for just a moment and he started to pull away. You shook your head, your mouth just inches from his.

“Don’t go,” You whispered. He stopped in his tracks, his breath warm across your lips. He searched your eyes, lingering for just a second, almost as if he wanted to say something, and you swore you saw him open his mouth.

“Please,” You said softly, you weren’t sure if it was the sleepiness clouding your judgment or the fact that he cared enough to carry you to bed, but you wanted him close more than you ever had.

“Okay,” He said simply, you weren’t sure but you thought you may have heard some relief in his voice. He crawled in the bed beside you and you scooted closer to him. The smell of cedar shampoo made your mouth water, you were desperate for his touch. Both of you knew that you were blurring lines between the two of you, but neither of you seemed to care. He wrapped an arm around your waist, holding you from behind. You settled into him, he buried his face in your hair, his breath on your neck.

“Thank you… for this. For everything,” You said quietly, relaxing further into him.

“I might be a little bit selfish,” He admitted, you could hear the defeat in his tone. “I wanted you here. I mean, here,” he gestured vaguely to the room with the arm that was draped around your waist. “But here too,” he said and wrapped his arm back around your waist, pulling you closer. You smiled and ran your hand down his arm, interlacing your fingers with his.

“I wanted to be here too.”

[harrysfolklore]

lily - but daddy i love him

summary: max verstappen and yn wolff welcome their first baby into the world. READ BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM HERE. wc:1.6k

folkie radio: GUYS I JUST COULDN'T HELP MYSELF OKAY !!! i love the bdilh babies so much and i missed writing about them and this was just the perfect opportunity. i hope you like this!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The hospital room is quiet now, the chaos of delivery replaced by a peaceful calm. Early morning light filters through the windows of your private suite in Monaco, casting a gentle glow over the tiny bundle in your arms.

Lily Verstappen-Wolff, all of six hours old, has her father's eyes. They're that same impossible shade of blue, currently studying your face with what seems like intense concentration.

"She's got your nose though," Max whispers from where he's perched beside you on the bed, one arm around your shoulders, the other gently stroking Lily's impossibly small hand. "Thank god."

"Hey," you protest weakly, too exhausted and happy to really be offended. "Your nose is cute."

"Tell that to the aerodynamics team," he laughs softly, then goes quiet when Lily makes a tiny sound. "Sorry, princess. Didn't mean to be loud."

The way Max looks at her makes your heart feel too big for your chest. He's been crying on and off since she arrived, the four-time world champion, known for his fierce determination on track, completely undone by five pounds of baby girl.

A soft knock at the door interrupts your moment. Your father peers in, and you've never seen him look quite like this - his usual composed demeanor completely cracked open, eyes shining with tears.

"Is it... can I..." he starts, unusually lost for words.

"Come meet your granddaughter, Papa."

Toto approaches slowly, as if Lily might startle. When he sees her face, he completely breaks down, tears flowing freely now.

"She's perfect," he whispers, touching her cheek with one finger. His hand is trembling slightly. "She's absolutely perfect."

"Want to hold her?" Max offers, already carefully lifting Lily.

You watch as your father - the intimidating Mercedes team principal who's made grown men cower - cradles your daughter like she's made of glass. He hasn't stopped crying, and it makes your own eyes well up.

"Hallo, kleine Prinzessin," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm your Opa." He gently rocks her, studying every feature of her tiny face. "You know, I've won many championships, seen many incredible moments in racing, but nothing... nothing compares to this moment right here."

He touches her tiny hand with one finger, and when she grabs it, a fresh wave of tears falls. "Such a strong grip already. Just like your mama - always holding on tight to what matters."

Max wraps his arm around your shoulders as you watch your father completely melt.

"I promise you, Lily," Toto continues softly, "that you will always have someone in your corner. Someone to protect you, to guide you..." he chuckles wetly, "to teach you all about racing politics and team strategy."

"Papa," you laugh. "She's six hours old."

"Never too early to learn about the importance of good strategy," he says, but his eyes never leave Lily's face. "Although maybe we'll start with simpler things. Like how to wrap your papa around your little finger - though I see you've already mastered that."

Max grins. "Like mother, like daughter."

Toto shifts Lily slightly, cradling her closer to his chest. "You know, meine Kleine, I thought I knew what love was. Thought I understood it completely. But seeing you..." his voice cracks, "seeing my little girl become a mother... holding you..." He has to pause, overwhelmed. "You're going to change everything, aren't you? Just like your mama did."

You reach out and squeeze his arm, your own tears falling freely now.

"Papa?" you ask softly after a moment. "Who else is out there?"

"Just Lewis," he manages, still gazing at Lily. "But we don't want to intrude..."

You exchange a look with Max, who grins and nods.

"Are you kidding?" you laugh. "Get him in here. He needs to meet his goddaughter."

"I'll get him," Max says, kissing your forehead before heading to the door.

Moments later, Lewis appears, looking uncharacteristically nervous. When he sees Lily in Toto's arms, his face does something complicated before crumpling entirely.

"Oh my god," he whispers, moving closer. "Oh my god, look at her."

"Want to hold her?" your father offers, though he looks reluctant to let go.

Lewis nods, unable to speak. When Toto places Lily in his arms, he lets out a shaky breath that turns into a sob.

"Hey baby girl," he manages through tears. "I'm your Uncle Lewis. I'm... I'm going to spoil you so much. And teach you everything about racing. And protect you forever."

"Lewis," you say softly, touched by how emotional he is.

"I can't help it," he sniffles, swaying gently with Lily. "Look at her. She's... she's perfect. She's got your smile already, Little Wolff. And Max's eyes..."

He looks up at Max, who's watching from beside your bed. "You did good, man. Really good."

Max wipes at his own eyes. "We did, didn't we?"

"The best," Lewis agrees, looking back down at Lily. "God, I'm never going to stop crying, am I?"

"Join the club," your father says, still wiping his eyes.

"You know what this means though?" Lewis says suddenly, a mischievous glint appearing through his tears. "As godfather, I get to buy her her first race suit."

"Ferrari colors, I assume?" Max raises an eyebrow.

"Obviously."

"Over my dead body, Hamilton."

"Boys," you warn, but you're smiling. Some things never change.

"We'll let her choose," Lewis decides diplomatically, then adds in a whisper to Lily, "But red would look really good on you, princess."

You watch them - these three strong, competitive men, all completely undone by your tiny daughter. Your father has his hand on Lewis' shoulder, both of them looking at Lily like she's the most precious thing they've ever seen. Max sits beside you again, pulling you close as you all watch Lewis whisper promises to your daughter.

"Welcome to the family, little one," Lewis says softly. "You've got quite the crew looking out for you."

Lily makes a tiny sound and grabs Lewis' finger, making him burst into fresh tears.

"Oh, she's got a good grip," he laughs through his tears. "Future world champion material right there."

"First female world champion," Max says proudly. "Right, princess?"

After several more minutes of Lewis making promises to Lily about racing lessons and future championships, your father gently reminds him that you need rest.

"Just one more minute," Lewis pleads, still cradling Lily like she might disappear.

"Lewis," your father says fondly, "they'll still be here tomorrow."

"And the next day, and the next," you add with a smile. "She's not going anywhere."

Finally, reluctantly, Lewis places Lily back in your arms, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Love you already, little champ."

Your father hugs you carefully, mindful of Lily, then surprises everyone by pulling Max into a tight embrace. "You did good, son," he says softly, and you see Max's eyes well up again.

After they leave, the room falls into a peaceful quiet. Max settles beside you on the bed, his arm around your shoulders, both of you gazing down at your daughter.

"Hi baby girl," he whispers, gently stroking her cheek. "It's just us now."

Lily's tiny hand escapes her blanket, reaching up to grab Max's finger. His breath catches.

"Still can't believe she's real," he murmurs. "That we made her. That she's actually here."

You adjust the soft yellow hat on her head. "Remember when we had to hide from everyone?"

"Couldn't even hold your hand in public," Max laughs softly. "And now we have her."

"And now we have her."

Lily makes a tiny sound, drawing both your attention immediately. Her eyes - so impossibly blue - seem to focus on Max's face.

"Hey princess," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "I know I probably look scary right now, crying all over the place. But I promise I'm usually more put together than this. Usually. Unless I'm around your mama. She tends to make me emotional too."

"Softie," you tease gently.

"Only for my girls," he admits without hesitation.

You watch as he carefully takes Lily from you, cradling her against his chest with a natural ease that makes your heart ache. The contrast of his strong hands - hands that have controlled the most powerful cars in the world - being so impossibly gentle with her tiny body is almost too much.

"I had this whole speech prepared," he says suddenly. "All these things I was going to tell her when she arrived. About racing, about life, about how much we wanted her. But now..." he looks down at Lily, who's watching him with what seems like intense concentration, "now I just want to tell her that I love her. That I've loved her since the moment we knew about her. That I'll love her forever."

"I think that's all she needs to know," you say softly, leaning against him.

"You know what's crazy?" Max adjusts Lily's blanket with careful precision. "All those championships, all those wins... nothing compares to this. To her. To us."

You watch them together - your fierce, passionate husband gone completely soft for this tiny person who's barely six hours old. The way he keeps checking her blanket, the gentle sway he's adopted without seeming to realize it, the look of pure wonder on his face every time she moves.

"I love you," you say suddenly, overwhelmed by everything. "Both of you. So much."

Max tears his gaze away from Lily to look at you, and the emotion in his eyes takes your breath away. "We love you too," he whispers. "Right, princess? We love Mama so much."

Lily snuggles closer to his chest in response, her tiny hand still gripping his finger.

Outside, the world keeps turning. Soon there will be visitors and photos and congratulations. Soon you'll have to share her with the rest of your extended F1 family. Soon there will be decisions about races and schedules and how to balance everything.

But right now, in this quiet room with the morning sun painting everything gold, there's just this: your little family, complete at last. Max humming softly in Dutch, Lily drifting off to sleep in his arms, and you, watching the two loves of your life together.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

[giggletea]

Thinking about…! how your personal space is never really yours when Caleb’s around ♡

He’s always got to be in close proximity to you. An arm around your shoulder, another around your waist… It's like he’s made of gummy candy, and all he wants is to be stuck with you. 

He says he needs to leech off your body heat sometimes, but you both know why he does it. He’s clingy. 

HATES being separated from you when you’re right there. What do you mean why is he so close to you, is there a problem? Don’t you want the same? (How could you say no?)

His personal bubble is yours, and vice versa. Caleb can’t stand the thought of you without him draped all over your body. He’d trap you in his arms forever if he could </3

At night, he can’t rest easy until he has you within his reach. Would love to end the day with you in his lap. He’d play with your hair if you asked, give you a massage if you wanted… anything’s fine, as long as he can touch you.

When it’s time to sleep, he manhandles you around in bed. Hiking one of your legs over his hip, he slots his thigh in between yours, pressing your bodies as close as he can. It’s not even a sexual thing for him sometimes, the physical intimacy of it all just makes him so relaxed.

He’s never been more content <3

[cathnospam]

It was 3:47am, you were away to the States for a business trip and to visit family when you got a call from your boyfriend.

Who might I add, put a special ringtone for him alone;

I MOVE IN NOW MOVE OUT

TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE GANNA DO NOW

KEEP ROLLIN’ ROLLIN’ ROLL—-

“Hello.” Trying your hardest to mask the annoyance of sheer shock when your phone screamed in your ear.

“Guess who’s at number 5 on the Hero charts.”

“…Me.” You only said that because you wanted to fuck with him.

“NO, YOU DUMBASS YOU’RE NUMBER 6. It’s ME!”

He laughed the same way he did back in high school with his fake All Might laugh screaming in your ears, as mad as you wanted to be seeing him get all happy after being down at number 15 for almost a whole year, you couldn’t help but be happy for him.

“I’m so proud of you, papa i knew you could. Now you’re a few steps closer to number one like you deserve.” You sat up to praise him some more, seeing his face turn pink as he drove around in his car which looks to be nearly the afternoon made you smile, you knew from when he first seen his place go down how devastated he was even if he masked it with getting mad, and training more.

And Bakugo knew too, you were one of his main supporters and motivators to climb back up on the charts, and he couldn’t appreciate it more.

“Why’d you have to be in stupid ass America while I have one of my best achievements, woman.”

“Well excusseeee me princess-“

“Don’t call me princess…princess.”

“I will be home in 2 days and when I get back we can celebrate. I’ll spoil you just enough.”

He furrowed his brows in confusion, causing him to pick up his phone and prop it on his stand in the car, “The hell you mean just enough?”

“Well…For each rank you go up I wanted to give you a present of your choice. And since you went up 10 spots I guess I’ll have to do 10 things of whatever you want.”

“….Anything?”

“Mmhm.”

Katsuki was a shameless man, but an easily embarrassed one nonetheless, the thoughts were flooding his mind, he looked away to try to focus on the road, that you can clearly see he was driving over the speed limit to then clear his throat, “Okay start now; say ‘My boyfriend Katsuki Bakugo is the greatest hero of all time.’”

“My boyfriend Katsuki Alexander Bakugo—-“

“Oh my fucking gosh you I didn’t say say my middle name—“

“Is the greatest hero of all time….and I’m extremely proud and blessed to have a strong, intelligent, amazing man all to myself.”

You sure knew how to make a man blush because each time you praised him he got redder by the ears, “Alright I didn’t say say all that….dumbass.”

“Mmhm…”

It was a comfortable silence, still drowsy you let out a small yawn and as Bakugo parks his car he looks at you, “Oh yeah it’s late there….you should be sleep.”

“Yeah but this was more important.”

“Mm..” You wipe your eyes a little, not knowing your breast were spilling out of your bra after shifting so much in your sleep he notices, “I have another favor. Pop a tit or two out for the number 5 hero before I head to this interview.”

Pausing what you were doing you scoff rolling your eyes and quickly pull down your bra, your breast bounce around, showing the pretty silver piercing in your nipple making him fight the urge to burst out into a smile.

“Now you have 8 favors left.”

“Like 8 and a half … you only showed one tit.”

[takimakiiiii]

chicken shop date - LN4 x reader

synopsis!: lando is invited to join you on your dating show but who knows whether it'll be awkward or whether everything will go smoothly?

wc!: 4.9k!! (sorta short lol)

pairing!: lando norris x fem!reader

includes!: A LOT of fluff, mutual flirting, a little bit of swearing, heavy use of y/n, 3rd person perspective, playful banter

a/n: this is heavily inspired by amelia dimoldenberg's chicken shop date that you can find on youtube. i absolutely loved the episode with lando but i thought it he was super shy and awkward so i wrote this as an if he wasn't so shy and was flirting back. i also stole some of the comments from the andrew garfield episode because that comment section is GOLD. anyways enjoy! xx

2 days later. . .

Now Playing: LANDO NORRIS | CHICKEN SHOP DATE

ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ: ▮▮▮▮▮▮▯▯▯

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

The camera lingers on Y/N and Lando, the soft hum of the shop filling the background as they sit across from each other at a small, worn table. The lighting is warm, almost golden, casting a cozy glow over the scene. Behind them, the counter is lined with empty glasses and in front of them a bowl of chips—forgotten, untouched, as if it’s a mere prop in the moment unfolding between the two of them.

There’s something almost cinematic about the way their gazes lock, intense and unblinking, concentration at its finest. It could almost be romantic—the way they’re sitting there, their eyes caught in a dance of curiosity and something deeper—but there’s a playful edge to the atmosphere. Neither of them seems entirely sure what will happen next. The air is light with unspoken tension, the kind of tension that makes every little thing seem charged, like a game they’re both trying to figure out, step by step.

Their smiles are wide, almost too wide, but neither of them seems to mind. It’s the kind of smile that speaks volumes—something just beyond the surface, an invitation for more, an understanding that only they share. Suddenly, the silence is broken by Lando’s voice, gleeful and loud. “HA! You blinked!” He leans back in his chair, letting it rock on two legs, his eyes practically gleaming with the thrill of victory. Y/N freezes for a beat, her gaze still locked with his, as if she’s calculating her next move. There’s a flicker of disbelief, like she can’t quite believe he’s actually won, but it fades as a laugh escapes her. “You’re such a cheater,” she says, the words dripping with playful accusation.

The camera shifts, zooming in on her face. Her lips are slightly parted, eyes twinkling with the mix of annoyance and amusement. Her body leans slightly forward; her arms crossed loosely in a challenge. Lando shakes his head, an exaggerated expression of mock indignation overtaking his features. His grin widens as he holds up both hands in a “What can I say?” gesture. “Nuh-uh, I won. Fair and square.”

Y/N can’t stop the smile creeping across her face, though she rolls her eyes dramatically, as if she’s trying to resist the pull of his grin. “Yuh-huh,” she mutters under her breath, her voice laced with sarcastic sweetness.

And then Lando cracks up. The sound fills the small space between them—loud, genuine, like it’s something only they can understand. There’s a moment where their laughter overlaps, both of them caught in the same private joke. Neither of them bothers to explain it. It’s just theirs, a moment shared in a way that feels impossibly right.

Her eyes narrow, but there’s more mischief behind the look now. She leans in, just a little, her gaze never wavering from his. “That’s exactly what a cheater would say,” she says, her tone low and teasing. She throws the accusation across the table like a challenge, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the edge of the table.

Lando's face morphs into a grin that’s too playful to be taken seriously, his eyes dancing with an unspoken dare. “Well, that’s exactly what a sore loser would say,” he fires back without missing a beat. There’s something about the way he says it—his voice just a little too sweet, the challenge thick in the air—that makes her want to laugh and argue at the same time.

Without warning, Y/N sticks her tongue out at him, the movement playful but with a sharp edge, like she’s daring him to say something more. The action feels charged, innocent and mischievous all at once. And as she pulls back, she can’t help but notice the way his eyes flicker, as if something in him is waiting for her to make the next move.

The camera cuts.

♡

"Alright, I’ve got a question for you," Y/N says, her tone light, but there’s something in the way she places her hands on the table that suggests this isn’t just another throwaway moment. The faintest pink blush spreads across her cheeks, and a grin tugs at her lips, betraying her attempt at seriousness.

"Oh yeah?" Lando raises an eyebrow, the teasing glint in his eyes already giving away that he’s curious but expecting something a little out of the ordinary. His smile stretches just a bit wider, the corners of his mouth lifting as if he’s already bracing for whatever quirky response Y/N is about to throw at him.

There’s a flicker of something in Y/N’s eyes—something that’s almost too quick to catch. Maybe it's nerves, maybe it's excitement, or maybe it's just the moment itself pulling them both deeper into the unspoken tension between them. Whatever it is, it doesn’t escape Lando’s notice. She shifts in her seat, a little more composed now, but still with that undeniable edge of playful energy. "What’s your greatest goal?" she asks, the question floating in the air between them, serious for once.

Lando pauses, his lips pressing together as he thinks. For a moment, he seems lost in his thoughts, as if weighing his answer carefully, but then he shrugs a little—relaxed, even if his eyes are still searching for the right words. "Win a championship, you know. That’d be nice." His gaze drifts off for a moment, but then a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, and maybe beat Carlos in chess for once."

Y/N nods, her expression thoughtful, but there’s a spark of understanding in her eyes. She can’t help but smile a little too, the weight of the conversation already lifting. "I see, okay," she says softly, as if she’s already letting the moment slip away, but it lingers in the air—this brief pause of seriousness.

Lando watches her closely, his gaze narrowing with an almost knowing look. He leans forward slightly, like he’s expecting something. "What about you?" he asks, his voice playful, but there's that tiny bit of curiosity woven in. Without missing a beat, Y/N meets his gaze, her smile widening as if she’s been waiting for this exact question. "To be 6ft," she replies, her tone deadpan but with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Lando almost chokes on his laugh, but he quickly suppresses it, his lips quirking into a smile that refuses to hide. "Oh, really?" he feigns surprise, leaning back just slightly, playing along with her harmless game. "That’s your greatest goal?"

Y/N nods vigorously, her eyes shining with an almost childlike determination. "Yep, I mean, just imagine—turning the tables so you'd be the one looking up at me, instead of the other way around." She shrugs, her playful smirk showing that she’s more than just teasing now. It’s the kind of confidence that only comes when someone’s comfortable enough to say something so ridiculous, yet so endearing.

Lando chuckles, the sound light and genuine. "Yeah? I think I prefer it this way, though," he says, shaking his head with a grin that says he’s not about to let her win this one so easily. Y/N rolls her eyes dramatically, though she can’t stop the laugh bubbling up inside her. "No, but seriously—imagine the flex. A tall girlfriend? That’d be legendary," she adds, her tone playful but with just enough conviction to make it seem like she’s really giving it some thought.

Lando leans forward again, his grin widening at the turn the conversation has taken. "Oh? Girlfriend, already? Isn't this our first date?" He raises an eyebrow.

Y/N doesn’t miss a beat, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I like to move quickly in relationships. You might want to take notes," she says, the words light but with an edge that’s both teasing and confident.

"Duly noted," Lando responds with a quick nod, his voice dripping with playful sincerity. But just as the moment feels like it could get too serious, Y/N breaks character, her laughter spilling out of her like an unexpected burst of sunshine. She presses her sleeve to her face, trying to stifle the giggles, but the effort only makes her laugh harder.

Lando watches her with an affectionate smile, the whole exchange leaving an unmistakable warmth between them—something light and effortless, but undeniably real before the camera cuts.

♡

“Kiss, marry, kill… are you ready?” Y/N asks, her voice flat and expression deadpan. Her gaze is steady, and there's a certain gleam in her eye that suggests she’s not playing around, despite her casual tone. Lando freezes for a moment, blinking as though she’s just thrown him into a sudden storm. The look on his face is a mix of surprise and confusion, like a deer caught in headlights. But curiosity quickly overtakes him, and he nods, clearly intrigued but also a little wary. “Okay… go,” he says, his voice tinged with both hesitation and anticipation.

Y/N doesn’t miss a beat. “Kiss, marry, kill: Oscar, Carlos, and me.”

Lando’s reaction is immediate—he collapses back into his chair, clutching his stomach as a burst of hysterical laughter escapes him. It’s loud and unrestrained, like he’s just been hit with the most absurd punchline of all time.

But Y/N remains unmoved, her eyes narrowed slightly, her expression unwavering. She throws her hands up in the air, frustration edging her voice. “I’m being serious! This is an important topic that needs to be addressed!”

Lando’s laughter slowly dies down, but the grin never quite leaves his face. He raises both hands in mock surrender, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Hang on! Hang on!” He presses his palms together like he’s deep in thought, as though the weight of this decision requires every ounce of his mental energy. “I’m thinking.”

Y/N sighs internally, a familiar and tired gesture. She resists the urge to roll her eyes—again—her finger tapping against the table in a slow, rhythmic beat, as though she’s waiting for him to get it together. She can practically hear the tick of the clock in the background.

"Okay, wait, I got it," Lando says suddenly, sitting up straighter in his chair. He pauses for a moment, his brows furrowing in what can only be described as mock concern. “Wait… no, I don’t want to have to kiss either of you guys.” He scrunches his face up, clearly not thrilled by the prospect.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, a smirk forming on her lips. "Wow, and here I was thinking you'd be more concerned with who you'd have to kill."

Lando doesn’t skip a beat. "Well, that’s an easy one. You, for sure." He shrugs casually as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Y/N’s jaw drops in exaggerated shock. “Me? Well, I’m offended,” she gasps dramatically, placing a hand over her heart as if he’s just stabbed her emotionally. She wipes away an imaginary tear for good measure, her tone dripping with mock hurt.

Lando rolls his eyes at the performance. “It’s called flirting, Y/N,” he says, deadpan, though his lips twitch upward.

Y/N smirks, clearly unfazed by his response. “Well, you’re not very good at it,” she retorts, her voice thick with sass. There’s no hiding the playful edge in her tone, but also no missing the fact that she’s not taking this seriously—she’s enjoying every second of it.

Lando bites back a laugh, but it’s obvious from the way his cheeks flush that her words have gotten to him. “Okay, well, I could say the same thing about you,” he deflects, leaning back a little in his chair, his arms crossed defensively.

Y/N arches an eyebrow, her amusement evident. "Sure, Lando.”

Lando looks straight at the camera, his face now the picture of exaggerated deadpan. He gives it a slow, knowing look, as though he's on an episode of The Office. The camera cuts just as he’s about to crack, leaving a lingering sense of humour in the air.

♡

"What's your go-to line? You know, when you're asking people out?" Lando asks, his voice taking on a playful tone, like he’s now the one in charge of the conversation. It feels like the roles have completely reversed, and he’s the one interrogating Y/N, as if he’s suddenly the expert on relationships.

Y/N pauses for a moment, clearly weighing the question. She tilts her head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she considers her answer. “I don’t really have one,” she says, her voice casual, almost nonchalant. “I just sort of look at them and hope that they’re braver than I am.”

Lando’s eyes light up with interest, clearly not satisfied with such a vague answer. “Okay, but how do you look at them?” He leans forward, his hands resting on the table as he eyes her like a curious detective. “C’mon, I need details.”

Y/N raises her hands in protest, then immediately bursts into laughter, the sound bright and infectious. She leans back in her chair, shoulders shaking as she tries to contain her amusement. Lando, on the other side of the table, is wiggling his eyebrows in exaggerated motion, clearly trying to make this into something ridiculous.

“Like this? Or is it more like this?” he asks, giving a dramatic wink in her direction, and the sheer ridiculousness of it makes Y/N’s eyes widen in disbelief. Her laughter grows louder; her face flushed from both amusement and the sheer absurdity of the situation.

“No!” she gasps between fits of giggles, barely able to catch her breath. “If that’s how you pick up girls, I feel bad for them. You look like you’re constipated or something.”

Lando’s face falls in mock pain as if she’s actually physically wounded him. “Okay, ouch,” he says, wincing like she’s just landed a punch right to his ego. His hand presses dramatically to his chest, as though trying to recover from the blow.

Y/N grins, her expression turning teasing as she looks at him with mock sympathy. “Sorry, someone had to let you know.” She throws him a playful, exaggerated sympathetic glance, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Lando nods solemnly, his face adopting a mock-serious expression, though the hint of a smile is barely contained.

“You’re welcome,” Y/N replies, the sarcasm dripping from her voice, but there's something in her tone that’s genuinely warm beneath the teasing.

Lando leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, looking as if he’s about to offer some unsolicited advice. “No, but I think that’s good, you know? Staring at someone creepily from the other side of the room…” he trails off, nodding as if he’s figured it all out, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

Y/N exhales sharply, the sound half exasperated, half amused. “Okay, asshat, it’s not like that.” She shifts slightly in her seat, clearly about to set the record straight. “It’s like this…” she says, her voice softening as she looks at him.

In an instant, the playful banter between them fades away. Y/N locks eyes with Lando, her gaze intense, focused, and completely unbroken. The shift in energy is palpable, almost magnetic, as though the entire world around them has melted away. Even the camera crew seems to hold their breath, unsure whether they’re witnessing something deeper or just a clever game between friends.

The moment stretches, lingering, neither of them breaking the gaze, their eyes speaking volumes that words can’t quite capture. There’s a sweetness in the silence—endearing, even. They’re just two people caught in something unspoken, something real in the quiet between them.

Y/N finally breaks the silence, her voice low and teasing. “Is it working?” she asks, her lips curling up into the smallest of smiles, eyes still locked on his.

Lando’s throat goes dry, and for a moment, he’s completely flustered. His words stumble over themselves, like he’s struggling to find his balance after the intensity of the gaze. “Yes—no, yeah, I can see that working. What’s your success rate so far?” His words come out in a jumbled mess, his neck flushing a deep red as his usual confidence falters under the weight of the moment.

Y/N, still holding the teasing glint in her eyes, leans in just slightly. “I don’t know, you tell me,” she says, the playful challenge still present in her tone.

Lando hesitates for a moment, clearly caught in the spell of the conversation. “100%,” he finally declares, his voice filled with a mix of playful confidence and something softer beneath it, like he’s genuinely caught off guard by the chemistry between them.

The camera cuts before Y/N can react.

♡

"You can only save one," Y/N says dramatically, holding out both hands as if she’s about to present him with a life-altering decision. “A puppy or a kitten. Which one are you saving?”

Lando freezes, his eyes widening in horror, like she’s just asked him to choose between his own limbs. “Okay, well this is just unfair,” he says, his voice dripping with mock betrayal. His lower lip juts out in a dramatic pout, as if he’s already the victim of some great injustice.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her tone unwavering. “You have to pick one.”

Lando’s face crumples as if the weight of the decision might crush him. “No, I can’t,” he whines, flailing his hands in the air dramatically. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be. This is emotional warfare!”

Y/N lets out a long sigh, clearly bored of the theatrics. She picks up a fry from the plate in front of her, casually nibbling on it like the fate of two helpless animals isn’t hanging in the balance. “Just pick one already,” she mutters, eyeing him with mild annoyance.

Lando leans back in his chair, his face scrunched in concentration as if he’s making the toughest decision of his life. “Okay… the puppy,” he finally says, almost reluctantly, as if he’s just betrayed a sacred pact. From across the table, Y/N gasps dramatically, clutching her chest as though he’s just committed the ultimate crime. “You’re a monster,” she says, her voice teetering between mock outrage and genuine shock.

Lando’s eyes widen as if he’s just been slapped. “Wait, no! I didn’t mean it like that,” he backpedals, panic setting in. “Okay, okay, fine—then the kitten.” He raises his hands in defeat, clearly hoping this will solve everything. Y/N glares at him, arms crossed with a smug satisfaction. “So, you’d just let the puppy die? Wow, you’re heartless.” She shakes her head slowly, the disappointment practically radiating off of her.

Lando looks at the camera crew behind the lens as though they might somehow come to his rescue. “What!? This is so unfair,” he whines, gesturing wildly for support. “I think you’re the real monster here.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her voice sweet but laced with sarcasm. “You really know how to flatter a person on a first date.” She pulls a sour face; her eyes narrowed in judgment.

Lando shrugs dramatically, rolling his eyes in the most exaggerated way possible. “Says the professional manipulator,” he fires back, smirking triumphantly—but then he immediately regrets it as he sees her narrowing eyes.

Y/N folds her arms, her gaze turning icy, the perfect picture of judgment. “What did you just call me?” she asks, her tone low and dangerously amused.

Lando takes a sip of his drink, trying to regain his composure—but it’s already too late. Y/N’s staring at him like she’s about to deliver the final blow. Lando winces, nearly choking on his drink. “Too far, I’m sorry,” he admits, holding up a hand in apology, though the mischief in his eyes betrays him.

“Yeah, that’s right, be sorry,” Y/N says with a satisfied smile, crossing her arms smugly. Lando, trying to regain some ground, mimics her earlier words in a high-pitched voice. “You really know how to flatter someone on a first date,” he says, holding his hands up defensively as if he’s the victim now.

Y/N glares at him, her eyes narrow and unyielding. “Your words, not mine,” he adds quickly, but the tension evaporates as soon as the words leave his mouth. It’s clear they’re both just enjoying the banter, and it’s impossible not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The atmosphere lightens as they both burst out laughing, the infectious sound filling the space between them. The camera captures the moment, lingering on their laughter, as if the whole world is invited into the little bubble they’ve created. The camera cuts, but this time, it’s a softer transition—no harshness, no rush. It’s just a brief, perfect pause, leaving the warmth of the moment hanging in the air.

♡

"Okay, important question," Y/N says, leaning forward slightly, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she casually pops a hot chip into her mouth. “What would you rate your flirting skills out of 10?”

Lando freezes, his eyes narrowing in deep thought. “Okay, wait, let me think,” he mumbles, his hand rising to his chin like he’s pondering the meaning of life itself. The silence stretches on for a moment too long, and Y/N raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Do you usually take this long to think about things?” she asks, her voice dripping with judgment, though the amusement is obvious.

Lando leans back in his chair, feigning deep contemplation. “Do you usually insult people as a way of flirting?” he shoots back, leaning forward with a mock serious expression. They exchange a quick glance, a silent challenge hanging in the air. Y/N can’t help but play along. “Was it that obvious?” she responds, her grin widening as she leans back into her chair, ready for whatever comes next.

Lando can’t hold back a grin of his own. “Yes,” he says, shaking his head as if he’s just seen the greatest performance of the evening. “Okay, I got it,” he announces, his posture shifting as he places his hands dramatically in front of him, ready to drop his verdict.

“Alright, I’m all ears,” Y/N replies, clapping her hands together, leaning back as if settling in for the most epic answer she’s about to hear.

“A solid 12,” Lando begins, his voice full of confidence. “But I subtract 5 points for social anxiety, and another 2 for sweating through my shirt.” He shrugs as if this is the most reasonable answer anyone could give. Y/N raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. “I find the social anxiety part hard to believe,” she teases, a playful challenge in her voice.

Lando shrugs again, his grin never fading. “Me too,” he admits, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

Y/N takes a sip of her drink, still processing the absurdity of his response. “So… you're like a solid 5?” she concludes with a smirk, lowering the cup from her lips. Lando, without missing a beat, nods in agreement. “Yeah, but like a confident, aggressive, average 5,” he explains, leaning back as if he’s just made the most profound statement of all time.

Y/N nearly spits her drink out, her eyes wide with disbelief. She sets her drink down with dramatic flair. “That’s the most honest thing a man’s ever said to me,” she says coolly, as if she’s just heard a confession of the highest order.

Lando smirks, clearly unbothered. “Wow, that’s not concerning at all,” he hums, the sarcasm practically dripping from his voice.

Y/N leans in with a wicked grin. “Incredible,” she muses. “You’re like a red flag with a weird amount of charm.”

Lando leans forward with a knowing look. “You’re like if sarcasm came in a cute little package, labelled ‘Do Not Open,’ and ignores my texts for fun.”

Y/N laughs softly, her grin widening. “I’m flattered, but who says I’m texting you back at all?” she shoots back, the words dripping with teasing amusement. Lando raises both eyebrows, confidence practically radiating off him. “Oh, I’m sure you will,” he says with a wink, as if he’s already won.

“Yep, that’s that overly confident 5 kicking in,” Y/N hums, shaking her head in mock disbelief. She takes another sip of her drink, her eyes twinkling with mischief. Lando’s jaw drops, and he looks to the camera crew for help, as though they could somehow intervene and save him from this onslaught of teasing. “HEY—”

But before he can get another word out, the camera cuts again, leaving the moment hanging in the air, the playful tension between them palpable.

♡

“So why are you single?” Y/N hums from across the table, the question hanging in the air. It’s obvious that Lando’s used to her out-of-pocket questions by now, but this one seems to hit differently. Lando leans back, raising an eyebrow as if she’s just asked him to solve world peace. “That’s a very bold question,” he points out, clearly impressed by her audacity.

“I’m curious,” she shrugs, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world to ask someone why they’re single.

“Not because you're interested, right?” Lando teases, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Y/N shakes her head, but it’s the most unconvincing “no” she’s ever given.

“No. Definitely not,” she says, but her eyes... her eyes betray her. There's a starry look in them that no one can miss, not even herself. Lando catches the slip-up, but he doesn’t say anything, leaning in slightly. “So? Why are you single then?” she presses, her voice rising slightly with mock curiosity.

Lando dramatically sighs, throwing a hand over his heart as if burdened by the weight of the question. “Because society fears men with amazing haircuts,” he declares with a shrug, as if he’s just unlocked the meaning of life. “It’s really that simple.”

Y/N winces from across the table, her eyes narrowing. “I was going to say commitment issues, but that works too,” she quips, a teasing smirk forming on her lips.

Lando rolls his eyes, clearly unbothered by her jab. “Okay, the truth? I only date people who make me feel like I’m in a cute movie or something,” he admits with a dramatic flourish. Y/N leans in, her grin mischievous. “Do I?” she hums, her voice just the right amount of playful. Lando’s expression falters for a second as she looks up at him, a confidence in her gaze that catches him off guard. It’s clear he’s not as used to it as he’d like to think.

“Wow,” he laughs nervously, “bold questions are just shooting out of you right now, huh?”

“What can I say?” Y/N shrugs casually, her eyebrows wiggling in mock innocence. Lando runs a hand through his hair, a chuckle escaping him as he tries to maintain composure. “I feel like you’d be the love interest and the sarcastic narrator,” he muses in amused disbelief.

“Multi-talented. I’m just amazing,” Y/N responds, a careless shrug accompanying her words like she’s casually announcing she invented fire. From across the table, Lando seems distracted, his gaze following Y/N. “Whatever you say,” he mumbles, his voice barely above a whisper. The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the playfulness between them—before the scene cuts abruptly, leaving the lingering energy between them to hang in the air.

♡

“If I was the last person on Earth, would you date me?” Y/N asks, leaning back slightly with a mischievous glint in her eyes, watching Lando carefully.

Lando, who’s been laughing and joking nonstop for the last ten minutes, suddenly straightens up, clearly deciding to take this question seriously. He takes a moment to “think,” his brow furrowing as if he’s weighing the fate of humanity. “Only after I build a shelter, farm some crops, and manage to survive long enough to get the necessary survival skills,” he says, nodding slowly as if this is the most practical answer in the world.

Y/N, clearly impressed with his reasoning, tilts her head and grins. “Wow, I love a man with stability,” she says with an approving nod. “But what if I say no?”

Lando shrugs nonchalantly, still in full serious mode. “Then I die alone,” he states matter-of-factly, “Possibly in front of you, for full effect, you know?” Y/N hums thoughtfully, her lips curving into a playful smile. “That’s not dramatic at all,” she replies, clearly amused by his over-the-top answer. Lando pulls a sour face in mock offense, but before he can say anything else, the camera cuts away, letting the playful tension linger.

♡

Lando leans in, the smirk on his face unmistakable. “Do you believe in love at first sight, or do I need to walk past again?” he asks, sending her a wink that could melt glaciers. Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to be moved by his charm. “Please don’t,” she says dryly, her voice unimpressed, “Once was enough.”

Lando pauses, clearly unsure whether that’s a yes or a no. “So, that’s a no?” he asks, as if he’s trying to gauge the temperature of the situation. Y/N looks him dead in the eye and replies, “That’s a ‘try harder.’”

Lando, clearly up for the challenge, clears his throat dramatically, ready for round two. “Okay, okay…” He pauses as if he’s about to drop the smoothest line ever. “If you were a sauce, you’d be extra hot and slightly intimidating.” He flashes a grin at her, clearly proud of his creativity. Y/N, unbothered and clearly not easily impressed, nods slowly. “Smooth,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Flattery and emotional damage? I’m impressed.”

Lando grins at her, his confidence soaring. “Why thank you,” he says with a mock bow, clearly pleased with his work.

Y/N rolls her eyes, but the playful banter between them is undeniable. The camera cuts again, just as the energy between them reaches its peak.

♡

"If we ever dated, we'd crash and burn in a week."

"Yep, but it would be hilarious."

"I'm so glad you agree."

"It would also be tragically funny."

"The best kind."

“Absolutely.”

The video ends.

a/n: tysm for reading! i hope you enjoyed, likes and reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated, stay safe xoxo suji :)

taglist: @curlylando

[monstersholygrail]

There is a world, not far from our own, where creatures and monsters are more beloved than feared. Where they’re hunted down not out of defense and security but due to the greed of collectors looking for their next trophy. 

You never had any interest or part in it. Always seeing monsters as people trying to make a living just like yourself. But living near the harbor it’s unfortunately not all that uncommon to see poachers selling off kraken tentacles, a siren’s voice, or a mermaids tail. Anything they can get their hands on, really. It pains your heart to see so many hurt and nothing done about it. 

But that is all about to change. 

At that same moment, deep in the ocean, a poor Siren is ambushed by a bunch of poachers. Overwhelmed by their forces, captured, and attacked, they heave his extraordinarily long body onto their ship. Left unable to move as they viciously take his only means of defense. His voice. And then they toss him back into the ocean without a care for how vulnerable they have now left him.

At first he doesn’t even realize what has happened, his memory of the attack fuzzy and disoriented. But the moment he tries to speak a sharp pain radiates from his throat and has him curling in on himself against the ocean floor. Trembling eyes widen as realization dawns over him.

The waves of his mourning wash over the surrounding marine flora and turn everything around him into ash. The water turns darker with the storm of his emotions as it threatens to destroy everything in his path.

He stumbles onto land with the need for revenge etched onto his very soul, shedding his tail and walking into the unknown without daring to look back. The humans all stare as he passes, his beauty alone enough to enchant and allure them. But it all means nothing without his voice.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would find the poachers who had done this to him. Even if his memory is still as broken as the rest of him. Determination is the only thing left fueling him and he will not give that up.

But as he cuts his way through the village square, the most wondrous sound breaks through the haze of his fury. He searches hopelessly for the noise and when he finally finds it his gaze lands on you, playing an instrument he has never seen on any of the ships he’s wrecked.

The sound is mesmerizing and he finds himself walking closer to you. Though you don’t even notice him, your eyes closed, and a blissful expression painted on your face. But the music you are playing is anything but blissful. No, it speaks to his soul, it voices every word he can no longer say aloud.

He feels his knees give out beneath him and the pain cuts into his skin. He does not care. All he can do is look upon you and watch as you play the most devastating song he has ever heard. One even his previously infamous voice could never replicate.

When you open your eyes you’re surprised to see this man before you. He a vision of otherworldly beauty. Even as endless tears stream down from his bloodshot eyes. You do not know what horrors this man has gone through but something pulls at you to comfort him.

Not a word is spoken, nor is it needed, as you set down your instrument and take him into your arms. He immediately breaks down and sobs silently in your embrace. You don’t know when you begin to cry along with him but you both hold each other till long past the sun goes down.

As time passes, you teach him to speak with his hands, allowing him to finally communicate with you. His heart flutters as something in his soul clicks back into place at the gift you’ve given him. Having a voice once more.

Now that he can finally talk to you, he immediately shares his tale. Explaining he was not a man but a Siren. He fumbles over his fingers as he recounts the poacher attack, the way they stole everything from him. He confides his wishes to you, his need for revenge.

He’s shocked to see the thunderous rage booming throughout your expression. He didn’t know what to expect but a part of him hadn’t expected your support. Not with how kind, gentle, and loving you are. At least to him you are.

But you do support him and there’s no second guessing that as the two of you immediately begin to make a plan. Leading you to teach him how to speak through his hands in more ways than one.

Not only through his fingers but through the vessel of an instrument. Allowing his hypnotic magic to flow into the object while maintaining the same effect.

Even though he can now speak for himself, the Siren thanks you in the only way he truly knows how. With a kiss that speaks of all his gratitude and admiration for you. He pours all of the love and passion he’s been holding back into it.

His passion only growing into a raging inferno as you both stumble into your chambers. Your bodies intertwined, a mess of limbs and panting breaths as you join together and become one. Now in body as you are in heart.

Afterwards, with your plan in place and his magic, the two of you quickly rise up the ranks of society. Playing for people of both high and low birth. Traveling to villages and cities all across the country. Always in search of the ones who stole from your Siren his most precious gift.

It’s at a charity concert when that fateful day arrives. Your Siren’s pale blue eyes peeling through the crowd as they always do while you play. His heart hammers in his chest once they fall on a group of familiar looking men. Sharp painful visions of the past sear their way back into his mind and knock the wind out of him.

Your own gaze follows his line of sight, seeing the group of questionable looking men. All of them glancing around at the nobles in the room as if they’ve hit the jackpot. Something fierce burns in your belly and you and your Siren begin to play even harder, working as one to help strengthen his magic.

Even you feel something the moment the hypnosis seeps into their skin and latches onto their bones. Now expressionless faces fall onto you and listen as you two play the rest of the concert. None of them moving an inch as the hours pass. Like caught fish latched onto the fishing line and just waiting to be pulled in.

Near the end as you finish up the finale, your Siren uses his magic and directs the men into the back room. Somewhere isolated and private where you won’t be disturbed. The sound of roaring applause and cheering drowns out the beating of your hearts. Neither of you able to focus on their praise when your revenge is so close in sight.

It’s only as the door clicks behind you both does the siren’s song finally break. Clarity returns to the men’s milky eyes and a chorus of displeasure echos throughout the room. You don’t bother to respond. Let them say their last words, let them voice their complaints because soon they won’t be doing much of anything at all.

You narrow in on them, your murderous gazes eventually enough to silence them. And as you both lift up your instructions to deliver the last blow, recognition passes over each and every one of their faces, remembering what they had done to your love.

Your Siren being the last thing they see before perishing at your hands.

This piece was inspired by Schoenberg verklärte nacht op.4 - boulez. Please check it out, it’s such a beautiful song.

[sunbeamlessreads]

Let Him See - Oscar Piastri x Reader One-Shot

❝ He kisses you like he’s waited for permission. And that’s what makes you break. ❞

[oscar piastri x reader]

~8.2k words | rated: E

tw: 18+, emotional neglect, infidelity, porn with plot, smut, possessive behavior, complicated breakup dynamics

lando stopped seeing you. oscar never missed a thing. now the whole paddock knows.

notes: i tried writing in present tense for this, which really isn't in my ballpark. not sure if i loved it, but maybe i'll do more of it later on. i’m sorry i made lando out to be such a dick. i promise ill make up for it!! enjoy! <3

IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE ADDED TO A TAGLIST FOR ALL OF MY FUTURE F1 FICS, COMMENT BELOW

The McLaren party is elegant in that vaguely overstated way team events always are—polished chrome fixtures, dim gold lighting, and drinks served in glasses that clink too delicately for the kind of tension simmering beneath the surface.

You walk in on Lando’s arm. A black strapless dress hugging you like it was tailored in vengeance. The ruffled ruching along the bottom cascades like spilled ink with every step you take. You planned everything—the heels, the bold red lipstick, the subtle shimmer in the inner corners of your eyes. All for him.

He barely glances down at you.

Lando says something to a passing engineer, nods at a sponsor, then slips out of your grasp as naturally as water slipping through your fingers. No one notices the slight shift in your balance when he lets go. But you do.

You’re left standing beside a bar you didn’t want to be near, surrounded by people who smile too brightly and ask questions you don’t want to answer.

You’re his girlfriend—the public face of a dying relationship neither of you have the courage to end. He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore. He’s across the room within minutes, grinning down at a woman in a red backless dress, hand resting low on her spine. It’s a familiar stance. You’ve seen it before. You’ve even been on the receiving end of it—back when he still bothered.

Your chest aches, but you don’t flinch. Not here. Not while people are watching.

Someone asks you if you want champagne. You decline with a polite smile, then excuse yourself—something about needing to take a call, voice breezy, unbothered.

You step out of the ballroom like you’re slipping out of a skin that doesn’t fit anymore.

The hallway is dim and mercifully empty. You exhale, back against the cool wall, and pull your phone out of your clutch—blank screen. No missed messages. No excuses to stay outside longer than you should.

You open WhatsApp. You type a few words. Delete them. Start again. Then stop. You let your head tip back until it rests against the cool wall, eyes fluttering closed for a second.

You wore this dress for him.

You practically starved yourself all day, got your makeup done by the same artist who preps you for photoshoots, shaved every inch of your body until your skin ached—and he didn’t even look at you.

A sharp sting pricks behind your eyes, but you blink it back. Your mascara is too good to waste on someone who hasn’t kissed you in public in weeks.

You shift your weight in your heels. They’re taller than you usually wear—he once said he liked when you looked just a little out of balance, like he had to catch you. He hasn’t caught you in a long time.

The hallway feels like limbo. You’re not sure if you want to scream or vanish. The silence settles over you like a second skin—until it breaks.

“Hey.”

You look up.

Oscar stands a few feet away. Hands in his pockets. Brows knit with something like concern—or maybe anger, but not at you.

You straighten up instinctively, “Hey.”

His gaze flicks toward the ballroom, then back to you, “He didn’t even notice you left.”

Your voice catches before it comes out, “He never does.”

Oscar doesn’t speak. He just stays there, watching you like you’re not crazy for feeling the way you do.

For a few seconds, that’s enough.

You look away first. Not because you’re embarrassed—but because his eyes are too steady, too full of something that burns beneath the surface. Like if you look too long, you’ll start crying or say something you can’t take back.

Your gaze falls to the floor, to the veins in the marble tile, to the perfectly manicured hand holding your clutch like it’s the only thing holding you together.

Then, softly—like the truth finally scraping its way up your throat—you speak.

“He does this a lot,” you murmur, “Leaves me at these things. Flirts with whatever blonde he hasn’t slept with yet. Sometimes it’s just talking. Usually it’s not.”

You swallow. The bitterness coats your tongue.

“And I’m supposed to smile through it. Pretend I don’t care. Because we’re McLaren’s golden couple, right? I look good enough on his arm, and he looks better in the photos. Win-win.”

Oscar doesn’t interrupt. He stays where he is, still but attentive, like if he moves too fast you might break.

You don’t stop. It’s pouring out now.

“I tell myself it’s fine. That I knew what I was signing up for. That it’s just how he is. But then I see the way he touches them—like they’re interesting. Like they matter.”

Your voice drops, quiet and sharp:

“He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.”

The silence after that is loud. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath and force out a dry laugh. “God. I sound pathetic.”

“No,” Oscar says immediately, “You sound hurt.”

You blink. His voice is too honest. Too kind.

It cracks something wide open.

“Of course I’m hurt,” you whisper, “I feel disposable. And maybe I am. Maybe that’s why I don’t leave. Maybe I’m scared if I do, no one else will want me.”

Oscar moves then.

Just a step. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s grounding himself.

“That’s not true,” he says, sincerity and care laced in his voice. 

You lift your eyes to his. His tone doesn't match how furious he looks. Not at you—never at you—but at everything you just said. At every bruise Lando left behind that didn’t show up on your skin.

“I’m tired of watching him hurt you,” he says, voice like steel wrapped in silk.

The breath catches in your throat. You didn’t expect that. Didn’t expect him to say it. Not so simply. Not so seriously.

You fold your arms across your chest, trying to find a shield in sarcasm. It’s the only armor you have left.

“What, you want to make him jealous or something?” A laugh, light and mocking. A shrug, “Go ahead.”

You don’t mean it. It’s a deflection, a defense. Something to push him back before he gets too close to the bleeding parts.

But Oscar doesn’t laugh.

He steps in.

Close.

Too close.

You feel his hand brush the side of your face, gentle fingers slipping behind your ear. He pauses—waits for you to stop him—and when you don’t, he tilts your chin just enough.

And then he kisses you.

Your body locks. Every muscle goes taut.

Your lips are frozen against his, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

But his mouth is soft. Steady. Patient.

He kisses you like he’s waited for permission.

And that’s what makes you break.

You melt.

Fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt, you kiss him back. Rough. Desperate. Furious with yourself for how good it feels. For how long you’ve wanted this, buried it, pushed it down under years of Lando’s carelessness.

Oscar groans when your hips tip into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands grip your waist—hard, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, grabbing fistfuls of cotton like you need to hold on or you’ll collapse.

You hit the wall with a soft thud. He doesn’t stop. You don’t want him to. One of his hands finds your bare thigh where your dress has shifted, the other cradling your jaw.

He kisses you like he needs to prove something. Like he’s making up for every second Lando didn’t touch you.

You moan into his mouth—too soft, too shocked at yourself.

He pulls back just enough to breathe against your lips.

You’re both breathing heavily; you more than him.

Your lipstick’s ruined. His pupils are blown. His chest is rising and falling like he’s just come off a cooldown lap.

Then—voice low, rough, shaking with restraint—he says,

“Room 321. If you mean it.”

And he steps back. Hands still curled like he wants to reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

He leaves you standing there in a dim hotel hallway, breathless, shaking, lips tingling, with your heart slamming against your ribs and your mind screaming that something just changed forever.

Room 321.

You stare at the number plaque for a moment.

You knock once, and the door opens like he was already standing behind it—waiting.

Oscar stands in the soft glow of the hotel room, still in his suit pants, white shirt rumpled with the top two buttons undone. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair. His hair’s a little mussed like he’s been running his hands through it since he left you.

His eyes land on your lips first. Then your throat.

Your lipstick is smudged from the hallway kiss. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t want to.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there. Chest rising slowly. Eyes locked on yours. There’s something sharp in his silence—not anger, not regret. Restraint.

You step into the room slowly. The door closes behind you with a dull thud that feels heavier than it should.

He still doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The tension crackles between you like a tripwire no one wants to step on first.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, eyes dark.

Your chest lifts, lips parted slightly as you look at him across the room, “Then tell me to leave.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he takes a slow step forward.

You mirror him.

Another step. Closer. Breath catching.

Until there’s no more distance between you.

He reaches out—hesitantly—fingers brushing your chin, then trailing along the line of your smudged lipstick.

“You look like you’ve already been kissed,” he says. 

You breathe, “You did that.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I did.”

That’s when the tension snaps.

The second his mouth meets yours again, everything else dissolves.

It’s rougher this time. Starved. Less like a kiss and more like a confession torn from his chest. His hands cradle your jaw, fingers pressing just beneath your ears like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Your arms loop around his neck instantly, your body melting into his like it always belonged there.

His tongue slips past your lips, hot and slow, as your backs bump blindly into the desk behind you. A McLaren cap falls to the floor unnoticed. You gasp softly into the kiss, and he groans into your mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.

His hands slide down your arms, then to your waist, where he grips you tightly—not to push, not to rush. Just to hold. Just to feel.

You don’t pull away when he reaches behind you and finds the zipper of your dress. It comes down slowly, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His knuckles brush your spine as he guides the fabric off your shoulders.

You’re still kissing when it falls to your ankles.

Still kissing when you push his shirt off, fingers slipping under the undone buttons, palms brushing warm skin. He shrugs it down his arms and lets it fall with a soft rustle to the carpet. His pants follow soon after, as you blindly undo his belt and unbutton them. 

His hands don’t leave your body. Not once.

You walk backward together, mouths fused, breath short, until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you.

Then he bends slightly and lifts you—carefully, like you might shatter in his arms—and lays you down on the sheets as if it’s an offering.

Your hair fans out against the pillows. Your chest rises and falls quickly. Oscar stands over you for a second, chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes moving across every inch of your skin.

Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels between your thighs.

You watch him watch you, lips parted, body burning.

He leans in and kisses your neck—softly at first.

Then lower.

And lower.

Down the column of your throat, over the swell of your chest. He shifts the fabric of your bra aside, reaching beneath you and removing it gently, with trembling fingers, and kisses the curve of your breast, then bites gently.

You gasp, fingers grasping at the sheets.

He sucks gently—and when he pulls back, there’s a blooming red mark just beneath your collarbone.

Then another. Between your breasts.

Then one lower, over the swell of your ribcage.

He takes his time. His mouth moves down, and you lose count of how many places he claims with his lips and teeth.

You squirm as he shifts, adjusting on his knees to reach lower, pushing the edge of your panties aside so he can press another kiss just above your hipbone—then right at the inner curve of your thigh.

He sucks there, too. A long, slow draw that makes your fingers fist the sheets.

“Oscar—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, voice husky, “Let me leave them.”

Another bite. Another mark, just shy of the place where you’re already aching for him.

“I want him to see every single one of these.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You’ve never been kissed like this—not for show, not for ownership, but for the sheer need to leave a piece of himself behind on your skin.

By the time his mouth trails back up your thighs, your panties are damp with heat and your breathing’s gone shaky.

Oscar leans up, one hand bracing beside your waist. His other hand finds the waistband of your panties and begins to ease them down—slowly. Carefully. Like unwrapping something delicate.

He watches your face the entire time.

They slide down your legs with ease, and he tosses them aside.

You’re bare for him now—fully, completely—and you’ve never felt so seen.

He kisses your knee. Then the inside of your thigh again. Then finally, finally, his mouth hovers over where you need him most.

You’re already soaked. He groans when he sees it.

“Fuck. Look at you. I’ve thought about this,” he says softly, eyes fixed on where you’re already wet for him. “So many times.”

You can’t answer. You can barely think.

His hands spread you open gently—reverently—and then his mouth is on you.

Warm. Wet. Soft.

The first stroke of his tongue is unhurried, a slow drag from bottom to top that makes your spine arch off the mattress. You gasp, hips twitching, but his grip is firm on your thighs.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against you.

He licks again—long and deliberate—then presses soft kisses to your clit, switching between his tongue and his lips like he’s tasting something he wants to savor.

You moan—high and broken—and he groans back like he feels it.

His hands hold your thighs open, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin. You’re writhing now, overwhelmed, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in your belly with every passing second.

Your fingers claw at the sheets. You feel it coming, your body locking up—

Until he pulls back.

Your hips lift off the bed, chasing the loss, but his hands still you.

He leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh again—slow and deep—a soft, open-mouthed press that lingers just long enough to leave another blooming bruise.

Then he hovers over you, mouth wet, eyes locked on yours.

“You’re close,” he murmurs, “I can feel it. You’re shaking.”

You nod, lips parted, breath stuttering.

His hands slide up your thighs, grounding you—but instead of returning to where you’re desperate for him, he pulls back more.

“Don’t come yet.”

Your brows draw together, lips twitching in protest, “What—why—?”

Oscar leans in again, hand wrapping around your thigh to hold you open as he presses a kiss just above your aching heat. 

His voice is low, but firm, “Because I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”

The authority in his tone makes you clench around nothing. You whimper as he sits back on his heels, rubbing his palms over your thighs in soothing strokes.

“Please…” you whisper.

His mouth tilts into the faintest smirk—not smug. Hungry.

Then he crawls back up your body, leaving another trail of slow kisses across the bruises he’s left down your chest.

“You don’t come without me tonight,” he says quietly against your skin. “You understand?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“Say it,” his tone is demanding, but not impatient.

“I—I won’t come until you’re inside me,” you surrender. 

He moves back up to kiss you—soft at first, then deeper, longer—as he reaches over to the nightstand. You hear the foil tear, the familiar sound grounding the moment in something real. His body shifts against yours as he sits back briefly to roll the condom on, his breath catching as his hand moves.

Then he’s back above you—one forearm braced beside your head, the other hand sliding down to guide himself to your entrance. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick and so ready.

But still, he pauses.

“Are you sure? You won’t regret this later?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not demanding. Not coaxing. Just open.

You reach up, cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

Oscar exhales—one soft, shuddering breath—and presses his forehead to yours for a moment, like he’s soaking those words in.

He sinks into you slowly—not teasing, just careful, controlled, like he’s doing something sacred. His hips press forward inch by inch, stretching you open, filling you fully until your thighs tremble against his sides.

You gasp, clutching his biceps, head tipping back into the pillows, “Oscar…”

“I know,” he breathes. “Fuck, I know. You feel—”

He cuts himself off with a groan, jaw tightening as he bottoms out, “So fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, both of you shaking with the effort of not losing it too soon. He brushes your hair away from your face with the gentlest touch, his palm cupping your cheek like he’s afraid you might break if he lets go.

“You okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, “Move. Please.”

So he does.

The first thrust is slow and deep, rolling through your whole body. His hips pull back and push forward in a smooth rhythm that feels like worship. Each time he fills you, you feel more of yourself unravel, like he’s stripping you bare with every stroke.

He kisses you through it—long, lingering kisses against your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs, “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You breathe it against his lips, broken and honest:

“I’m yours.”

He groans, burying himself deeper.

His pace stays steady, grounding—not brutal, not rushed, but deliberate. Like he wants to make this last. Like he needs you to feel it for hours after.

His hand slides down your side to grip your thigh, pulling your leg up around his waist to angle you just right—and when he thrusts again, you choke on a moan.

“Right there?” he pants.

You nod frantically, eyes wide and wet.

“Yeah, baby. That’s it,” He stumbles through his words, deep within his own pleasure, “You take me so well.”

You cling to him like he’s the only real thing in the world, his name slipping from your lips between soft gasps, your body clenching around him, slick and pulsing and completely his.

When your orgasm hits, it’s not sharp—it’s deep. A wave that rolls through you, full-body and consuming. You cry out, and he swallows the sound in a kiss, fucking you through it with soft praise and steady hands.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go. I’ve got you.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he kisses the corner of your eye.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “You’re safe.”

He comes only seconds later, thrusts stuttering, mouth falling open against your neck. You feel him groan into your skin as he grips your thigh and spills into the condom, his whole body shaking with the effort.

And when it’s over, he doesn’t pull away.

He just collapses into you—gently—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapping around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold.

You lie there tangled in each other, your fingers brushing through the damp hair at the nape of his neck, your thighs still parted around his hips.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t have to.

You’re both suspended in that quiet stillness—the kind that only comes after something real, something that changes the shape of you.

After a long moment, he shifts slightly, careful not to crush you. His hand strokes your thigh where it’s still curled around his waist. He places a soft kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. Then he pulls out gently, drawing a small whimper from your throat.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing his hand down your hip, “You okay?”

You nod. Your voice is still trapped somewhere in your chest, so you let your hand answer for you, fingers curling around his bicep. He disposes of the condom quickly, then returns to the bed without hesitation, lying beside you and immediately pulling you into his arms.

He doesn’t ask if it was good.

He doesn’t need to.

Instead, he cradles you, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other brushing soft fingers through your hair.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just… a lot.”

You feel his smile against your forehead. His hand slides up and down your back, slow and steady, grounding.

“Hey,” he says gently after a pause. “You don’t… regret this, do you?”

You shift slightly to look at him. His eyes are wide, open, vulnerable—stripped of all the heat and control from earlier. He’s just Oscar now. Soft-spoken and careful with your heart.

You shake your head slowly, “No. I don’t.”

His shoulders relax.

“Okay,” he says, “Good. I just—I need you to know…”

He hesitates, thumb brushing your side, “This doesn’t have to mean anything. If it was just about him—if it was just something you needed to do — that’s okay.”

You blink. His voice is steady, but there’s a hint of sadness tucked into it. Like he means what he’s saying, but part of him hopes it isn’t just that.

You slide your hand up his chest, over the steady beat of his heart, “It wasn’t just about him.”

His brows lift slightly. You lean in and press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I wouldn’t be here if it didn’t mean anything.”

Oscar exhales—slow and shaky—and you see the tension leave his body like someone just untied a knot that’s been there for months.

He pulls you in tighter. You tuck your head beneath his chin, leg slipping between his, arms around his torso, his scent already warm on your skin.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “Stay?”

You nod against his chest, “I want to.”

You fall asleep like that—in his arms, his fingers tangled in your hair, your body marked with proof of what happened.

Not revenge.

Not just sex.

Something.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Oscar’s chest beneath your cheek. His arm still slung around your waist. The faint hum of city life beyond the hotel windows. You blink slowly into the early light, your lashes brushing the skin of his collarbone.

He’s already awake.

You can feel it in the way his fingers trace lazy, absentminded shapes along your back. He’s not in a rush. Not trying to move you. Just… there, soaking the moment in.

You shift slightly, stretch, and wince a little—your thighs ache, in the best way. Oscar immediately pauses.

“Sore?” he says, voice still rough with sleep.

“A little,’ you respond quietly.

He kisses your forehead, “Good sore or… need-an-ice-pack sore?”

You snort, hiding your smile in his chest, “Good sore.”

He hums, content. His hand returns to your back. You both stay still for a few more seconds—not talking, not overthinking—just breathing together.

Then, softly, “You don’t have to sneak out,” he says, “You can walk out like you belong here.”

You glance up at him, “I kind of do belong now… don’t I?”

His lips lift into a tired smile, “Yeah. You do.”

You press a soft kiss to his jaw before finally sitting up, the sheets slipping down your body, baring the constellation of love bites he left down your chest. His eyes flick to them, and his smile shifts—pride, possession, a little satisfaction.

“He’s gonna see those,” he says.

“Good,” you echo, voice quiet but sharp.

You find your underwear, pull on your clothes from the night before — everything still wrinkled from the floor. You go to the mirror, fix your hair just enough, and borrow his hoodie. He watches you do it all in silence.

Before you leave, he stands, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you slow. Sweet.

“See you down there?”

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be around.”

You open the door.

Step out.

And you’re not five steps down the hall before you hear the elevator ding.

You hear the sound of footsteps before you register anything else—then the shift in atmosphere. Heavy. Cold. Unwelcoming/

You turn.

Lando steps into the hallway off of the elevator, coffee in hand, hoodie tied low around his hips, damp curls falling over his forehead like he just stepped out of the shower.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just stops—eyes locked on you—and stares.

At the heels.

At the wrinkled black dress from last night.

At the hoodie hanging off your shoulders—Oscar’s '81' hoodie.

Then his gaze lands on your neck.

The bruises.

The silence stretches, thick and venomous.

“Wow,” he mutters, taking a slow sip of his coffee, “Didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You raise an eyebrow, heartbeat steady, “Funny. I was thinking the same about you for the last six months.”

His eyes flicker—a flash of guilt, gone in an instant.

“So what, then?” he snaps. “You fuck my teammate to even the score?”

You shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t realize we were still keeping score.”

“You really let him leave those on you?” His voice cuts sharper now, bitter, “Is that what you’re doing now? Walking around marked up like a fucking trophy?”

“He didn’t do it to prove a point,’ You step closer, just enough, “He did it because he wanted to touch me. Because he actually looked at me.”

Lando’s jaw clenches,

"You’re still mine.”

That’s when you laugh—not cruel, but quiet. Final.

“No, Lando. I was never yours,” you say with a confidence you didn’t know you possessed, “I just played the part.”

His lips part like he wants to fire back, but no words come.

You walk past him without another glance, heels echoing softly against the hotel carpet. His coffee hand twitches like he wants to stop you—to say something that could undo what he just saw.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

The bruises on your neck do all the talking.

The tension hits before you even step onto the concrete.

You’d heard whispers all morning—something about a joint media pen meltdown, Lando snapping mid-question, storming off, Oscar handling it with trademark calm. Nobody quite knows why. No one’s saying anything aloud. But everyone feels the shift.

Especially in the McLaren garage.

The energy is tight. Controlled. Like an engine revving just a little too high.

You move through it like a blade through silk.

Sunglasses on, McLaren pass hanging low on your chest. Hair neatly pulled back, hoodie zipped halfway. You tried to cover the hickeys— light foundation along your collarbone, you hadn't expected to need color corrector on this trip—but Monaco’s heat is unforgiving. The bruises are starting to bleed through the coverage, soft and red and obvious.

You don’t adjust your zipper.

Let them wonder.

As you step through the divider into the team area, a few heads turn. You're familiar enough to them. People don’t stare—not directly—but eyes flick. Conversations pause. It’s subtle, but you’re used to it by now.

Oscar’s standing just to the side of the media tent, debrief notes in one hand. He looks up the second you appear—and though his expression doesn’t change much, you catch the tiny lift at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

He doesn’t come to you.

You don’t go to him.

Not yet.

You pass close enough that your arm brushes his, and the heat between you sizzles like something private. He doesn’t look, doesn’t touch.

But he says, quiet enough for only you to hear, “He cracked.”

You smile faintly, “I heard.”

“They asked about quali, he said something about ‘teammates knowing their place.’”

You raise a brow, amused, “Classy.”

“Zak pulled him out. Press has no idea what the fuck he meant,” Oscar says, with a hint of boyish triumph laced in his voice. 

“But you do.”

He doesn’t answer that—just smiles again, a little wider this time.

You walk past him and take your place in the viewing area beside one of the engineers. From across the garage, you feel Lando’s eyes land on you. Just a flicker.

Just long enough.

He sees the bruise peeking above the collar of your hoodie. The faint outline of teeth just beneath your jaw.

He looks away.

You don’t need to say a word.

Oscar already said it for you—with his mouth on your skin, with his name on your lips, with every mark he left behind.

Qualifying starts, and Monaco doesn’t give anyone room to hide — not on track, and definitely not off it.

From the team pit wall, you watch it unfold through tinted lenses, headset perched loosely around your neck.

Oscar’s smooth. Fast. Calm through Sector 1, surgical through the hairpin. Lando’s twitchier. Overcorrecting. Radio sharp. He goes wide into Turn 12 and mutters something that gets bleeped on the live feed.

The garage knows.

Everyone knows.

Even the engineers are glancing at each other between data runs. The tension hasn’t lifted—it’s just gone quieter. Deeper.

Zak walks past you once, then again, and doesn’t say anything.

You don’t move.

Oscar finishes P3. Lando P7.

When Oscar’s lap time flashes on the board, there’s a flicker of something like satisfaction in the way he lifts his visor. He doesn’t celebrate. Doesn’t gloat. Just pulls back into the garage like he’s done his job—and knows you were watching.

You head toward the back hallway after the session ends. Quiet space behind hospitality, where the drivers come through before facing the press.

You’re leaning against a wall when you hear the voices before you see them.

Lando’s.

“Why don’t you tell them what you were really thinking on that last lap?”

Oscar’s.

“Excuse me?”

Lando’s.

“You wanted to beat me. You needed to. Don’t act like this was just another quali for you.”

Oscar’s voice is quieter, cooler, “Every quali, I want to beat the guy next to me. That’s the point.”

Lando laughs, sharp and joyless, “You think you’ve won something, don’t you? Some prize of a woman?”

You step into view.

They both go quiet.

Oscar’s eyes flick to you first—not surprised, not smug. Just aware. Present.

Lando sees the faint hickey blooming again, the one the foundation couldn’t fully hide, and his jaw ticks. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.

You tilt your head, “Everything alright?”

Oscar looks at Lando for half a second longer, then turns to you.

“Yeah,” he says, calm and even. “We were just clearing the air.”

This earns him a glare from Lando. 

You smile at Oscar, brush your hand lightly along his arm as you pass.

Lando stays frozen.

It’s dark when you find Oscar again—rooftop level, away from the noise. He’s leaning on the railing in his McLaren hoodie, watching the city lights flicker over the water.

You slip in beside him.

He doesn’t look away from the skyline.

“He’s pissed,” Oscar says.

“He’ll stay pissed,” you admit quietly.

“He’s not just mad about it being me,” a beat, “He’s mad because he never thought you would leave him.”

You nod, fingers grazing the edge of the railing, “He never thought I’d let anyone else touch me.”

Oscar turns to you then. The tension’s gone now, burned out somewhere between the lap and the hallway. He notices you shivering and removes his hoodie, handing it to you without a word.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” you respond, more assurance in your voice than the last time he asked. You turn fully toward him, “Do you?”

He just looks at you—steady, thoughtful, something softer than anything he’s shown all day.

Then he shrugs one shoulder and smiles faintly, “Not even a little.”

You lean in.

Kiss him.

The kiss is soft—nothing like the one in the hallway, or the ones from last night, hot and breathless with desperation. This one is calm. Confident.

Yours.

Oscar’s hands rest lightly on your waist, the cool night breeze lifting strands of your hair between you. Monaco glitters below, impossibly golden. You kiss him once. Then again. Slow. Unrushed. Like no one’s watching.

Except someone is.

You don’t notice it at first—the small mechanical click behind you. Subtle. A shutter. A camera lens adjusting to the low light.

By the time you pull back, it’s already done.

Oscar’s head lifts just slightly, eyes narrowing toward a corner of the rooftop—barely visible through a line of glass. Not press-official. Paparazzi freelance. The ones who sell exclusives when the media team’s off-duty.

“Shit,” Oscar mutters under his breath.

You turn, eyes locking on the shadowed figure just as they duck behind cover.

Too late.

“Think they got it?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Oscar nods slowly, expression unreadable, “Yeah. They got it.”

You exhale—not panicked. Just… bracing.

Because the image will drop. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow morning. You in his arms, mouth on his, Oscar’s hoodie on your shoulders, his fingers curled around your waist like he’s holding something that matters.

It’s not a rumor anymore.

It’s not a whisper in the paddock hallway or a locker room assumption or something Lando only suspects.

It’s proof.

The photo drops sometime after 2 a.m.

It’s soft. Intimate. The Monaco skyline blurred behind you, Oscar’s hands gentle on your hips, your lips brushing his in a kiss too tender to be casual. You’re wearing his hoodie, your body leaning into his like you belong there. The headline spins fast, and the image spins faster.

“Piastri and mystery girl— late-night kiss confirms more than paddock rumors.” #MonacoGP #OP81 #McLaren #F1WeekendRomance

By the time the sun rises over the harbor, the image has circled the globe. Instagram reels. Reddit threads. Private group chats with McLaren team tags. 

Some know who you are. Others ask. Everyone guesses.

No one’s surprised.

Not even Lando.

He sees it around 6 a.m. His phone buzzes with the notification, a WhatsApp ping from someone in media: “Bro…?”

He clicks it, thumb slow, still groggy from a half-slept night.

The image fills his screen in just about a second flat.

And for a second, he doesn’t feel anything at all.

Then it hits—slow and thick, like cold water spreading under his ribs. He stares at the photo, eyes scanning over the curve of your smile, the way your fingers curl into the back of Oscar’s shirt, the undeniable ease in your body.

You look happy.

He hasn't seen that look on you in months.

The worst part is how quiet the fury is—how it doesn’t come out loud, how it just sits there in his chest.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

He just stares, jaw tight, thumb hovering above the screen like he could rewind the moment and undo it.

But it’s already out.

And nothing will unsee it.

The paddock is different that morning. The kind of quiet that’s not actually quiet—just loaded.

Oscar walks in calm. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t shrink. He gives one quick nod to Zak, another to the comms lead. Then walks into the garage like he hasn’t just become the most searched man in F1.

Lando’s already in the back, zipped into his fireproofs, eyes locked on the telemetry like it might give him something to hit. When Oscar appears beside him in the media pen, the tension is immediate—even before the interviews start.

“Oscar,” one reporter says, half-laughing, “you’ve been trending all morning. Surprised by the attention?”

Oscar’s lips tug into a polite half-smile, “Not particularly.”

“Balancing a fast lap and a fast… personal life?” someone else jokes.

He doesn’t miss a beat, “One lap at a time.”

Lando laughs then—too sharp, too loud, “He’s got more than enough time to focus on everything else, clearly.”

The PR handler stiffens. The reporters go quiet. One camera clicks. Someone tries to move the topic on, but the moment lands.

Oscar doesn’t react. Just folds his arms across his chest, gives a small smile, and looks straight ahead.

You hear about it an hour later.

And when you enter the garage, it’s like parting smoke. The space tenses. Heads turn. No one quite meets your eyes, except for Lando —a glance, sharp and quick, from across the space.

He looks away.

Oscar doesn’t.

You find him standing near the screens, headset tucked around his neck, one hand in his pocket. He sees you and offers the smallest, softest smile.

You pass close. Don’t touch. Don’t stop.

But your fingers graze his as you go.

He breathes like it’s the first time all day he’s been allowed to.

Later, after the final briefings wrap, you find him alone behind the paddock—tucked into a quiet service alley, the marina glittering beyond the concrete walls.

He doesn’t hear you approach. Just stands with his back to you, hands braced on the railing, still in his gear. His shoulders rise and fall in slow rhythm.

You stop beside him.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

Then, “So,” you murmur, “that’s one way to go public.”

He huffs a laugh. “Guess we don’t get to control the timing.”

You glance sideways at him. “Regret it yet?”

He finally looks at you — eyes soft, voice quieter than it was all day, “Not even a little.”

You nod slowly, “Me either.”

He exhales, like that’s what he was waiting for.

“It’s going to be loud,” He warns

“I know.”

“He’s not going to take it quietly,” Oscar adds. 

“He’s not my responsibility anymore.”

Oscar studies your face — the calm in your expression, the steadiness in your voice — then lifts a hand to your jaw, thumb brushing gently beneath your cheekbone.

“If it gets messy—” Oscar starts. 

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure him with a confidence foreign to you. 

He nods once.

"Good luck out there."

The Monaco sun glints harshly off the harbor, but the air inside the McLaren garage is colder than it should be. Everyone’s already seen the photo. The photographers couldn’t have asked for a cleaner shot.

No one says a word about it — not to your face. But there’s something in the silence. The way engineers glance between Lando and Oscar before looking away. The way a strategist clears his throat before relaying sector data like he’s afraid it might ignite something.

You stay quiet. Poised. Present in the garage like you’ve always been. Just another figure with a headset and a McLaren pass. Except now, yesterday's bruises aren’t just hickeys—they’re headlines.

Oscar’s composed during formation laps, fully in the zone. Lando, on the other hand, can’t seem to keep still. His fingers twitch on the wheel. His visor drops early. And when he lines up behind Oscar on the grid, his car nose to the back of the #81, the message is clear:

He’s not racing for position.

He’s racing him.

The lights go out at the start, and the tension snaps taut.

Oscar gets off the line clean. Fast. Aggressive, but composed—the kind of driver who cuts through chaos like he’s above it. He settles into P3 behind Leclerc and Max, calm radio calls rolling through your headset.

“Tyres feel stable. Brakes coming up nicely.” His tone is smooth. Professional. Locked in.

“Copy that, Oscar. You’re looking good. Just manage the gap.”

Lando, meanwhile, is chewing through the field from P7, but he’s not driving—he’s fighting. And it shows. He’s too heavy into the Nouvelle Chicane. Nearly clips the barrier at Mirabeau. Gets squeezed by Hamilton going into the tunnel and screams down the radio like it’s personal.

“Is anyone actually gonna call shit today, or should I just punt him off the fucking track?”

“Lando, stay focused.”

“Oh, now you want focus. Should’ve told golden boy to stay out of my way in quali.”

Twenty laps in, Oscar’s holding steady in third with tire wear perfectly balanced. Lando’s muscling his way up to P5, then P4 after a gutsy dive into Sainte Devote. It’s impressive. Chaotic. Pure Lando.

“Tell him if he’s going to block me, he better commit to it. This half-ass defending doesn’t help anyone.”

The pit wall tries to smooth it over.

“Copy, Lando. Maintain focus. Oscar’s running clean.”

There’s a beat of static. Then Lando again.

“If he wants to play team leader, he better drive like it.”

In Oscar’s car, there’s only quiet. Steady updates. Clean cornering. No rise. No reaction.

Just sector after sector of control.

But it’s Oscar who makes it look effortless.

Final laps tick down. Lando’s close—closer than he’s been all weekend—but not enough.

You watch the checkered flag fall from the garage viewing area, headset still clutched in one hand, heart thudding in your chest. Oscar crosses the line second—a solid, beautiful finish. No mistakes. No drama.

Lando follows in fourth.

The crowd roars. The team celebrates.

But inside the garage, the energy is split.

Half the crew glances toward the monitors. The other half glances toward you.

No one says anything.

But the silence speaks volumes.

The garage claps for Oscar’s podium. It’s not dramatic. No confetti. But the applause is sincere. You stay tucked to the side as he peels off his gloves and helmet, curls damp and jaw clenched with adrenaline.

He doesn’t look for you.

He knows you’re there.

The podium happens in a flash champagne, interviews, cameras. Oscar is graceful. Deflecting the kiss photo with a shrug:

”I try to keep focus on track. Everything else…” He shrugs. “That’s not what wins points. I let the track speak louder than the tabloids.”

Clean. Cool. Unbothered.

Lando’s post-race media scrum doesn’t go as smoothly.

His smile is too tight. His answers too short.

“Happy with your pace today?”

“No.”

“Anything you’d like to say about team dynamics?”

“I think a few people need to remember who they were before the cameras showed up.”

You’re not sure if it’s coincidence or fate. Lando's leaning against the wall near the back of the hospitality area, arms crossed over his chest, fire suit still half-zipped, sweat drying on his neck. The air between you tightens instantly.

He sees you before you speak.

“So that’s it?” he says, voice low, mocking, “You get your moment? Photo hits the press and suddenly you’re Piastri’s girl now?”

You keep your voice even. “It’s not about the photo.”

“No?” His eyebrows lift, “Looked like it. Looked like perfect timing, actually. Right before race day. You really going for the full storybook arc, huh?”

You cross your arms, matching his stance, “You think I planned that? You think I wanted to be caught?”

He snorts. “Certainly didn't stop.”

You step closer.

“You didn’t stop sleeping around. You didn’t stop ignoring me. You didn’t stop until I was already gone.”

His mouth twitches—not a smile. Something bitter.

“And you think Oscar’s different?”

“I know he is.”

He studies you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to find the part of you that still belongs to him. The part he can poke and prod and control like he used to.

But it’s not there.

His breath stutters. He looks away—jaw tight, hands clenched.

There’s movement behind you.

Lando glances past your shoulder—posture tensing.

Oscar stands just beyond the corner. Silent. Watching.

But he doesn’t step in.

He meets your eyes—not Lando’s—and with one subtle nod, he turns to go.

Because he trusts you to handle this.

Because you needed to take this one yourself.

You find Oscar later by the hospitality coffee station, half-dressed down from his suit, fingers curled around a water bottle, his race boots unlaced. The crowds have thinned. The crew’s winding down. But he’s still here—waiting.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“You saw?”

“I heard,” he says. “Then I saw.”

He studies you.

“You handled him.”

You nod, then smile faintly. “So did you.”

Oscar lifts his water bottle and takes a sip.

You step closer. Not rushed. Just enough.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“Not stepping in.”

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, “I knew you could handle him.”

You lean into his side, your hand resting on his chest. His arm slips around your back like it’s instinct.

There are still cameras around.

Still whispers.

Still fallout coming.

But for now, it’s just the two of you.

Still standing.

FROM PADDOCK DARLING TO PIASTRI’S MYSTERY GIRL: MONACO GP’S MOST TALKED-ABOUT WOMAN

Well, well, well. Things are heating up in more ways than one at McLaren—and this time, it’s not just on track.

In case you missed it (though how could you?), Oscar Piastri made headlines this weekend for more than just his flawless P2 finish in Monaco. The 23-year-old Aussie was spotted sharing a kiss with a woman who—until recently—had been very publicly linked to his teammate, Lando Norris.

Yes. You read that right.

The viral photo, snapped late Saturday night on a rooftop terrace above the Monaco paddock, shows Piastri in what can only be described as a very cozy moment with a mystery girl who fans quickly identified as Lando’s longtime (but reportedly estranged) girlfriend.

Wearing his hoodie. With his hands around her waist. And what appear to be love bites peeking out from beneath her collar.

(We zoomed in. Don’t act like you didn’t.)

The woman once seen at every race on Lando Norris’ arm is no longer just a grid-side accessory—she’s made it very clear whose garage she’s in now. And it’s not Norris’.

Neither Oscar nor the woman in question have made an official statement, but the body language has said plenty. The pair has been spotted multiple times, hand-in-hand, unabashed.

While reps for McLaren offered no official comment on the photo, the tension in the garage during Saturday qualifying spoke volumes. Sources inside the paddock describe Norris as “visibly short-tempered,” with one engineer claiming he was “racing like he had something to prove.” As for Piastri? Calm, composed—and, if we may, focused.

He brought home P2.

Norris? P4—and reportedly less than thrilled.

Let’s not forget: this isn’t the first time Lando’s off-track antics have made waves—rumors of infidelity have followed the Brit through the past few seasons, though they were often brushed aside by his ever-loyal girlfriend. Until now.

While nothing has been confirmed (yet), it would certainly appear that she’s Oscar’s now.

Whether this unexpected romance will fuel drama or just give Oscar a boost on track remains to be seen, but one thing’s for sure: we’ll be watching.

Very closely.

Stay tuned. The summer break’s never felt so far away.