#it doesn’t even have a brand name on the box

[toomanyteefs]

Bought a SUPER off brand bootleg Tron light cycle NotLego set and it was missing the same three pieces for each cycle, but they werent super important pieces and overall I think it’s pretty fucking kickass! (I think the official Tron Lego set is honestly kinda ugly, and the only part of it I really want is the Rinzler minifig, which I can get seperately for like $20 on eBay, so Lego is not getting $130 out of me today!)

[chiasaaa]

— anything for you

itoshi sae x f! reader

summary: sae finds himself doing things he wouldn’t normally do. all for you.

warning: english is not my first language. apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.

— itoshi sae knew he was beyond saving the moment he set his phone against his pillow and clicked the record button, holding up three boxes of what seemed to be pr boxes for the brands he’s sponsoring.

no, said brands did not require him to film the pr boxes. they only wished for him to use and test it out in an attempt to gain his brutally honest feedback. so why is it that he has his camera open to do a little review?

it’s because he’s deeply and undeniably in love with a so-called idiot named you. you have him wrapped around your finger, and sae was the one to curl your fingers around him for you. a little while ago—right after emerging from the shower of his hotel room—he sent a photo of the three pr boxes that laid on his bed. his manager did tell him he’ll drop it off around the night.

itoshi sae: they’re here.

itoshi sae: [sent an attachment]

you: ohhh! unboxing vid, pls!

itoshi sae: not my thing

you: aww :PP

you: anyhoo, don’t forget to eat dinner!

you: i’m just pinning my sketches in the new mood board, then i’ll head back home.

he knew there was nothing else to your response. sure, you were a bit dampened by how he flat out rejected your request, but you’re not one to dwell in such silly things either. sae knew that you would be the last person on earth forcing him to do something he doesn’t want to do, and video reviews might as well be nonexistent in his vocabulary.

even so, he decided to give it to you. reviews of the products he’s sponsoring.

oh, may god save his soul.

“we’ll start with this one.” he holds up a pastel yellow box displaying the name of his favorite skincare brand. “i heard they’re releasing a new formula for my moisturizer that’s less sticky. if it works well, then i’ll be using that for my games.”

he takes out a tube from the box and showed it to the camera, plucking the lid open. “the bottle’s bigger than the previous one too, and the design’s more minimal. i like it.”

for the next hour, itoshi sae filmed each and every reaction he had for every product he tested, telling you his brutally honest reviews and picking out which ones he considered purchasing upon launch.

sae didn’t even bother screening the videos before sending them to you, well-aware that you prefer his rawest form than anything else. it is a factor as to why he feels so lucky being with you. though, he’d never admit it right at your face, he simply hopes he shows it enough.

imagine the look on your face when you just finished locking up your office, fishing your phone out to let him know you’re about to head home. instead, you were met with three 15-minute long videos of each promotional box sent to him.

itoshi sae: [sent 3 attachments]

itoshi sae: i have to admit, i like the new sunscreen the most. i’ll contact the company and have another delivered to you.

itoshi sae: you should also try the lip glaze. i remember you’ve been complaining about how your lips dry up in the winter. i’ll give it to you next week when you fly over.

your heart swelled at the sight of him actually filming his reactions, nearly slamming into a lamp post if it wasn’t for your driver tugging you back lightly to prevent you from doing so.

you: you really filmed!

you: i’ll watch it on the way home!

you: i love you, querido <3

and your appreciative messages were enough for sae to know that leaving his heart to rest upon your care is the best thing he’s ever done. you have always been the most positive influence in his life, and you never shame him for anything he does out of his character.

itoshi sae: i love you. head home safe.

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Coming from wealth doesn’t mean you come from love. When your father cuts you off, you're left to find a roommate to help keep your life in Monaco afloat. Kimi Antonelli’s place isn’t ready yet, so he moves in—and what starts as convenience slowly brings peace, family, and unexpected change. ||

ᯓ★ Kimi Antonelli x Fem! Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Fluff, Angst

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: I was going to do this with Ollie, but I already have an Ollie story in mind, so, I figured I would give everyone some Kimi once again on this blog. S/n (sister's name), and your best friend's name in this is Amilla, entirely up to your imagination how she looks as well as your sister. ENJOY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Growing up surrounded by wealth wasn't the gilded fairytale people imagined. Sure, there was luxury—soft sheets, name-brand clothes, drivers who opened doors, and holidays in warm places. But luxury didn’t mean love. It didn’t mean attention. And it certainly didn’t mean fairness.

Your family had money. Old money. The kind of wealth that came with expectations and unspoken hierarchies, where lineage mattered more than individuality. Your father ran the family business—something passed from generation to generation like a sacred heirloom. One day, he’d hand it down again. But not to you. That had been clear since you were old enough to understand your own name. It would go to S/n. Always S/n.

Your mother was a neurosurgeon, brilliant and always composed, walking through the house with heels clicking and a schedule tighter than her high bun. She was the kind of woman people admired. But she was distant, her affections portioned carefully, like rations during wartime. And you learned early that most of those rations went to your sister.

Vacations as a kid had been something you used to look forward to. Back then, you didn’t notice how different things were. You just knew you got to be on a beach with a juice box, and your sister got the bigger floaty. You thought that was normal.

But as the years went by, the favoritism stopped being subtle.

At Christmas, you’d unwrap two gifts. Your sister had a mountain. A literal mountain. Once, when you asked if you could get a digital camera, your mother had looked at the price tag and said, “Maybe next year.” That same year, your sister got a custom-built pink go-kart because she said it looked "cute" in a movie.

You were twelve when you started noticing that conversations weren’t really conversations with your parents—they were lectures disguised as concern. You’d get a scolding for a B on a test. Your sister would be celebrated for an A she hadn’t even earned—she was charismatic enough to charm her way out of anything.

And your father—he spoke of her like she was a miracle. “One day, she’ll take over everything,” he used to say to guests at parties while you stood beside him, invisible. “She’s got the look, the mind, the instinct.”

No one ever asked what you had.

When you were sixteen, sitting across from your father at the dinner table, he asked casually, like it didn’t mean anything, “So what are you planning for the future?”

You’d been waiting for that moment. You straightened your spine and spoke clearly.

“I want to go into motorsports engineering.”

He paused, halfway through cutting his steak. “Hmm,” he muttered, then nodded. “That’s good, sweetie.”

That was it. No follow-up. No curiosity.

Across the table, S/n chimed in without being asked. “I’m thinking of modeling. I’ve already had a few agencies reach out. Plus, I want to travel. Maybe get a fashion line started.”

Your mother beamed. “Oh, darling, you’d be perfect. Your face was made for a billboard. And with your father’s connections…”

You sat there, pressing your fork into a piece of overcooked asparagus, chewing your silence.

That was how most conversations went.

At eighteen, after your graduation, you brought it up again—this time more serious. It was just you and your father at dinner in the study, eating off plates without the pretense of table manners.

“I want to move out,” you said, testing the words.

He didn’t even look surprised. He barely looked up.

“That’s good, sweetheart. Where are you thinking?”

“Monaco,” you said. “I’ve looked into a few universities there. I want to continue with engineering—eventually get my master’s. I know it’ll take time, but I’m ready.”

You tried to smile, like it would help him see your sincerity. You wanted him to care.

He nodded absently and took a sip of his scotch. “That’s good. Let me know where you land. I’ll help you get settled.”

Your heart squeezed. “You will?”

“Of course. I’ll cover the rent for your flat, but you’ll need to get a job. Can’t support everything.”

You hesitated. “S/n doesn’t work.”

He exhaled like you’d said something exhausting. “Y/N, your sister is preparing to take over the business. Her time is coming. You know that.”

Right. Her time. Like yours never would.

So you moved.

Monaco was beautiful in a way you hadn’t expected. The city glittered at night like it had its own heartbeat, its own rhythm, far away from the echo of your father’s praise and your mother’s quiet favoritism.

You found a small flat with plain walls and cheap furniture, but it was yours. Your father helped you move in, carried boxes with a detached politeness, then handed you a spare key and left.

“Be smart with your time,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”

You weren’t sure if it was advice or a warning.

You got two jobs. A café by day, a restaurant by night. You’d collapse into bed, then wake up to submit your assignments before rushing back to work. Your professors only knew you as a face on a screen. You hated online school, but it was all you could afford.

Your fridge was mostly empty. Your walls were bare. You had three pans and one cutting board. Dinner was usually takeout—cheap pasta or boxed rice—because after a ten-hour shift, the last thing you wanted was to stand in front of a stove.

And your sister?

She was everywhere.

You’d scroll through social media, half-awake, and there she’d be—posing on a yacht in Santorini, smiling on a balcony in Paris, lounging in a silk robe with captions like #blessed #bookedandbusy. Her followers adored her. Your father reposted every brand deal she landed. Your mother shared her photos like holiday cards.

One night, sitting on your bed with a carton of takeout balanced on your lap, you opened your calendar to find a red-circled reminder: Family visiting tomorrow.

You groaned, setting your food aside. The idea of them walking into your small space, judging the plainness of your life—it made your chest feel tight.

You hadn’t invited them. Your father had insisted.

“It’s important,” he’d said on the phone. “We want to see how you’re doing.”

But they didn’t want to see how you were doing.

They wanted to compare.

You leaned your head back against the wall, sighing into the quiet. Your laptop screen buzzed gently, the cursor blinking in an empty assignment document.

“I’m tired of this,” you muttered.

Of the imbalance. Of the cold love. Of being measured against someone you could never outshine.

S/n would walk through your door tomorrow in a designer coat and full makeup. She’d sit on your secondhand couch like it was diseased. Your mother would comment on the size of your kitchen. Your father would ask if you’d “thought about getting something more stable.”

And none of them would see it—the long hours, the aching feet, the grades you worked for, the resilience it took to just exist outside their shadow.

But you saw it.

You felt it.

And maybe that was enough.

Maybe not.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You sat on the edge of your couch, back straight, arms folded tightly across your chest, the ticking of the wall clock louder than it should’ve been. The air in your apartment was heavy, stifling, despite the open window. Your parents sat opposite you in the two mismatched armchairs you’d found at a secondhand shop last month, looking as though the fabric might give them a rash. Your sister—S/n—occupied the arm of one chair like it was a throne, one long leg crossed over the other, perfectly manicured fingers brushing invisible lint from her designer slacks.

They hadn’t even been in your flat five minutes and already you could feel their judgment soaking into the walls. Your mother kept glancing at the chipped paint near the baseboards. Your father’s gaze swept across your bookshelf with unreadable criticism. S/n looked around like she was in a student dorm.

You broke the silence. “So… you said this visit was important?”

Your voice was low, careful, not wanting to sound defensive—but there was already tension coiled in your spine.

Your father nodded, finally giving you his full attention as he folded his hands across his knee. “Yes. It is.”

You watched him pause for effect, the same way he did at corporate meetings you’d sat through as a kid, the same way he always made sure the room was ready to listen before dropping his words like gospel.

“Well, S/n is engaged.”

Your eyebrows shot up before you could control your reaction, your gaze snapping to your sister. “What?”

S/n’s grin widened as she held up her left hand, her long fingers shimmering under the weight of a diamond so big it could probably be seen from space. You stared at it. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a statement—loud, bold, impossibly expensive.

“She said yes last week,” your mother added softly, pride swelling in her voice like it was her engagement, not her daughter’s. “It was the most romantic proposal. Private jet to Lake Como. He had the staff arrange everything. Champagne, roses, the whole thing.”

“Wow,” you said, your voice flat. You didn’t know what else to say. You hadn’t even known she was dating anyone seriously.

“And the wedding is going to be expensive,” your father continued, his tone businesslike now. “Top-tier venue, elite catering, designer dress, security, stylists, floral design… everything a celebration of this scale demands. Her fiancé is contributing, of course, but most of the financial responsibility falls on us.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing the weight of what was coming.

“Which means,” your mother interjected, her tone cooler now, “we’re going to have to cut your funding. The rent for your flat, your utilities… we simply won’t be able to cover it all anymore. We need to give S/n our full attention.”

You blinked. “Wait… what?”

Your voice cracked slightly, the disbelief catching in your throat. Your eyes darted between their faces, looking for any sign that this was some kind of joke. But no one was laughing.

“I’m sorry, honey,” your mother said, not sounding sorry at all. “We just need to prioritize.”

“Prioritize?” you echoed.

“You can still live here,” your father offered, shrugging like that solved everything, “but… we know you won’t be able to afford it on your own. And with your school and… your work, that’s a lot to juggle. It might be best if you came home for a while. Regroup.”

“Right,” S/n chimed in, her voice bright, chipper, like she was offering you a lifeline. “You could come back home with Mom and Dad! It’s not a big deal. I mean, let’s be honest—this place is a bit of a dump. It’s not like it’ll be a huge step down.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You stared at her, wondering how someone could say something so casually cruel.

“I have two jobs here,” you snapped, your voice rising before you could stop it. “I study all night, I sleep maybe four hours, I bust my ass trying to keep this apartment and pass my classes and stay afloat—and you’re just… cutting me off?”

“Y/N…” your father sighed, like your voice was giving him a headache. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You’re not being punished. This is just the reality. You’re not a child anymore. And we need to invest in the child who’s… in a critical life stage right now.”

“Right,” you scoffed bitterly, sinking back against the couch. “Because God forbid I ever be in a critical life stage.”

“It’s not like we’re abandoning you,” your mother added, sitting forward slightly. “You’ll always have a room at home. You can work at your pace and be comfortable.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Comfortable? You mean invisible. That’s what I’ll be back home. A ghost in the hallway while you all parade S/n down the aisle and throw her the wedding of the century.”

“That’s not fair,” S/n said with a shrug. “Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean it’s about favoritism. I just have different goals. Glamorous ones.”

You stared at her. “Different goals,” you repeated, biting back every word you really wanted to scream. “Right. Like being loved. Celebrated. Chosen.”

Your father stood, brushing his slacks like he was done with the conversation. “We’re not here to argue. We just came to inform you. The rent will be covered through next month. After that, it’s up to you.”

You stayed seated, your whole body trembling with a quiet anger that went deeper than your skin. It wasn’t just about the apartment. It was about a lifetime of being passed over.

They started gathering their things, your mother smoothing out her coat, your sister checking her phone, already distracted.

“Congratulations,” you mumbled without looking up.

S/n glanced back at you with a smirk. “Thanks. I’ll send you the invite.”

They left without hugs. Just a closing door and the lingering scent of your mother's perfume.

And for a long time, you sat there, staring at the dent in the couch cushion where your father had sat, like his presence still weighed it down.

You didn’t cry.

You were too tired to cry.

But deep in your chest, something hardened. You didn’t know what yet. Maybe it was resolve.

Maybe it was the first breath of freedom.

After the door clicked shut, the silence that followed was loud—almost oppressive. The kind that settles in your bones and reminds you just how alone you are.

You stared at the chipped tile near the front door, hands limp in your lap. The echo of their voices still clung to the walls—your father’s cold practicality, your mother’s detached logic, your sister’s smug indifference. It all buzzed like static in your ears.

You blinked slowly, chest tight, and reached for your phone. Your fingers hovered for a second before you tapped the contact without thinking—Amilla.

The only person who really knew you.

The only person who had stayed.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. And then—

“Hey.”

Her voice was soft, but it cracked with concern.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just let out a hum, tired and hollow.

“Family meeting went bad?” she asked knowingly.

You gave a small, bitter laugh, dragging your palm down your face as you leaned back against the couch cushion. “You could say that.”

There was a sigh on the other end, followed by the rustling of what sounded like car keys. “I’ll be there in ten. Don’t move. Don’t overthink. Just… breathe, okay? You can tell me everything when I get there.”

And with that, she hung up.

You stared at the screen a moment longer before placing the phone face-down on the coffee table.

Ten minutes.

That’s all you had to hold yourself together for.

You stood up slowly, your joints aching from tension and exhaustion, and moved around the flat in a daze. The room suddenly felt smaller. Dimmer. Like your family had sucked the color out of the space with their judgment and fake smiles.

You shuffled into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. A bottle of water. A leftover takeout box. Two eggs. Some mustard. You shut it again, heart sinking a little lower.

You moved instead to the window, pulling back the sheer curtain and looking out over the street. The sun had dipped low, casting a golden hue across the balconies of neighboring buildings. People were laughing somewhere down below. A couple walked hand in hand across the sidewalk, her head on his shoulder. You wondered if they knew how lucky they were. Or if luck even had anything to do with it.

You heard the buzz of the intercom almost exactly ten minutes later.

“Coming,” you murmured, pressing the button before you opened the front door, leaving it slightly ajar.

A few moments later, Amilla walked in without knocking. She didn’t have to. She never did.

She wore an oversized hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled into a loose bun, no makeup—just comfort. She took one look at your face and set her bag down immediately.

“Okay,” she said gently, stepping forward. “Hug first. Words later.”

You didn’t argue. You stepped into her arms, and for the first time all day, your body finally let go. Your face buried into her shoulder, your breath catching in your throat. The tears came—not loudly, not dramatically—just quiet and exhausted. Like a release.

She held you tightly, like she knew exactly how broken you felt. She rubbed your back in slow, steady circles. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. “I’m here.”

You pulled back after a moment, sniffling and wiping at your eyes with your sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said firmly. “Now sit. Start from the top.”

You both settled on the couch, your knees tucked under you as she pulled a throw blanket over your lap and curled beside you.

You took a deep breath, letting it all out. “They came here just to tell me they’re cutting me off. Rent, utilities, everything. Because S/n is getting married.”

Amilla’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

You nodded, voice hollow. “She’s engaged. Huge ring. Huge wedding. Dad’s paying for the whole thing—the venue, honeymoon, probably a freaking fireworks show too. And since it’s going to be ‘expensive,’ they decided they can’t afford to help me anymore.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Oh, because clearly their child working two jobs and doing college alone isn’t a priority, but throwing your sister a royal wedding is.”

“They told me I could move back home,” you said, voice thick with disbelief. “Like that’s some kind of gift. They said it’d be easier. More ‘comfortable.’”

Amilla narrowed her eyes. “Comfortable for who? So you can play second fiddle in your own house again? Watch your sister get crowned Queen of the Universe while you serve snacks at the engagement party?”

You laughed dryly. “Basically.”

She sat in silence for a moment, eyes scanning your face. “You’re not going back.”

“I can’t afford this place on my own.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said instantly. “Maybe we find you a roommate. Or a smaller place. Or you move in with me for a while—I’ve got space.”

“Millie…”

“I’m serious.” Her voice softened, but her expression didn’t budge. “I’m not letting you go back there. Not to that house. Not to them. They don’t see you. But I do.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening again. “I don’t want to depend on anyone.”

“You’re not,” she said. “You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Silence settled between you again, but this time it felt warm—like safety, not judgment. The apartment, still small and dim, somehow didn’t feel so suffocating anymore.

You looked over at her, brushing hair from your face. “Thank you.”

“Always,” she said, offering a small smile. “Now, do you want to keep venting or should we do something reckless like drink wine and look at Airbnbs we can’t afford?”

You grinned, a tired kind of grin. “Both. Definitely both.”

The day was bittersweet, soaked in a kind of ache that settled somewhere deep in your bones. It was the kind of ache that had no clear origin, no obvious wound—just the slow burn of disappointment, of being reminded once again that love, in your family, came with conditions. You had gone through all the stages—shock, anger, confusion—and now, sitting in the quiet after your parents and sister had left, it was just sorrow lingering like smoke in the room.

You didn’t understand her. S/n.

She had always kept you at arm's length. Like you were competition, not family. Like your existence threatened the affection and money she wanted all to herself. Even when you were little, she’d treated you more like a shadow than a sister—one she wanted to outshine, outrun, and forget. And maybe that was the part that hurt the most: you never wanted to compete. You only wanted to be seen.

After spending the afternoon with Amilla, the heaviness dulled just slightly. You’d curled up on the couch with her, shared cheap snacks and worse jokes. She made you laugh when your chest still ached from holding in tears. And though she never said it outright, she understood the weight of what you were going through. She always had.

Your flat didn’t feel quite so dull with her in it. Sure, it was a bit lifeless—bare walls, basic furniture, cold lighting—but it wasn’t awful. It was small, a little plain, but it was yours. It just needed… love. Color. A plant or two. Maybe some laughter.

You walked her to the door, leaning against the frame as she slid on her shoes.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure you’re still breathing,” she teased, tugging her bag up on her shoulder.

You rolled your eyes with a soft smile. “I’ll try not to die in the next 24 hours.”

She paused, half out the door, then turned back to you. Her face softened. “Seriously. Stop thinking you’re burdening me. If you need anything—anything—just ask. You're not taking anything from my life. You're in it.”

Her voice carried more weight than it usually did, and for a moment, you felt it. The sincerity. The safety. She felt more like a sister than S/n ever had.

You blinked back the emotion rising behind your eyes and gave a small nod. “Thanks, Millie.”

“I mean it.” She pointed at you, backing down the hall. “I will drag you out of here if I have to. Preferably not by the hair, but I’ll do what I must.”

You laughed softly, and just like that, she was gone—leaving behind warmth in her wake.

A few blocks away, Kimi let out a sigh as he leaned against the balcony railing outside a quiet café, phone pressed to his ear. The Monaco sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting long golden shadows over the sleek buildings and cobblestone streets.

“My place won’t be ready for a few more months,” he murmured into the phone, watching a group of teenagers skateboard across the square. “Still doing the kitchen, flooring, painting… all of it.”

His father’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm but filled with quiet concern. “You sure you don’t want to stay at the summer home? You don’t have to live in a hotel or whatever.”

“I’ll be fine, Dad. I’ve got options.” Kimi glanced around. “Just want to figure it out myself. Starting my life here, you know?”

There was a pause on the line before his dad spoke again. “Alright. But if you need us, if anything goes wrong, just say the word. You’re never alone out there, Kimi.”

He smiled faintly, nodding to himself. “I know. Thanks.”

After hanging up, he stepped onto the sidewalk, stuffing his phone into his jacket pocket and letting the breeze hit his face. Monaco had been a dream for a while—fresh start, new chapter, Formula 1 career in full swing. He had the money, the status, the success. But none of that helped with finding a place ready to live in right now. The luxury flat he’d purchased was stunning—top floor, sea view, sunlight flooding through tall windows—but far from move-in ready.

As he rounded a corner distractedly, his shoulder bumped into someone.

“Oh—sorry,” he said immediately, looking up.

Amilla laughed, steadying herself and crouching down to pick up her phone. “No worries there. I’ve dealt with worse than being body-checked by someone who smells like expensive cologne.”

He offered an apologetic half-smile. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She dusted off her phone and tucked it away. “I’ve been there. My brain’s a whirlwind right now. My friend—she’s kind of going through hell.”

Kimi raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Amilla nodded, ready to talk like she’d known him for years. “Yeah. Her dad’s cutting her off, like boom, done. Next month’s rent is the last bit of help she’s getting.”

“That sucks,” Kimi muttered with a frown.

“Right? And she’s here in Monaco—alone, juggling two jobs, going to school, barely keeping it together. And her parents just bailed on her because her sister’s getting married. The whole Cinderella step-family situation.”

He blinked. “That’s… harsh.”

“Tell me about it,” Amilla said, adjusting her bag. “She’s too proud to ask for help. I keep offering. Hell, I told her to move in with me. I said I’d kick out my boyfriend if I had to. He wouldn’t even fight me on it.”

Kimi chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve got her back.”

“Always,” she said.

He paused, thoughtful. “Actually… is she looking for a roommate?”

Amilla’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Are you psychic?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I literally said earlier I’d help her find a roommate! I said I’d start asking around! And now, boom, here you are, asking me that.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, my place isn’t ready, and I don’t want to do hotels for months. I’ve been thinking about finding something temporary. If she’s got space…”

Amilla squinted at him suspiciously. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“Not last time I checked,” he deadpanned.

“Good. You’re about to change someone’s life,” she said, pulling her phone out again. “What’s your name?”

“Kimi.”

She grinned. “Alright, Kimi. I think I’ve got someone you really need to meet.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The rain had faded into a soft drizzle by late afternoon, painting the Monaco streets in muted silver and gold. You were still wrapped in your hoodie and blanket, curled up on the couch as your laptop sat open on the coffee table—an unfinished motorsports engineering module on engine telemetry blinking back at you, completely ignored.

Your mind was elsewhere. Namely: rent, your sister’s wedding, and the gnawing ache of being left behind by the very people meant to love you unconditionally.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet.

You shuffled toward it slowly, blanket still draped over your shoulders like a makeshift shield.

When you opened the door, Amilla stood there in her rain-damp hoodie, cheeks pink from the breeze and wearing a grin that made your suspicion kick in immediately.

“You brought something, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Technically someone,” she corrected, stepping aside.

And that’s when you saw him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Tousled dark hair damp from the rain. A sharp jawline, hoodie pulled low, and deep brown eyes—warm, steady, quietly observing.

You knew that face instantly.

Kimi Antonelli.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor.

Formula 1’s golden boy. Mercedes’ pride. The Kimi Antonelli, with a junior record longer than your coursework, and a fanbase that included a good half of your class. You’d watched his F2 performances like gospel before he ever made the jump to F1. His Monaco junior win? Practically mandatory viewing in your program.

And now he was standing on your doormat, like this was totally normal.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you said, voice slightly too high-pitched. “Um. Come in?”

He nodded and stepped inside, doing a polite scan of your modest flat while Amilla followed, already peeling off her coat like she owned the place.

“You didn’t say Kimi Antonelli,” you hissed at her, eyes wide as she flopped on the edge of your couch.

“Did I not?” she blinked. “I just said Kimi.”

“You said Kimi like he was some guy you bumped into, not like Kimi Antonelli, the Formula One driver who literally eats data for breakfast.”

“Okay, dramatic.”

You gave her a pointed look, and then—without hesitation—grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

“Are you out of your mind?” you whisper-yelled.

“What?” she asked, genuinely confused. “He’s chill!”

“He’s also famous! Like, motorsports world famous. Do you not realize I wrote a paper on his F4 championship run last year? I have a graph on my laptop right now that literally has his race telemetry in it!”

Amilla blinked. “Wait. That’s him?”

“YES, Amilla. That’s him.”

She paused. Then grinned slowly. “Damn. Well. He’s cuter in person.”

“Not the point!”

You began pacing. “I can’t just… live with Kimi Antonelli. What if I geek out? What if I say something dumb? What if he sees my notes and realizes I analyze his braking patterns for fun?!”

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” she said, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Second, you’re acting like he’s a rock star or royalty. He’s just a dude who drives really fast and wears a fancy fireproof suit.”

You stared at her.

“I swear to God, Amilla—”

“Hey. You need help. He needs a place. You both know how to change tires. It’s a match made in motorsports heaven.”

You blinked, exhaled hard, and pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay. Fine. Cool. Calm.”

“Exactly,” she smiled. “Now put on your chill face. You’re the girl who knows how to recite FIA regulations from memory. You’ve got this.”

You nodded slowly, squaring your shoulders.

And then both of you walked back out to the living room like nothing had happened.

Kimi looked up from where he’d politely sat himself on the couch, his hands folded in his lap. His eyes flicked between the two of you with faint curiosity.

“Sorry,” Amilla said breezily. “Just a minor fashion emergency.”

You shot her a glare that she absolutely ignored.

You sat across from Kimi, trying to look neutral—cool, composed, totally not someone who once stayed up watching his entire rookie season highlight reel on YouTube.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “You’re looking for a place, and I’m… well. Being kicked out by my parents. Seems like we might be able to help each other.”

Kimi gave a small nod, his expression relaxed. “Yeah. My place won’t be ready until December. Renovations are taking longer than expected.”

“You’re in Monaco full-time?” you asked.

“For now. It’s a good base. I’m barely here during race weeks, anyway, so you’d have the place mostly to yourself.”

You nodded, your mind already calculating logistics: space, schedule, rent split. It could work. If you didn’t combust from awkward fan energy first.

“I mean,” Amilla chimed in with a grin. “She’s a motorsports engineering student, so if anything breaks, she can probably fix it better than your mechanics.”

You flushed slightly, and Kimi smiled—just barely, but it was there.

“That’s good to know,” he said, looking at you, not amused… but intrigued.

You swallowed, nodded once. “Okay. Trial run. One week. If we don’t kill each other, we can talk about extending it.”

“Fair enough.”

Amilla stood and stretched. “And with that, I have officially solved your housing crisis. You’re welcome, Monaco.”

You and Kimi both said at the same time, “It’s not like that.”

You paused.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

A beat.

Then, a flicker of a smile on both your faces.

Not like that… but maybe something was about to begin anyway

When Amilla left, the sound of the door clicking shut behind her echoed just a little too loudly. And then came the silence. Heavy and awkward—not uncomfortable, just new.

You stood there for a second, not quite knowing where to start. Kimi stood across the room, still taking it all in, hands in the pockets of his hoodie as his brown eyes scanned your small, lived-in flat. No judgment, just quiet observation.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“It’s not bad,” you said, gesturing around vaguely. “Small kitchen, yeah. And the lighting sucks at night—but it’s a decent two-bedroom. The second one’s kind of bland, just a guest room right now. But you’re free to do what you want with it. Move furniture. Put up posters. Burn sage. Whatever.”

He nodded once, offering a faint smile. “Well… thank you. Seriously.”

You tucked your arms around yourself, half-shrugging. “And, uh, I mostly live on takeout. I work two jobs and still help pay for stuff around here, even when my dad was covering the rent. I also cover my school tuition, some bills, extra things. So if you get hungry, there’s some tea and sad leftovers, but… you’ll probably wanna grab something from down the street.”

He let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “It’s fine. I can manage.”

You studied his expression for a second—unreadable, but not distant. Then you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and gave a sheepish laugh.

“I feel like a loser. I’m sorry you have to stay in a place this… bland.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and his voice was gentle when he said, “Your friend told me the basics of your situation. So it’s fine. Really.”

Some of the tension left your shoulders. Not all, but enough to speak with less of a guard.

“At least we can make this work,” you said, crossing to the window and tugging at the blinds. The city outside glowed faintly through the mist. “You said your place will be ready by December. Until then, you can help with some bills, keep things running. And then when you move out, I’ll… probably move back home.”

He nodded. “Just tell me my half. I’ll take care of it.”

You hesitated. That quiet promise—I’ll take care of it—wasn’t something you were used to hearing without fine print.

Your life had always been private. Not by choice, just… survival. You’d learned to keep the details quiet, tucked behind tired smiles and vague explanations. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like Kimi was trying to push past that. He wasn’t asking for details. He wasn’t giving advice. He was just here—in it, without judgment.

Maybe that’s why it was easier to breathe.

You gestured down the hall. “Guest room’s yours. Go ahead and check it out, unpack, move things around, whatever you need to do.”

“Sure thing,” he said, walking toward the hallway, then pausing as he turned to you. “Thanks. For letting me stay here.”

You nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Then he glanced over his shoulder again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Honestly… I’m kind of surprised you’re not freaking out.”

Your stomach flipped.

And deep down, you were. Your heart had been skipping beats since he first stepped inside.

You swallowed and gave a dry laugh. “It’s nothing.”

He tilted his head like he didn’t quite buy it.

You sighed, rubbing your palm against the back of your neck. “Okay. Fine. I know who you are.”

His expression barely changed—just a slight lift of one brow, waiting.

“I study F1 alongside my main coursework,” you admitted, voice softening. “Motorsports engineering. I want to work in it—trackside, data, power unit management, maybe race strategy. You were in one of my research papers last semester.”

Kimi blinked.

“I broke down your Spa performance frame by frame for a telemetry analysis project,” you added, managing a nervous smile. “So, yeah. You being here? It feels a little fake. Like… dream-sequence, simulation glitch kind of fake.”

He smiled—just slightly, but you caught it. Not smug. Not flattered. Just… quiet understanding.

“Well,” he said, voice even, “give it a few days. It’ll feel real eventually.”

You exhaled through your nose, half-laughing. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

He chuckled, the sound low and real, and disappeared down the hall to explore the guest room. You stood there for a moment, staring at the place he’d been, and whispered under your breath—

“Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t fall for the racecar driver. Don’t—”

But part of you already knew… it might be too late.

The rest of the day had gone by more smoothly than you expected. The initial awkwardness had faded into something calmer—comfortable, even. There were quiet stretches, soft conversation, and occasional shared glances that said this isn’t so bad without needing the words.

You’d talked a bit—about your schoolwork, the café job, the restaurant shifts, how most of your nights ended with sore feet and cold takeout. Kimi had listened more than he spoke, not in a disinterested way, but with a kind of quiet attention that felt rare. He didn’t cut you off. He didn’t pretend to know better. He just… listened.

By evening, you were both in pajamas, legs folded on the couch with a container of warm takeout between you. Something with noodles. Something comforting. Rain tapped gently at the windows while the TV played something forgettable in the background.

You set your food aside, wiping your fingers on a napkin as you grabbed your worn notebook from the table and flipped it open, pen already in hand.

“I’ll pick up some more shifts this week,” you said casually, scribbling a quick note. “Just so we’re even on bills. I don’t want you covering more than me.”

Kimi glanced over, chopsticks paused midair. “You don’t have to do that. I can pull more weight, if you need.”

You shook your head, still writing. “No. This is fifty-fifty. I’ll also get a copy of the spare key made tomorrow, just in case you come back when I’m out.”

He set his container down. “You’re going to take on extra shifts… on top of everything else?”

“Yep.” You underlined a word on your list and gave a small nod of confirmation.

“You have studies,” he pointed out, frowning slightly. “Lectures, labs, assignments—motorsports isn’t exactly light work.”

You leaned back on the couch, exhaling slowly, pen still in hand. “Late turn-ins might happen. I’ll figure it out.”

He stared at you for a second, like he was trying to understand how someone could be so… determined. Or maybe just stubborn.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said, voice low.

“I’m not,” you replied softly, meeting his eyes. “I’m proving something to myself.”

He didn’t argue with that.

You gave a small shrug, voice growing quieter. “I want this to work. I don’t care if this is temporary. I don’t care if it’s just for a few months. I want it to feel fair while you’re here.”

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The light from the TV danced across his face—soft golds and blues washing over his expression.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think it’s impressive. What you’re doing.”

You blinked.

“Most people would’ve gone home by now,” he continued. “Most people do go home. You stayed. You work. You study. You make it all fit.”

Your chest ached a little, but in a different way now. It wasn’t the sharp loneliness from earlier this week—it was something gentler. Softer.

“Thanks,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

He gave a small nod, reaching for his food again. “I’ll pick up groceries tomorrow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked. “Yeah. You can’t live off takeout forever.”

“Says the guy currently eating takeout.”

He looked over at you, a teasing glint in his eye. “Touché.”

You smiled, finally relaxing against the couch. Maybe it was the pajamas. Maybe it was the way the night had settled into something that felt like friendship. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the first time in a long time someone had sat beside you and simply… stayed.

The flat was quiet, well into the night. The soft hum of city lights outside barely filtered through the windows, and the leftover scent of dinner still lingered faintly in the air. You’d retreated to your room hours ago after a quick goodnight, worn out from juggling your shift and online coursework. The door clicked gently behind you, and that was that.

Kimi stood in the hallway for a second longer than necessary, listening to the quiet.

It wasn’t awkward—just still. Still enough to think.

He didn’t want to come off as distant or ungrateful. But truthfully, this wasn’t easy for him either. Living with someone new, especially someone he didn’t really know. Someone who clearly had their own world of weight on their shoulders. He didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. Enough to recognize grit when he saw it.

And you… you carried it like armor.

He had a quiet respect for you, though he hadn’t said it yet. Not many people would’ve stayed here, held their ground, fought to keep their life afloat when it would’ve been easier to pack up and go home. And not many would’ve offered a total stranger a place to stay in the middle of that chaos.

He turned off the lights and disappeared into the spare room, the sheets still starchy from being unused, the space blank and untouched. But it didn’t feel cold—not completely. There was a softness to this place. Maybe because someone like you lived here.

The morning came with soft footsteps and the smell of faintly burnt toast.

It became a routine, surprisingly fast. Something you two practiced as soon as possible.

Within the two days there.

You were always up first, even if it was still dark outside, dragging your sleepy self into the bathroom and giving a quiet knock on his door before you passed, just in case. He appreciated that. Small things mattered.

You showed him where the towels were, left them folded on the counter. Showed him the shampoo, the toothpaste drawer, the stash of backup toothbrushes tucked behind the mirror.

“If you ever forget something or need extra, it’s all here,” you had said, voice low and hoarse with sleep.

And then you were gone—off to your early job with barely time to sip the coffee you made, leaving behind a note and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

Try to eat today.

Y/N

By the time he made it to the kitchen, the place was already quiet again, your energy gone with you. But the sandwich was warm. And the note made him smile, just a little.

Third day became comfortable to work with.

On your days off, the rhythm shifted. You were more present, still moving fast, but now he had company for breakfast, sometimes lunch, and always dinner. You cooked when you could—nothing extravagant, but warm and homemade. When you were too tired, you ordered in and refused to apologize for it.

And Kimi? He adjusted.

He took out the trash. Washed the dishes without being asked. Made you tea once when he noticed your eyes glassy from staring at the screen too long. He didn’t say much, but he was paying attention.

Okay.

He could work with this.

He could fall into this groove, this quiet understanding between two people just trying to get by without falling apart. You had rules, a system, and he respected it. He wasn’t here to cause chaos. He was here to figure things out—and somehow, this… you… were a part of that now.

One week.

That’s all it was supposed to be.

But as he sipped your burnt coffee with toast crumbs on his hoodie and the smell of your vanilla shampoo still clinging to the hallway…

He wasn’t so sure one week would be enough.

You had slipped into a routine almost seamlessly, like life had made space for this temporary chapter without complaint.

On the kitchen wall, a paper calendar hung—simple, handwritten, with your weekly schedule mapped out in black ink. Your shifts at the café, your online lectures, your study hours, all plotted in little boxes that dictated your time like clockwork. Kimi’s eyes had skimmed over it once or twice, and even though his own schedule didn’t quite match yours—morning workouts, sim sessions, team meetings—there was never a moment of tension. Just quiet understanding.

You didn’t hover. You didn’t pry. And neither did he.

A week. That was the plan.

Seven days to see if this could work.

But by day four, he already knew.

This wasn’t just working—this was comfortable. A still kind of comfort, something that wasn’t loud or needy, something that slipped into your bones without warning. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but he did. He enjoyed the silence, the absence of pressure. The way nothing here was performative.

He came in that evening after a long workout, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie damp at the collar. The sun had just started to dip behind the buildings, casting warm, tired light across the flat.

You were curled up on the couch, headphones in, completely unaware of him. Textbooks, printed PDFs, and sticky notes were spread out across the cushions and coffee table. Your laptop glowed in front of you, your eyes narrowed in concentration. Every now and then, you’d mumble a technical term or an answer under your breath, voice low and rhythmic like a chant.

Kimi paused at the entrance, hand on the back of his neck as he watched for a moment. You didn’t look up. You didn’t notice him.

And somehow, that made it better.

When you finally caught his presence in your peripheral vision, you pulled one earbud out, glancing up.

Your eyes met, and you gave a small, awkward wave.

He returned it—just a flick of his fingers—and nodded once before brushing past toward the hallway and into his room.

Day four.

So far, so good.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the sounds of your quiet study session returned to fill the space again.

He dropped his bag by the door of his room, peeled off the hoodie, and let out a breath as he leaned back against the wall. There was something about hearing you mutter suspension terms and fuel flow limits like gospel, seeing your notes taped to the table’s edge, your tired eyes lit by the glow of a laptop screen—that felt strangely grounding.

He didn’t know your whole story. Not yet. But he was starting to understand the edges of it.

You were built out of grit.

And maybe that’s what made the silence feel less empty.

He stepped back out for a moment, bare feet against the cold floor, heading into the kitchen for water. You didn’t say anything, didn’t pause your studying, but your gaze flicked up again—just briefly—as if to acknowledge him.

He filled his glass at the sink.

“I’m impressed,” he said finally, voice low.

You paused, blinking, earbud dangling from your hand. “By what?”

“You’ve been at this for hours.”

You looked at your notes, then back at him with a small shrug. “Comes with the territory. Midterms are brutal.”

He nodded slowly. “I didn’t expect you to be this… focused.”

A corner of your mouth lifted. “Motorsport engineering isn’t exactly a soft degree.”

“No,” he said, sipping from his glass. “No, it’s not.”

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t empty. It sat between you comfortably, like something mutual. Something earned.

And as Kimi padded back to his room, that faint smile still lingered on your lips.

Maybe it was a small thing.

But for both of you?

It was a start.

Day five.

By now, the rhythm was second nature.

The soft knock on his door—your signal—and the faint patter of your feet across the hallway meant your day had started. It was always the same: your early morning shower, the hum of water behind the bathroom door, while Kimi moved through his own slow start to the morning. He’d pack his bag quietly, folding his team gear, checking emails from his phone, lacing his sneakers while the city was still wrapped in that soft Monaco hush.

He had a full day ahead—meetings with Mercedes, sim work, a debrief—but he didn’t mind the calm that came before it all.

You never rushed. Even when time was tight, there was a certain steadiness to the way you handled mornings.

In the bathroom, the mirror fogged as you brushed your teeth and combed through your damp hair, your internal monologue playing out as always—reminders, encouragement, quiet little pep talks. They helped you keep your shoulders squared and your head up, even on days when the exhaustion clung heavier than usual.

Once dressed and presentable, you slipped out, hoodie zipped halfway up, bag slung over one shoulder. As you stepped into the hallway, Kimi passed you without a word, offering a subtle nod, and disappeared into the bathroom in your wake.

No words. No need for them.

In the kitchen, you worked quickly, the familiar scent of eggs and toasted bread warming the small flat. You knew what he liked by now—even if he never said it out loud. The breakfast sandwich you made wasn’t anything special on paper, but you caught on to the way he always ate it first, the way he lingered at the counter longer on the days you made it fresh.

You wrapped it up carefully, not because it was fancy, but because you cared. Placed his drink beside it—just the way he liked it, not too sweet. And then came the little note.

Don’t skip breakfast. —Y/N

Same handwriting. Same casual tone. Still made him pause every time.

You grabbed your apron off the chair, looped your house key onto your wrist, and placed his key beside the sandwich. Neatly. Like clockwork.

And then, just like that, you were out the door.

Kimi stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, freshly showered, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp at the ends. The scent of breakfast met him immediately, and the sight of that neat little package on the counter grounded him.

He reached for the note first, scanning the familiar handwriting. Then his eyes shifted to the calendar on the wall—your schedule for the day already penned in—knowing exactly when you’d be home and when you’d be gone.

He tucked the note into his pocket, grabbed the sandwich and drink, and then took the spare key. He stood there for a moment, fingers brushing over the countertop, like maybe he didn’t quite want to leave just yet.

The light above the stove was still on—your little habit of leaving a soft glow behind.

He turned it off before locking the door behind him.

Life was quiet.

Private.

Predictable, in a way neither of you had expected.

Something small, something stable.

But beneath all that simplicity… something else was beginning to take shape.

Something unspoken.

Something that mattered.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The soft hum of the heater and the quiet tick of the clock on the wall were the only sounds filling the flat. You’d just finished deep-cleaning—every surface wiped down, the floors swept and mopped until they glowed faintly under the warm light. The air smelled like lemon and something faintly floral. It was the kind of clean that let you breathe a little easier.

You sat on the couch, curled slightly toward Kimi, your legs tucked under you. He sat beside you, arms resting lazily on his thighs, his expression calm, even if his eyes looked a little sleepy from the long day. Comfortable. Familiar.

It had been a week.

Seven quiet days.

No lectures from your mother about how S/n’s career was thriving. No passive-aggressive remarks from your father about how much he had “invested” in you while praising your sister’s modeling contracts. No dinner table silences while your sister bragged about the next photoshoot or yacht trip. No constant comparison, no bitterness hanging in the air like a weight you couldn’t shake.

Just… this.

You. Him. Silence that wasn’t suffocating.

He didn’t say much, but he listened. Really listened. And sometimes, his eyes spoke louder than any of your family’s noise ever had. Kimi had this stillness to him, a way of waiting for the right moment to speak—and when he did, it always came without judgment.

It felt right.

You reached for the paper you’d left on the coffee table—a page so carefully written it might as well have been a legal contract. You laid your pen across it and exhaled, letting the moment settle before you broke the quiet.

“Alright,” you said, drawing his gaze to yours, “Did you like the week here? Is it something you can actually see yourself doing until December?”

Kimi blinked slowly, thinking, then hummed in that low, thoughtful way he did. You gestured to the paper in front of you.

“If so, you can sign this.”

He leaned forward and picked it up, scanning the contents quietly. His brows furrowed slightly, reading more out of thoroughness than confusion. You explained softly, not wanting to break the gentle ease of the moment.

“It’s a rental agreement. Super basic—my version of it, at least,” you said with a dry chuckle. “I’m actually friends with the woman who owns this place. She’s old-school but sweet. She knows you’re here and told me to consider putting you on the lease. Said, ‘no freeloaders’”—you mimicked her voice and smiled faintly—“so this makes it official.”

Kimi’s lips quirked up at the corners. “Sounds fair.”

You nodded. “I can’t let you live here for free, no matter how temporary it is.”

But before you could say more, he looked up from the paper and said, “If I stay… we’ll have to make some adjustments.”

You tilted your head. “You’ve been here for one week.”

He hummed in amusement, shrugging one shoulder. “Yeah. And I already know this place needs help.”

You laughed under your breath. “You mean it’s bland.”

“I mean it’s lacking life. No offense, but this couch is tragic. And your curtains are basically grey bed sheets with commitment issues.”

You rolled your eyes, half-grinning. “Okay, interior designer.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, setting the paper down gently, “If I’m staying, let’s make it a place that feels like both of ours. Doesn’t have to be extravagant. Just… something that doesn’t feel like you’ve been surviving.”

Your smile dimmed, just slightly.

“I know I come from money,” you admitted, your voice quieter, “but my parents are currently acting like I don’t exist. So asking for help to redo the place? Not an option.”

Kimi nodded once, almost like he’d expected that answer. “Then let me pay for it.”

You shook your head instantly. “I can’t let you do that. I work two jobs, I’m managing—”

“You shouldn’t have to manage alone,” he cut in gently. “Let me.”

You opened your mouth, and he beat you to it.

“You work in the mornings, come home looking half-dead, then study like your future’s balanced on a wire. You barely sleep. You live off instant noodles and cold coffee. You’ve done all this on your own, and I get it, that’s who you are—but I’m not going to sit here for the next few months pretending I don’t see it.”

You blinked, lips parting slightly, breath caught somewhere between protest and something softer.

Kimi leaned back a little, resting his elbow on the couch arm. “I’m not trying to buy you a gold chandelier. I’m just saying… we pick a day, go shopping, you tell me what you like, and I’ll cover it.”

You frowned. “I don’t want you to feel like you owe me for letting you stay.”

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “I want to do this because I can.”

Your jaw clenched. You weren’t used to people offering without strings. Without guilt. Without expectation.

You looked down at the contract, the pen still sitting atop it.

Quiet filled the space again. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like something unfinished. It felt like a turning point.

“You’re not going to vanish in three weeks, are you?” you asked softly, still not meeting his eyes.

“No,” Kimi replied, just as soft. “Not unless you kick me out.”

You finally looked at him, searching his face for anything false. But all you saw was that same steadiness he’d had since day one. Calm. Certain. A little sleepy, sure—but sincere.

You reached for the pen.

“Okay,” you said, pushing it toward him. “Let’s make this official."

The pen hit the paper with a soft click, sealing it—simple, final, and strangely relieving.

It was official now. You weren’t doing this alone anymore.

You took a quiet breath as Kimi signed his name, and the air in the flat felt different. Not heavier. Not tenser.

Lighter.

You picked up your phone from the coffee table and sent a quick text to Amilla.

“He signed. It’s official. Thank you—for everything.”

It didn’t take her long to reply.

“Of course. I told you—he’s not just a pretty face. Proud of you, roomie.” Followed by a row of glitter and key emojis.

You smiled faintly to yourself. Amilla always knew what to say without making it dramatic. She understood your silences, your hesitations, and your need for caution in a world that felt far too quick to invade your peace.

You glanced back at Kimi, who was watching you calmly, waiting.

"Okay," you said, folding the paper. "Just want to make one thing clear.”

He straightened slightly, giving you his full attention.

“I don’t do media. I don’t want to be posted, tagged, or casually snapped in a background photo. My sister? She lives for the spotlight. She’d swim in flashing cameras if she could. But me?” You shook your head. “I prefer privacy. I like my life to be mine. So, if we’re going to make this roommate thing work—please don’t bring attention to me.”

Kimi’s gaze didn’t waver. His brown eyes softened with something that felt close to understanding. “Of course. I post what I need to for the team, for the sport. But outside of that? I keep things quiet. You have my word, Y/n. I won’t expose anything.”

You held out your hand, pinky slightly raised like muscle memory. “Shake on it?”

He grinned a little, grasping your hand in a warm shake. “We’re friends,” you added, voice light.

“And roommates,” he added back with a small nod.

The week rolled forward, and so did the rhythm.

The routine didn’t shift much—early mornings, overlapping schedules, the quiet handoffs between your departures and his returns. But your shoulders were looser now. Work didn’t feel like a crushing weight. Studying didn’t feel like climbing uphill with a backpack full of bricks. Everything was still hard—but it was… quieter. Easier, in the smallest of ways.

Maybe it was the fact that, for once, someone was standing beside you rather than watching from the sidelines.

The café was slow for a Monday.

You’d just finished ringing out a customer and were stepping back behind the counter to grab your notepad when the soft chime above the door rang again. You glanced up instinctively.

Kimi.

You blinked in surprise and immediately leaned over the counter, lowering your voice like it was instinct. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged casually, hands tucked into his pockets. “I came to see you.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, but there was no real bite behind it. “Kimi…”

“I’d be a fool to let my friend work herself to the bone without checking in,” he added smoothly.

You let out a small sigh, trying not to smile. “And I’d be a fool if I let you get caught loitering and end up in a gossip column. You want the entire internet dissecting who I am?”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Fair enough.”

You turned toward the register, keying in a simple drink order. “I’ll put something in, that way you’re not technically just standing here. Plus, it gives me cover.”

“Appreciate the protection,” he teased lightly.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. You handed him a receipt stub as you passed by the espresso machine.

“You’re really keeping a low profile, huh?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” you said, not turning to look at him. “I like it that way. My Instagram is private, barely used. I don't share my life unless I want to. It’s the only thing that still feels like mine.”

He hummed, and part of you wondered—had he looked? You wouldn’t be surprised. You were rooming with a professional driver; you Googled him on night one.

Still, he didn’t push.

“Are you busy tomorrow?” he asked, voice casual again.

You blinked, grabbing a clean cup. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I thought… if you’re free, maybe we go look at some stuff for the apartment. Pick out a few things. You know, make this place feel more like a home.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. That offer again. He wasn’t letting it go.

“I’m free all morning,” you said, not looking up yet. “But I have a night shift. My other job needs extra waitresses, so I picked up the shift.”

He nodded, understanding. “Then we make it a morning thing. Quick. No pressure.”

You finally looked at him, and he was already watching you—steady, quiet, but warm.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Morning it is.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning was shared with soft conversation and quiet plans, the kind that filled the silence with something comforting instead of heavy. You sat at the small kitchen table, scribbling on a sheet of paper with a pen that was nearly out of ink. Your handwriting trailed across the page in your usual organized chaos—eggs, bread, frozen dumplings, oat milk, shampoo… life stuff. It felt normal.

Kimi leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes casually following the motion of your hand. The morning light filtered in, casting everything in a warm hue, making your little flat feel more like a home than it ever had before.

You paused mid-word and glanced up at him, brow quirking. “Can I ask why you’re wearing a cap and sunglasses inside the apartment?”

He didn’t move, just shrugged lightly. “Habit.”

You snorted. “You look like you’re trying to go incognito at a gas station.”

“Well, technically, I am.”

You gave him a look, your tone more amused than annoyed. “There’s no one out to get you here. Just me. And I already know your face.”

He pulled the sunglasses off slowly, a sigh slipping out as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know,” he muttered. “But I’m trying here, okay? You said you didn’t want attention, media… all that. So, I figured I could at least try to be forgettable in public.”

Your pen stilled in your hand, and for a moment you just looked at him—really looked at him.

He wasn’t doing this for himself.

He was doing it for you.

The realization bloomed in your chest like something soft and painful all at once. He wasn’t obligated to care. But he did. In his quiet, awkward way—this was his way of protecting you, of making sure you didn’t end up on someone’s Twitter thread just because he happened to walk beside you.

Your voice softened, a quiet thanks behind your words. “That’s… actually really sweet of you.”

He just hummed, like he didn’t know what to say to that. You knew him well enough by now to know that was his version of you’re welcome.

By the time you both made it to the car, you had your list folded neatly and tucked into your pocket, though you were beginning to suspect it would be completely ignored. The second you sat in the passenger seat and buckled up, you could tell—Kimi had other plans.

“So,” you began cautiously, glancing over at him as he started the engine, “we’re getting small stuff. Essentials. That’s the plan.”

He shook his head slowly, pulling into the road, eyes forward. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“We’re getting a new TV,” he said plainly. “Couch. Kitchen stuff. Bathroom. Towels that don’t feel like sandpaper. And for the love of everything—bedroom upgrades. Especially yours.”

You looked at him like he had just declared war on your minimal existence. “Kimi, we agreed—small stuff. Like groceries and maybe one decorative plant.”

He gave you a look, one brow raised as he turned down a quiet street.

“I’ve been living here for over a week,” he said. “Your mattress is basically an ancient fossil, your desk chair is about to lose a leg, and your closet door literally moans in pain every time you open it.”

You opened your mouth, then shut it, then sighed dramatically. “Okay… fair. But still.”

“You’ve made this place work on survival mode,” he continued, more gently now. “You deserve something that feels good. Comfortable. I’m not saying go full luxury—just let it feel like a real home.”

You frowned, fiddling with the edge of your seatbelt. “But I can’t let you buy all of that. That’s not fair.”

“I’m not offering charity,” he said. “I’m offering a living space. One we both share. I can afford it. You already do everything—work, study, clean, cook. Let me cover the things I can.”

You looked over at him, the weight of those words anchoring you somewhere deep in your chest. He wasn’t pitying you. He was trying to meet you where you stood—without ego, without strings.

“…Fine,” you murmured. “But only if I get to pick the color scheme.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “As long as it’s not mustard yellow.”

You gasped. “That’s literally the color of one of the pillows we bought!”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re the worst.”

“Yet somehow, still your roommate.”

You leaned your head back against the headrest as the car rolled to a stoplight, the city opening up ahead of you.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t dreading what came next.

You were almost… excited.

And that?

That was new.

The engine hummed softly beneath you, the city passing in a blur of stone buildings and pastel balconies as Kimi drove with one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the breeze, and the air between you both was easy, like it had settled into something comfortable.

You glanced over at him, your cheek resting against your knuckles. “So… when you leave for race week, I’m gonna be that person screaming at the TV.”

Kimi glanced at you with a half-smile, not taking his eyes off the road. “You better be. I expect dramatic commentary.”

“Oh, you’ll get commentary,” you said, chuckling. “But you better FaceTime me. I’m expecting updates, track gossip, paddock drama—the works.”

“I will,” he said, a little more serious now. “I’ll call you when I can. Keep the routine alive.”

You hummed at that, watching the sun filter through the windshield. “And don’t blow your cover,” you added after a beat, voice softer. “No one knows we live together. No one even knows who I am. I’d kind of like to keep it that way.”

He nodded once, understanding instantly. “I got you. I’ll keep it quiet.”

There was a short pause before a grin slowly tugged at your lips. “But… if you can get me something signed by Fernando Alonso—a cap, a shirt, I’m not picky—I’ll cook you pasta every night. Real pasta. Handmade if I have time.”

That made him turn his head slightly, one brow lifting with amused surprise. “Pasta every night?”

You nodded solemnly. “Every night.”

He let out a short laugh, eyes flicking back to the road as he leaned into the turn. “That’s not just a gift, that’s blackmail.”

“No, no,” you grinned. “It’s an incentive.”

He smirked, voice lower now, warm and teasing. “An offer… I don’t think a man like me can resist.”

You let out a soft laugh, watching him for a moment, the way his brown eyes were focused ahead, but still so present. You liked that about him. He was quiet, but he always listened.

“Don’t say I never gave you motivation,” you teased.

He glanced at you again with a smile that lingered just a little longer this time. “Noted.”

You ended up picking the couch. A warm, earthy-toned sectional that felt like a soft exhale—something that said home without trying too hard. Next came the dining table, a sleek but simple wooden one with enough room for two, maybe three if Amilla ever dropped by for dinner. Then you spotted it—a recliner, tucked off to the side, and you didn’t even mean to sit down, but once you did, it hugged you in such a way that your body didn’t want to leave it. Kimi noticed. So, it went on the list too.

From there, it was like watching your little flat bloom into something real. Something full of intention.

Fairy lights for the walls.

A couple of canvas prints for that one blank space you always avoided looking at.

Even the tiniest shelf with enough room for a few potted plants—or maybe books you never had time to read but liked having around anyway.

You picked out soft, neutral bedding for your room and a handful of throw pillows that didn’t match perfectly, but felt right. Kimi made a few quiet selections too—storage boxes, an extra lamp, some new towels for the bathroom that didn’t feel like sandpaper. He never said much, but you could tell he was already picturing how it would all fit together.

When the cashier rang everything up and the number flashed on the screen, your stomach dropped.

“Kimi—” you started, already reaching to pull a few items off the cart, “this is too much. Let’s take some of it back. I don’t need half of this.”

But before you could even finish your sentence, Kimi had already stepped forward, card in hand, voice calm and unfazed. “It’s fine.”

And he meant it.

He paid, like it was nothing, and the delivery team promised your furniture would arrive within the next couple days. The receipt was long, the kind that curled when it printed. You just stood there, frozen for a moment, trying to wrap your head around the reality that someone had just… given you all of this without asking for anything in return.

When you walked out of the store, sunlight warming your face and shopping bags in hand, you were quiet. Too quiet. Until finally, you sighed.

“That cost a lot.”

Kimi gave a nonchalant hum. “It’s fine.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it is fine,” he repeated with a small smile, eyes forward as he unlocked the car. “This is your home. I’m just helping it feel like one.”

You slid into the passenger seat, placing the smaller bags down by your feet. “I still can’t believe you’re willing to switch everything around just for me.”

He laughed under his breath as he buckled in. “I’m living there too, remember? You’re not redecorating alone anymore.”

You leaned your head against the window as the car pulled out of the parking lot. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I know,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I wanted to.”

There was no pressure in his voice. No guilt trip. Just quiet, genuine assurance—something you weren’t used to, but were beginning to understand might just be a part of who Kimi was.

“And next,” he added casually, “we’ll pick up supplies to patch the chipped floorboards near the wall. Something small. Just enough to make everything feel put together.”

You let out a soft laugh, half in disbelief, half in appreciation. “You’re full-on nesting in a place that isn’t even yours yet.”

He glanced at you with a smirk. “Maybe it’s starting to feel like it is.”

And somehow, without warning, you smiled—real, wide, warm. For the first time in a long while, things felt… settled.

Almost like home.

Kimi stuck to his word, no hesitation in sight. Every aisle you turned down, he was already ahead of you—reaching for things, checking labels, adding what was needed into the cart like it was second nature.

The cart rolled steadily through the store, now packed with the tools to build a real kitchen: a sleek new toaster, pots and pans that matched for once, an entire set of plates and matching cups, fresh utensils, and a modern coffee maker that caught your eye the second you saw it. Without needing to ask, he grabbed it.

“I figured you’d want that,” he said simply, like he could already picture you bleary-eyed at six in the morning with a mug in hand.

He got you everything—forks, spoons, knives, spatulas, even those oddly specific gadgets you didn’t think anyone ever bought: a garlic press, a lemon zester. Things you didn’t even know you’d use. You walked beside him in a slow stroll, taking it all in.

“Mugs,” you said with a little grin, glancing toward the display.

Kimi slowed down. “Pick one for you and one for me,” he said casually.

You stepped toward the shelf, trailing your fingers over the rows. Some were too cheesy, some too plain. Then your eyes landed on two—ceramic, slightly misshapen, one a warm rust color and the other a faded olive green. They had tiny, subtle ridges like they were handmade. Not flashy. Not perfect. But something about them felt like home.

“These,” you said quietly, turning and gently placing them into the cart like they were delicate treasures.

He looked at them, then at you, and smiled softly. “Good pick.”

The cart moved again. You strolled past more shelves, and he kept the pace. Easy. No pressure.

“Mixer,” you said aloud, stopping beside a bright red stand mixer. “Maybe… we could bake sometime. I’m not amazing at it, but it could be fun.”

Without missing a beat, Kimi reached over, lifting the box like it weighed nothing and placing it in the cart.

“Okay,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Your wish is my command.”

You shot him a look, amused. “Don’t spoil me, Antonelli.”

“Too late,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear.

The moment settled in the quiet between you—something soft and certain, like the edges of a new beginning forming gently under your feet.

And for once, as you both moved through the store with a shared cart, laughter in your voices and warmth in your chest, you didn’t feel like you were doing life alone.

When you finally made it back to the flat, both of you carrying bags and boxes in hand, laughter still lingered in the air—left over from small jokes shared during checkout and the minor chaos of trying to stack everything in the trunk.

The front door closed behind you with a soft thud, and the two of you stood there for a second, surrounded by the beginning of something new. Cardboard boxes lined the walls, bags full of spices and pasta, mugs and plates waiting to be unwrapped. The flat didn’t feel empty anymore. It felt like it was becoming lived in.

You let out a small breath and smiled to yourself, proud of how much you’d gotten done. Then you turned to Kimi, eyes sparkling with something that sat somewhere between gratitude and peace.

“We’ll start putting this all together once the furniture gets here,” you said, motioning toward the boxes. “One big transformation day.”

He nodded with a soft hum, watching you.

“But I’ve got work tonight,” you added with a small pout. “So the construction chaos will have to wait a little.”

You turned, heading to your room with that signature lightness in your step—almost a bounce, like you were holding onto a piece of joy and didn’t want to drop it. “I’ll see you later,” you called over your shoulder. “Don’t get too comfortable without me!”

The door clicked behind you as you went to get ready, and Kimi stood still for a moment in the quiet. His gaze moved slowly over the space—the stacked bags, the half-full cart of potential, the two mismatched mugs resting near the sink.

And then, softly, his lips tugged into a smile.

You were from money, he knew that. A background like yours wasn’t exactly subtle, and yet… you didn’t flaunt it. You didn’t wear it like a badge. You were grounded, driven, and quietly carrying more weight than most people would ever realize. You worked long shifts, studied harder than you let on, and gave even when you had barely anything left for yourself.

Kimi sat on the edge of the couch—the old one for now—and exhaled slowly.

There was something in him, quietly steady, that wanted to shield that goodness in you. Not because you were fragile. But because you shouldn’t have to keep doing it all alone.

And if he could be even a small part of what made this place feel like home for you?

Then yeah.

He was in.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Home.

That’s what it finally felt like.

It wasn’t just a flat anymore—it was yours and his, the quiet rhythm of two people who carved out peace together. The new furniture had arrived earlier that week, and now every corner of the flat whispered comfort. It had been a chaotic but rewarding few days of unpacking, assembling, arranging, laughing over misplaced screws and instruction manuals that made no sense.

The living room was the heart of it all—anchored by the plush, warm-toned couch you had chosen together. The fairy lights cast a soft glow above it, golden and gentle, curling along the wall like a constellation you could trace with your eyes. The throw blanket was folded neatly at one end, pillows fluffed and arranged with just enough care to make it inviting without looking staged. A soft rug sat under the coffee table, grounding the room in cozy textures. The TV was mounted on the wall, sleek and new, with shelves on either side now filled with a growing collection of plants, books, and tiny personal touches.

Even the smallest things made it feel like home—the simple wooden hanger near the door with your two keys hanging side by side, the hallway now holding canvas art that added charm without clutter. The recliner you’d fallen in love with was tucked into the perfect reading corner. The bathroom sparkled with fresh towels, little containers for soaps and lotions, and a faint citrus scent that felt crisp and clean. The dining table, small but elegant, was exactly right for the two of you—and with a third chair, a place always waiting for Amilla.

But it was the kitchen that made you smile the most. Fully stocked, full of life. Mugs on hooks. A new kettle, the mixer you insisted on getting, labeled jars for pasta and spices, the fridge humming quietly. It smelled like something warm had just been baked—or maybe it was just the scent of being settled for once. Safe.

The curtains were drawn over the windows, blocking out whatever the world was doing outside. The world could wait. In here, everything felt still. Content.

You were curled up on the couch, your legs lazily draped across Kimi’s lap, a controller in your hand. He leaned back beside you, one hand on his own controller, the other resting just behind your knees like it belonged there. The screen in front of you glowed with colors, characters zipping past each other in the chaos of Mario Kart.

“Save your shell!” you warned, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Do not use it on me.”

Kimi laughed—an actual, full laugh that crinkled his eyes and softened his face. “No promises.”

You glanced at him with mock betrayal. “Kimi—”

But the moment you turned your attention back to the screen, the shell launched. Your kart spun in place. The controller dropped slightly in your lap as you looked at him, offended but smiling.

“I knew it.”

“Sorry,” he said through a grin, not sounding sorry at all.

When he won the race, you sighed dramatically, tossing your controller gently to the side as you turned to him. “Okay, you win. Champion of the living room. You pick dinner.”

He leaned his head back slightly, thinking. “How about pasta tonight? Something easy.”

You smirked. “Pasta? That’s your whole legacy, Antonelli. You better treat the dish with the honor it deserves.”

Kimi chuckled under his breath, nudging your leg with his knee. “I’ll be gentle.”

There was something so easy about this. The way he kept your world private, respected your boundaries, let you breathe. You knew who he was to the world—an F1 driver, a rising star, someone who had the spotlight whether he asked for it or not. But in this space, in these quiet domestic moments, he didn’t feel like a celebrity. He felt like a person. Like someone who was kind, grounded, funny in a quiet, sarcastic way.

Like a friend.

Maybe something more, but you weren’t ready to name it yet.

The two of you wandered into the kitchen, and you pulled your favorite apron off the hook. As you held it up, Kimi stepped in behind you without a word. You stilled for just a second as his fingers grazed your waist, tying the strings neatly behind your back. It was a small gesture, but it felt intimate—anchoring. His movements were careful, not rushed, not assuming. Just present.

“Alright, chef,” he said softly, his breath warm by your ear. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You turned to him, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Just remember… if I mess this up, it’s because you distracted me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

You nodded, poking his chest with a finger. “Entirely your fault.”

And with that, the two of you moved into a shared rhythm—boiling water, chopping garlic, stirring sauce. There was music playing quietly from your phone, your laughter bubbling up now and then between stories and sarcastic comments. He handed you the basil when you asked for parsley. You pretended to fire him. He offered to grate cheese and almost grated his knuckle.

By the time the pasta hit the plates, the kitchen was a mess and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

But the food was good. The company was better.

The two of you sat across from one another at the dining table, plates nearly cleared, the faint aroma of garlic and basil still clinging to the air. The candle between you flickered softly, casting a golden hue across the space that now truly felt like home.

Kimi's phone sat beside his plate, screen lighting up every few seconds with a vibration, then going dim again. It kept happening—buzz, light, pause. Over and over. But he didn’t look at it. Not once. Just kept twirling his fork idly, listening to the soft music in the background, occasionally meeting your eyes when you spoke.

But you looked at it. You noticed. And curiosity had a way of growing teeth if you didn’t feed it. So, before you could stop yourself, your mouth was already moving.

“What happened to…” you hesitated, pretending to focus on your plate for a moment. “Eliska Babickova?”

His head turned slightly, slowly—eyes meeting yours with a stillness that made your stomach flip. Not accusatory. Not angry. But surprised. As if you'd just unlocked a door you weren’t supposed to find.

“I know her,” you clarified quickly, your voice soft. “I study motorsport engineering, I follow F1 like it’s religion. I’ve seen her. At races. The photos. The beginning of the season—she was in that list of WAGs, right?”

Kimi stayed quiet for a second longer than was comfortable, and you regretted asking already. Then he hummed.

“We still talk,” he said, calmly, as he leaned back in his seat. His tone was neutral, but it didn’t soothe the way your heart twisted in your chest.

You nodded slowly, your hands folding into your lap. You hated how your voice wavered just a little next. “Are you two… still together?”

This time, his gaze met yours directly, and it wasn’t cold—it was just unreadable. He didn’t frown. Didn’t shift. Just… looked at you. Carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed out, waving your hand in dismissal. “That was too personal. I shouldn’t have asked. I mean—living with a girl would be kind of a thing if you were still in a relationship, so I guess I just wondered and—”

“Sometimes,” Kimi said, interrupting gently, “some things should stay personal.”

It wasn’t cruel. Not even sharp. Just firm. Like a closed door with a sign that read not right now.

Still, it stung.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy, but it was thick enough to notice. You laughed—too quickly, too forced. “Right. Yeah. Totally fair,” you said, clearing your throat and forcing a smile. “Totally agree. Mind my business.”

He didn’t say anything immediately. Just shifted his focus back to the last bite on his plate.

You pushed your own food around with your fork, lips pressing together as you tried not to let the disappointment show. You’d let yourself get too comfortable, too familiar. You thought you were close enough to ask. And maybe that was the worst part—feeling like you misread the closeness that had begun to build between you.

Still, you said nothing more, and he didn’t offer further explanation.

And somehow, the candle in the center of the table flickered just a little smaller.

The plates between you were mostly cleared, the soft clinking of silverware the only sound in the apartment for a few moments. The flicker of candlelight danced across the table, and Kimi’s phone buzzed again on the table beside his plate, lighting up the screen for the fifth time in the last few minutes. Still, he didn’t touch it.

Instead, he leaned back slightly and exhaled, voice low. “I’ll be leaving soon.”

You glanced up at him from where you were nudging the last bit of pasta on your plate. “Race week?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You nodded too, slowly, then your eyes flicked down toward your phone. “My sister’s engagement party is coming up.” Your tone was flat, almost rehearsed. “Figured I’d go back home for it.”

His brows drew together slightly in concern. “You’ll be alright on your own?”

That question hit something deeper than expected. Your fingers tightened around your fork, then relaxed. “They’re my family, Kimi. Not wild animals.”

“I know,” he said gently, his voice calm, not challenging. “But… you’ve said it yourself, things are complicated with them. I just thought—”

“Some things should stay personal,” you snapped softly, and as soon as the words left your mouth, you regretted them.

There was a pause. Not sharp. Just heavy.

You sighed, rubbing your palm along the tablecloth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Your eyes lifted to meet his. “It just… caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Kimi gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving yours. “No offense taken.”

He reached for his glass, took a sip, then set it down and leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you want me to come with you?”

You blinked, unsure if you heard him right. “What?”

“To the party,” he clarified. “If you send me the date and it’s after my main race day, I’ll try to make it.”

You hesitated, taken aback by the offer. “Kimi, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” he said. “But I will if you want me there.”

You studied his face for a moment. Calm, sincere. There wasn’t a hint of pity in his tone—just quiet support. You weren’t used to that. Especially not from someone who knew how messy your family dynamic could be.

You looked down at your hands, then back up. “I’ll think about it.”

He gave you a small smile, the kind that didn’t press for more.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The apartment felt different that morning—quieter, not just in sound, but in energy. You stood by the kitchen island, your hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, while Kimi double-checked his bag near the door.

His flight was in a couple of hours, but he was already in that focused headspace. That calm, steady rhythm he slid into whenever the track called.

“You have everything?” you asked softly, taking a small sip from your mug.

Kimi glanced over his shoulder at you, nodding. “Yeah. I packed last night. Triple-checked it this morning just to be sure.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek.

His brown eyes softened when he looked at you again. “You good?”

You forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just… hoping I survive this engagement party.”

He chuckled gently, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Remember, if it gets bad, pretend you have to take an urgent call from a Formula 1 driver. Very important business.”

You snorted softly. “Right. I’ll just hold my phone upside down and dramatically whisper race terms until someone asks me to leave.”

“Exactly,” he said, smiling.

There was a pause. You weren’t ready to say goodbye, but the moment was here.

“You’ll text me?” you asked, voice quieter now.

“I’ll do more than that,” he said, stepping closer. “I’ll call when I can. FaceTime, even. I want updates. I don’t care if it’s about the party or what you had for lunch. Just… let me know how you’re doing.”

You looked up at him, something warm and strange blooming in your chest. “I will.”

Kimi reached out and squeezed your shoulder gently. “You’ve got this.”

And then he was gone—door clicking shut behind him, footsteps down the hall, silence trailing in his place.

You stood there for a while, hands still on your mug, eyes on the door. It was always harder than it should’ve been, watching him go.

The train ride home was long, but you stared out the window most of the way, earbuds in, playlist running. You barely noticed the other passengers. Your thoughts were too loud. Every bump of the train reminded you of how long it had been since you saw your family—how much longer it had been since you felt seen by them.

You checked your phone once as you pulled into your hometown’s station. A message from Kimi waited for you.

Kimi: Let me know how it goes. You’ve got this.

You smiled at the screen, then slipped it back into your pocket.

The car pulled up slowly to the gates of your childhood home—if you could even call it that. The towering black iron bars buzzed and creaked open as the driver entered the code, revealing the winding driveway and pristinely landscaped hedges that led up to the mansion.

It looked the same. It always did. White stone exterior, tall windows, a fountain in the center of the roundabout that sparkled like it was polished every other hour. The house was pristine, glossy… almost too perfect. Like it had nothing to do with love or comfort. Just… image.

You stepped out slowly, grabbing your bag from the back seat. The air was different here. Sharper. Clean, but in a suffocating way.

As you reached the large oak doors, they opened before you could knock.

“Y/n,” your father greeted, his tone clipped but polite. He wore that usual warm-but-distant smile he saved for company. “You’re early.”

“You said to come today,” you replied, stepping inside.

The foyer was massive. The floors shined so bright they reflected the chandelier overhead. Expensive artwork lined the hallway. You hated how you could still name each piece—your mother had made sure of it growing up.

“Yes, yes. I appreciate the punctuality. Leave your bag with Marta. She’ll have it taken to your room,” he said, gesturing to one of the housekeepers who approached silently.

You hesitated, keeping your grip on the handle for just a second longer before letting it go.

He clapped his hands once. “Right, we’ve got quite a schedule ahead. The engagement party is Friday evening, obviously. But until then—tomorrow is the spa day. Your mother and S/n planned it. Girls only.” He gave you a pointed look, as if daring you to protest. “Thursday, we have the formal dinner with the groom’s family. You’re expected to attend. Friday morning, there’ll be a brunch, then hair and makeup appointments in the afternoon before the party.”

You nodded. “Sounds fine.”

“Good,” he said, and just as he was about to turn away, another voice chimed in from the hallway.

“Well, well. Look who finally came crawling back.”

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. The voice was unmistakably smug.

“Damon,” you said flatly, turning to face your sister’s fiancé.

Damon was exactly as you remembered—clean-shaven, smug grin, cologne heavy in the air around him. He stood there like he owned the place already, hands in the pockets of his slacks, blazer slightly too sharp for a casual day at home.

He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“Unfortunately, I did,” you said under your breath.

He chuckled, catching the words but pretending not to. “Well, it’ll be… interesting to have you around. Try not to ruin too many photo ops.”

You forced a smile, one that didn’t reach your eyes. “I’ll try not to stand in your spotlight. Wouldn’t want to overshadow your hair gel.”

Your father cleared his throat, annoyed. “Let’s keep things civil, both of you.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Just get through it. Get through the week, get through the party, and go home.

Damon walked past you, shoulder brushing yours a little too hard to be accidental.

“Your room’s been made up the same as before,” your father said, walking ahead. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Your mother will want to see you before then.”

You followed him quietly, eyes scanning the walls as you walked down the hallway. The same family portraits hung—S/n front and center in every one. You were there too… off to the side. A ghost in the background.

Still, you said nothing.

Just one more week. Then you could go back to the place that felt like home. Back to Kimi, back to peace. Because this house, no matter how grand it looked, never gave you that.

You can stick it out, you believed it.

Tried to believe it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The clinking of silverware and soft murmurs filled the grand dining room, where the long oak table was perfectly set for four. The chandelier overhead sparkled against the early sunlight pouring through the tall glass windows, bouncing off crystal glasses and untouched butter knives. You sat near the end, nursing a cup of coffee that had already gone lukewarm, the edges of your toast untouched on the porcelain plate in front of you.

Your father sat at the head of the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, while your mother idly stirred her tea. Your sister, across from you, chewed thoughtfully on a piece of melon, legs crossed and posture flawless, like every part of her was curated for a camera that wasn’t even there.

“So,” your father began, voice calm but distant, “how is Monaco?”

You looked up, surprised he was even addressing you directly.

“It’s fine,” you said softly, setting the cup down. “Busy. But manageable.”

He nodded once. “And after next month? Any plans for where you’ll go?”

You blinked, heartbeat skipping as you tried to gather the words, but before you could even breathe them out, your sister’s voice cut through.

“Well, it’s not her fault, Daddy,” she began with a syrupy sweet tone, “that you had to cut her off. Weddings are expensive, and mine will be... well, unforgettable. So I get it.” She smiled across the table at you like she’d just offered you a compliment. “But hey—who says you need money, or a plan? You don’t even need a man. Not a good one, anyway.”

You tilted your head, lips pressed into a tight line.

She wasn’t finished.

“I mean... there’s always some guy out there who wants the quiet, weird ones,” she said, waving her hand airily. “The engineer types, motorsport whatever girls... you know the ones. Nerdy, socially average. Dorky. Harmless. Basically invisible.”

You flinched but kept your expression flat. You stabbed at your eggs with the fork, suddenly no longer hungry.

“Monaco’s been good,” you tried again. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Amilla. We’ve been hanging out more lately.”

She gave a laugh, sharp and polished. “One friend. In a whole country. That’s... tragic.”

You said nothing.

“Still can’t believe you didn’t want to model,” she continued with a mock frown. “You could’ve had everything. The travel, the outfits, the name. Instead, you picked... online college and being poor.” She smiled again, then sipped her juice.

Your mother glanced at her briefly but said nothing. Your father didn’t even look up from his plate.

“And let’s be honest,” she added. “You’ll never get the business anyway. That’s mine. Everyone knows that. You’re just...” She paused, searching for the word, eyes twinkling with cruel amusement. “Laying on the ground, like a dog. Because that’s the closest you’ll ever be to something real. To something... elevated.”

You stared at your plate, your jaw tightening.

Not one word from your parents.

Not even a disapproving look.

Your stomach twisted, not just from the insult, but from their silence. That had always been the loudest part.

She sat back, satisfied. Like it had been a game and she’d won.

You closed your eyes for half a second, imagining your flat in Monaco. The fairy lights. The new couch. The coffee mugs. The smell of fresh pasta.

Kimi.

His silence had more warmth than this whole table did. His quiet glances held more value than all your father’s hollow compliments to her.

You swallowed thickly and pushed your chair back just slightly.

“Excuse me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

No one stopped you. Not that you expected them to.

Because they never did.

Outside, the sun poured down like warm silk across your skin, the stone patio heated beneath your bare feet as you sat tucked beneath one of the garden umbrellas. The distant sound of sprinklers clicking to life blended with the chirping of birds, the scene almost peaceful—almost.

Your phone rested in your palm, thumb hesitating just above the call icon beneath Kimi’s name. The longer you stared at it, the more uncertain you felt. You wanted to hear his voice. Something steady. Familiar. Something that didn’t belong to this house or the people inside it.

But then, a buzz. A message. From Amilla.

Your chest tightened the moment you saw the preview.

“This the guy you live with, right?”

Brows furrowing, you tapped it open.

A photo.

It didn’t even need a caption. Your stomach dropped before you could stop the spiral from beginning.

There he was.

Kimi. Dressed casually. Sunglasses on. Hand in hand with her.

Eliška Babickova. Long legs, perfect smile, soft curls bouncing around her shoulders. She looked effortless, like she always did in magazines. Even her stride beside him looked... matched. Like they belonged there, walking down that sun-drenched street, hand in hand.

Your heart twisted in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

So they were still together.

You stared at the photo for a long moment, the heat of the sun suddenly feeling suffocating, pressing down against your chest like gravity itself was conspiring to crush you.

A small voice inside you tried to rationalize it—They talk, he told you that. He never lied... you just never asked again. But another voice, the one you’d been quieting all week, whispered something harsher: You let yourself believe it meant something. That the dinners, the laughs, the way he looked at you—it was different. That maybe he stayed for more than just a couch.

Your finger hovered over the keyboard, heart pounding.

You wanted to call him. Ask. Demand clarity. Cry.

But instead, you just sighed. A deep, bitter sigh.

You typed a short reply to Amilla:

“Yeah. That’s him.”

Then you locked your phone and slid it back into your pocket.

No call. No message.

You would sit this one out. Because getting attached was your mistake. And the price of that mistake… was swallowing this silence.

Alone.

The day dragged on, the sun high above the manicured estate as if mocking you from its place in the sky. You sat quietly between your mother and sister inside the serene spa lounge, draped in a robe, legs crossed, warm steam brushing against your skin. But even surrounded by luxury, lavender-scented towels, and softly humming music—you felt suffocated.

Their laughter floated through the air like perfume—light, shallow, rehearsed. Your mother talked about floral arrangements for the engagement party while your sister chimed in about designer gowns and imported champagne, their voices rising and falling like a song you could no longer sing along to.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t even try.

You were just... there. A body filling space.

No one noticed how your smile never reached your eyes, how your fingers dug into the plush arm of the spa chair whenever your sister said something smug. You could’ve said you weren’t feeling well and left—but even the idea of going back to that mansion, alone in that too-big guest room, felt worse.

You kept thinking of Monaco. Of the cozy flat. Of quiet mornings and shared coffee. Of Kimi.

And then the weight would drop into your stomach again.

Because that picture was proof.

You were never more than a placeholder.

The thought ate at you as the minutes ticked by, the warmth of the steam doing nothing to ease the chill crawling into your chest. You had finally started to feel beautiful there, next to him. Valuable. And now you were back here—fitting like a puzzle piece in the wrong box.

Meanwhile, across the channel, in the dim hum of the Mercedes garage, Kimi stood silently, gaze fixed on the setup in front of him. Mechanics worked around him, voices buzzing in the background, but his mind had wandered. He barely flinched when a pair of lips brushed behind his ear.

“Can you not?” he muttered, stepping to the side with a quiet exhale.

Eliška laughed softly behind him, brushing a hand down his arm. “Relax. I’m just loving on you,” she said, her voice all sugar and shine.

Kimi ran a hand through his hair. “I get that we have PR appearances, but that doesn’t mean crossing every boundary.”

She pouted, arms folding. “Since when did you become so... distant?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His brown eyes scanned the monitors, but his mind wasn't registering the data.

He saw you. In pajamas, arguing over whose turn it was to pick dinner. Sitting across from him in soft lighting, eyes lit with ambition and stories. Mumbling formulas under your breath, tucked in a corner with a pencil between your fingers.

You never asked him for anything. Never expected anything more than honesty. And he missed that honesty now, the quiet safety of your presence.

“I just don’t want to overplay what this PR thing is,” he finally said, voice low.

Eli rolled her eyes. “You used to be more fun.”

Yeah, I used to be more lost, too.

He didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because he still hadn’t figured out why that photo—why your silence since—had felt so damn heavy.

And maybe, across the ocean, you were feeling the same. Buried in wealth, surrounded by everything that glittered—but nothing that meant something.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You had told yourself you could survive this week. You could manage the rehearsed smiles, the endless small talk, the suffocating luxury. But when Friday night came, it hit you like a wave crashing against sharp rocks. The glittering chandeliers, the scent of expensive perfume, the hum of classical music swirling through the grand ballroom — all of it was a reminder of how far you felt from belonging.

You stood there, lost among the well-dressed crowd, eyes darting over polished faces that smiled politely but never truly saw you. Your heart felt heavy, weighed down by the ache of loneliness and a love you couldn’t reach. You had missed yesterday’s race, unable to tear yourself away from the crushing sorrow that wrapped around you like a shroud.

Suddenly, your sister’s voice cut through the murmurs, demanding attention.

“I would like to speak!” she declared, stepping forward with a confident smile that didn’t reach her eyes but captivated the room nonetheless.

“My fiancé and I are so grateful you all could join us tonight,” she began, glancing toward your parents, who beamed with pride. “Growing up, I always knew I was the special one—the important one. The daughter in love, soon to be married, destined to carry the family name forward. I have done everything to earn my place beside Mom and Dad.”

Her words were sharp, deliberate.

“And then there’s Y/n,” she continued, sweeping a glance in your direction, “who chose to leave us behind for Monaco. And here she is tonight... without a date, without a boyfriend, without anyone to console her.”

A hush fell over the room.

“You will have your moment to shine,” she promised sweetly, “just like me. When the time is right.”

You met her gaze, tears pricking at the edges of your eyes.

She didn’t stop.

“One day, you’ll come back home to us,” she said, voice dripping with false kindness. “You’ll realize just how cruel the world really is. That luxury and wealth are all you really have. Outside this family, your name means nothing—no one knows you unless you claim us.”

Her words were knives twisting in your chest.

“May love find you, Y/n,” she said softly, a cruel smile flickering across her lips. “And if it doesn’t, may money be enough. Maybe you can live in the fairytale of your motorsports dreams, but it will never amount to what I can do.”

That was the final straw.

Without thinking, without pause, something inside you snapped.

You lunged toward her, your vision blurred by tears and rage. Gasps and startled cries filled the room as chaos erupted.

Your mother’s hand was suddenly on your cheek, harsh and unforgiving.

“Y/n!” she hissed. “Enough! Can’t you see what you’re ruining tonight?”

Your father’s voice boomed next, filled with frustration and anger.

“I cut your funds for one reason! Just to focus on her! And you can’t even live without it?”

You were burning inside, every word stinging like acid.

“It’s not about your money!” you spat, brushing past the stunned faces, heart pounding wildly as you fled the mansion.

Outside, the cold night air bit into your skin, but you didn’t care.

Kimi’s fingers tapped nervously against his phone as he stared at the screen, the call to you still ringing unanswered. Each unanswered ring felt like a weight sinking deeper in his chest. He couldn’t shake the knot of worry growing inside him, an ache he hated but couldn’t ignore.

“Come on...” he whispered under his breath, voice thick with concern. “Say something to me, Amore...” His voice cracked slightly, barely audible in the quiet apartment. He began pacing the small living room, restless, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Finally, he gave up on trying you directly and dialed Amilla’s number, hoping she might have heard from you.

“Hey,” she answered, her tone cautious.

“Have you heard from Y/n?” Kimi asked quickly, trying to keep calm but failing to mask the tension in his voice.

Amilla sighed softly on the other end. “No, not really. She’s barely messaged me since she left—just once.”

Kimi exhaled slowly. “Do you know when she’s coming back?”

“I think her train’s tomorrow,” Amilla replied, uncertainty in her voice.

Kimi frowned, his brow knitting in worry. “Okay... I’ll wait for her.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Late into the night, the train finally pulled into the station, its screech echoing through the empty platform. You stepped off, heavy with exhaustion and a dull ache deep inside your chest that you couldn't shake, no matter how far the distance from your family. Your phone buzzed incessantly—calls and texts from your mother and father—but you ignored every one. Tonight, you needed silence more than anything else.

At the door of your flat, your keys jingled softly as you slid them onto the hook by the entrance. You paused, eyes catching the other set of keys hanging there—Kimi’s. He was home.

Before you could move forward, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close. His face buried gently in your hair, he whispered, voice thick with relief, “You’re okay... you’re really okay.” He breathed in your scent as if to confirm you were truly there.

“I was so worried,” he murmured, his voice shaking slightly. “You didn’t pick up my calls or texts. Please, don’t ever do that again, Cuore mio. Don’t leave me to worry like that.” His grip tightened just a little, like holding onto you anchored him.

You stood frozen, caught off guard by the warmth of his embrace, the tenderness that contradicted everything you’d been feeling from your family lately. You expected him to pull away, to give you space—but he didn’t.

“Just stay here... don’t move,” he said softly, shaking his head as if trying to convince himself you were safe now. He kissed the top of your head, lingering, then finally pulled back to look at your face.

His eyes darkened with concern at the sight of your glossy, tear-filled eyes, the smudged makeup tracing down your cheeks, and the faint imprint of your sister’s slap still visible on your skin.

“You should’ve called me,” he said gently, voice thick. “I would’ve been there for you. Always.”

You hummed quietly, biting back the truth simmering in your chest, the feelings that went beyond friendship. “You’re a good friend...” you whispered, fragile.

Kimi’s lips pressed together, his eyes softening. “The best,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I try... only for you.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That moment felt like a delicate pause in time — everything you’d built together in the apartment, every quiet laugh, every shared meal, every late night spent unwinding side by side, suddenly seemed to weigh heavy. Kimi moved around, folding the last bits of clothing into a taped-up box, the soft rustle of packing paper filling the silence. You held a small, taped box yourself and set it down gently.

“You’re leaving... and I’m leaving,” you said softly, forcing a light chuckle, trying to mask the sting beneath. He hummed thoughtfully, looking around the now bare room.

“Luxury homes…” he began with a half-smile, “and the beautiful life in Monaco.”

You shook your head with a bittersweet smile. “Back home I go… and your life in Monaco keeps going.” Your voice was quieter now, almost lost to the stillness around you.

He met your eyes and simply said, “Yeah…”

Silence settled like a thick blanket between you two. The comfort of your shared home was boxed up, every laugh, every gentle touch, every moment of peace—packed away and stacked in the corners. The raw ache of it felt dull and heavy, like losing something you didn’t realize you couldn’t live without.

Kimi broke the quiet, a playful glint in his eye as he pointed at you. “You better be my engineer in the future.”

You smiled, nodding with conviction. “I am. I’m going to be.”

He grinned wider. “And be a good friend to others. Especially Amilla.”

You nodded, thinking of your best friend. “Oh, she’ll get on a train just to come see me—and you better do the same.”

His nod was firm, sincere.

Home — this space you’d shared — was being folded away, soon to be just a memory. The comfort, the routine, the little world you built together, was slipping through your fingers as you both prepared to part ways.

Suddenly, a soft knock at the door broke the quiet. You opened it to see Amilla standing there, her eyes glossy, a small hopeful smile playing on her lips. Both you and Kimi looked at her, surprised by the emotion in her face.

“I’m really going to miss you two living together,” she said, pulling you both into a warm group hug.

“Amilla! You’re being dramatic,” you teased, though your smile faltered a bit.

She sniffled, not letting go. “I don’t care! I’m going to miss monopoly nights, video games, and overcooked pasta!”

Kimi huffed, a mock offense clear in his tone. “My pasta is not overcooked—”

“Shut up, dumbass!” Amilla laughed, and you couldn’t help but chuckle too.

In that moment, despite the impending goodbyes, the warmth between the three of you lingered, reminding you that some things—friendship, laughter, memories—would never truly be boxed away.

The air in the flat shifted the moment Kimi spoke.

"I have to get my stuff out. I’ll be the first to leave," he said, voice quiet but firm, trying to hold steady against the growing weight in his chest.

Amilla finally let go of you both, wiping her cheeks with a dramatic sniff. You hummed, eyes falling to the floor before flicking back up to Kimi. “Good luck! And you better handle everything with Eli.”

That stopped him in his tracks. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head. “Huh?”

Amilla, ever the bold one, sighed. “You’re good friends, Kimi. Don’t play dumb.” She crossed her arms before confessing, “I sent her the photo. The one of you and Eliska—Eli—holding hands. It popped up online when she was with her parents. You probably should’ve told her you were still dating her. Must’ve felt weird, living with Y/n all this time.”

Kimi’s eyes widened in disbelief, the realization crashing down like a wave. “Oh…” he breathed, heart thudding.

You gave a tight, brittle smile, masking everything boiling under the surface. “But it’s okay, Kimi. We’re friends,” you said with a tone that tried to be casual. Tried. “I’ll find me a nice, handsome man back home.” Your lips trembled slightly. “You continue living the best of your life.”

Before either of them could stop you, you turned and walked down the hallway, voice faint as you added, “I have to get my closet packed.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Kimi stared after you for a beat too long, the words you said burning into his chest like embers. Then Amilla stepped into his line of sight, her expression unreadable.

“Eliska and I are exes,” he said quickly, like it was something he should’ve shouted a long time ago. “That photo? That was PR. Nothing real. I haven’t been with her in a long time.”

Amilla raised a brow. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because you sent her the picture,” Kimi snapped, though his voice was still soft, weighed down with guilt. “And now she thinks—she thinks I don’t care.”

Amilla blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, as if something clicked. “Wait... are you correcting me because... you like her?”

Kimi exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I love her,” he admitted, finally, the truth slipping out in a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Are you kidding me? We’ve lived together for months. I’ve never felt this grounded before. I love her. And no wonder she’s been acting strange—keeping her distance, being quiet.”

Amilla watched him for a long second, her lips slowly curling into a small, knowing smile. “Yeah. Now she’s going back home to live in her sister’s shadow, in that big mansion that makes her feel like she’s nothing.”

Kimi’s gaze dropped to the floor. The ache in his chest spread further, like roots digging deep into regret. His phone buzzed in his pocket—a reminder. He had to get moving, had to clear out his things. He took one last look around the flat, the space that held all their memories—every breakfast, every laugh, every late night—and quietly gathered what remained of his belongings.

Without another word, he stepped out of the apartment, the door shutting softly behind him.

But even as he left, a part of him stayed behind—with you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Months of studying, of long nights and longer days under the weight of family expectations, had finally brought you here—to the Grand Prix weekend. The crowd buzzed around you, excited voices and camera flashes filling the air, but nothing could shake the weight that followed behind you like a shadow.

Your mother, father, and sister trailed just a few steps behind. They hadn’t wanted to come. They didn’t care about motorsports, about your dreams, but they showed up anyway—if only to say they did.

"This is what you’re working toward? Honestly, it’s pathetic," your sister scoffed behind you, flipping her perfectly styled hair. You didn’t even flinch at the jab, too used to the tone, the sharp edge of her voice. Your father and mother didn’t bother saying anything, their silence more cutting than words.

Still, you smiled faintly to yourself, eyes scanning the track layout, the pit boards, the energy alive in every turn. “The race was amazing,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Kimi got pole…”

Your mother sighed impatiently. “Who?”

You frowned. “A driver.”

Before you could brace for more disinterest or mockery, a sudden voice broke through the noise.

“OH NO YOU DON’T!”

You barely had time to register it before arms wrapped around you and lifted you into the air, spinning you in a blur of laughter and warmth.

“Kimi!” you gasped, laughing as your heart leapt with surprise and relief.

“If it isn’t Antonelli,” you teased as he set you down, his grin lighting up his entire face. “My best friend,” you added with a soft smile.

“I saw your text!” he said. “You said you were coming—figured I’d find you eventually.”

From the corner of your eye, you caught your parents staring, clearly stunned by the interaction. But Kimi didn’t give them another glance—he only had eyes for you.

“I want to show you something,” he said quickly, grabbing your hand before you could say anything else. He pulled you away from them, your fingers wrapped in his as he led you straight into the heartbeat of the circuit: the Mercedes garage.

You looked around in awe, the energy of the team, the mechanics, the machines—everything. “It’s… incredible,” you breathed, eyes wide. “You’ve been busy, huh? All these months. Ahead. Super busy.”

But he didn’t answer.

You turned around, only to find him already staring at you. His face softened, a faint blush coloring his cheeks beneath the harsh garage lights.

“I have something for you tonight,” he said quietly. “I’ll text you the location. Just… meet me?”

You nodded, lips parted slightly in surprise. “Yeah. I will.”

—

The night air was cool, carrying the salty breeze of the coast as you sat beside him in the passenger seat of his car. The streets of the city felt quieter than usual, or maybe it was just the way your heart was pounding.

Kimi hadn’t said much during the drive, but his hand sat close to yours on the center console, and you swore you could feel the weight of what he wanted to say.

He finally pulled into a quiet overlook, the lights of the city below flickering like stars scattered across the earth. He turned off the engine, but didn’t get out. Instead, he turned toward you, his face unreadable for a moment.

Then he sighed—deep, like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“You know,” he started, voice low, “not a second went by that I didn’t think of you.”

You glanced at him, your breath caught in your throat. “I’m just the best friend in the whole world, right?”

He gave a sad, quiet chuckle. “God, no. That’s not what you are. You’re so much more than that.”

Your eyes locked. His were glassy, earnest.

“I’ve been in love with you, Y/n,” he said finally, like the words had been burning him alive from the inside. “I loved you the entire time we lived together. Every time you made breakfast, or tied your hair up before class. The way you left notes next to my coffee. The way you always had my towel ready in the mornings. I came back from the track looking forward to the silence we shared. To you just… being there.”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“I didn’t know how to say it,” he continued. “And then I saw what you went through with your family, how you kept pushing anyway. You were never just a friend. You were my peace.”

He looked down, rubbing his palm nervously against his thigh. “And that photo Amilla sent you—me and Eli? That was PR. Just PR. We broke up a long time ago. Mercedes needed something for the cameras, for the headlines. I let them run with it because I thought it was harmless. But it wasn’t. Not to you. And I hate myself for that.”

You stared at him, lips trembling slightly. His voice cracked with the next words.

“I wish we still lived together. I miss it. I miss you. And I understand if you don’t want to be with me, or if this makes things worse. But I had to tell you. Because the thought of letting you go back to that life—thinking you were just my roommate—kills me.”

He reached for your hand. “If you don’t feel the same, I’ll take it. I’ll keep being your friend, if that’s all you’ll let me be. But if there’s even a small part of you that feels the same… just tell me. Because I love you. Not just the memories of you. Not just the comfort of having you there. I love you—your dreams, your fire, the way you walk into a room and make it warmer. I love all of it.”

He paused, breath trembling.

“And I need you to know that.”

The car was silent but for the soft hum of the wind outside.

And in that stillness, you realized—this was the moment. The one you had been waiting for.

Your eyes softened as your fingers laced with his.

“I was always yours, Kimi. You just never asked.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

And so, on a beautiful day—some golden, breezy Monaco afternoon—you sat curled up on the soft couch, laughter in your chest, sun spilling in through the sheer curtains. The scent of sea salt drifted in with the breeze, light catching the waves outside the window. Next to you, Kimi lounged comfortably, his knee touching yours, both of you surrounded by pens, cards, and open envelopes scattered like confetti across the coffee table. Wedding invitations. Futures written in ink.

"Hey! Don’t scribble with crayon on those!" you exclaimed, nudging him with your elbow as he held up a childish doodle across the back of one invitation.

“Oh come on,” he grinned with faux innocence, holding the crayon like a trophy. “Adds personality!”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, the kind of smile only he could pull from you so effortlessly. "Who are we even sending these to?" you mumbled, glancing over the list, your tone softening. “My family and I… we don’t talk. I cut ties, remember? Like you said I should. You were right. No calls, no fake apologies, no walking on eggshells. Just peace.”

He looked over at you gently, his smile no longer teasing. “I know it wasn’t easy. But I’m proud of you,” he said. “You chose yourself. That matters.”

You nodded, holding his gaze for a moment before he tapped his pen on the table and gestured toward his side of the list. “So we’re sending mine out. My family, my team, the good ones. Oh, and don’t forget to add something personal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who customized these invites again?”

“You,” he said quickly, pointing at you. “But who paid for them?”

“Hmm, let me guess—Kimi Antonelli, my soon-to-be husband?” you teased.

He smirked. “Exactly. As your fiancé, it’s my duty.”

The flat you now shared—a stunning, sea-facing luxury apartment—held pieces of both of you. His racing memorabilia mingled with your books and plants. The cozy throw blankets, the mugs you picked out together, the gentle clutter of two people who had built something together. It wasn’t just his anymore. It was yours. Your home. Your safe place.

“You are so lucky I love you,” you said, narrowing your eyes as he leaned closer.

“Oh yes, I am the lucky one,” he said with a crooked grin. “Living with you, waking up to that face every day... What could be better?”

“Keep flirting and I’ll leave you with the rest of these invites,” you warned, picking up the box playfully. “Let’s see if you can figure out who gets which one.”

He gasped dramatically. “You wouldn’t dare!”

But you were already on your feet, laughing, bolting toward the hallway. He chased after you, laughter filling the walls of the apartment, just like it used to in the old place—but now louder, warmer, brighter.

The flat was new, upgraded, sleek and modern—but it was filled with the same love that bloomed back in that small two-bedroom you once shared. Back when everything felt uncertain but full of possibility.

That little flat was where it started. The morning coffees, the midnight talks, the study nights, the pasta dinners, the Mario Kart battles, the long hugs, the slow-burn love. That flat gave you both your beginning.

Now here you were—living together, planning forever, engaged to a man who loved you without condition. The sea was yours to wake up to. The world, yours to build together.

No nagging father, no brooding mother, no spiteful sister, just you, Kimi, and your growing home from here.

He tackled you on the shared bed playfully, your laughter filling the large and luxurious space.

And tucked inside a sleek white envelope, scattered across your coffee table, was an invitation to a future signed:

Mr. & Mrs. Antonelli.

[for-a-longlongtime]

Queer fic rec - Joel jerking it to gay porn for the first time... that's it.

ANON!! I love this request. Fitting to be my first fic this Pride month 💜 Thank you for sending it to me, I hope you like this one!

Construction Corner - Joel Miller

Warnings: Explicit 🔞🔥 🏳‍🌈 Masturbation, watching m/m porn with deep throating, rimming, anal play, gay panic (momentarily), oral (f receiving), PiV. [Light editing] Word count: 2.6K

read on AO3 | main masterlist

Sarah is gone for the weekend, leaving Joel with some rare free time for himself. That’s how he finds himself here. Friday night with the curtains closed in his living room, a couple of Blockbuster rentals on his coffee table. The adult flicks come in white, unmarked VHS boxes - “for your discretion” - which is why he didn’t pay too much attention to what he grabbed; he knows the shelves that generally hold stuff he likes to get off to. It’s why he doesn’t wait to see the intro once he hits play, and instead gets himself another cold beer.

By the time he settles in on the couch, the camera has just finished panning over a construction site and is now zooming in on someone putting down lumber. “Can’t get away from work for a damn second,” Joel mutters as he takes a swig of his beer, contemplating whether to switch out the tape for another one - it’s not like he’s exactly thrilled to see yet more of a workplace much like his own.

The stunted dialogue doesn’t really register with him as he watches two guys talk - both dressed in jeans, the younger one without a shirt and clearly sweating as he’s holding a rotary tool. Craftsman, or Milwaukee, Joel guesses as he squints to make out the brand name. A little nagging voice in his head bitches there’s really no reason to whip out a Dremel tool for that pile of unfinished lumber on screen.

“Wouldn’t be there for that job,” he mutters to himself as he takes another drink of his beer, trying to stop himself from fact checking equipment in a damn porn movie. “And that’s not a quarter inch pip—OH.” He nearly chokes on the hoppy beverage, barely able to avoid a coughing fit as he stares at his television screen.

Young Guy is on his knees for Older Boss Guy, tugging down the man’s unzipped jeans and groaning as a seriously big dick is revealed to him.

For a split second Joel wonders if the kid at Blockbuster pulled a prank on him by swapping out the tapes. But, no - it must have been an accident with these unmarked VHS boxes. His instinct is to reach for the remote so he can turn off the movie and put in one of the other tapes. But his mouth goes dry as he watches Young Guy slowly lick the older man’s cock, the camera lingering on every detail. 

Base to tip, his tongue tracing the thick vein on that large dick, and oh - Joel bites his lip hard when he notices the man is uncut. Just like him. Thick but trimmed pubes, yet another thing he hardly ever sees in porn. Maybe it’s the novelty of that, or that it’s been a very long time that he’s seen someone’s mouth on a cock that - minus the length - reminds him of his own. But when he sees the younger guy greedily suck on the fat dick head, drops of saliva sloppily sliding down the length, he feels himself twitch unmistakingly in his boxers. 

By the time that cock is buried into the guy’s throat, Joel’s hand is on his sweats, stroking himself through the soft fabric - his heart racing a hundred miles an hour, as if someone could suddenly catch him in the act and ask him what the hell he was doing.

What is it exactly that he is doing?

It’s fine. 

This is fine, he tries to tell himself. He’s just… wound up. 

It’s been too long since he’s dated anyone, or even had a one night stand. The last time was with that pretty woman who kept flirting with him at Sarah’s school. After they hooked up, she told him that ‘technically’ she was still married, but she was no longer attracted to her husband - which was a level of drama he didn’t want to get into, especially not since their kids were in the same class. It had been over a year ago, maybe two at this point, as there was hardly any time to breathe between work and raising Sarah, and all the never ending chores.  

He just needs to get off. Really, really badly. 

That’s all. 

Rub one out quickly because he’s too tired to get up and change the tape. 

That’s all this is.

“Goddamnit.” He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath while staring at the tv, but when Young Guy cups Boss Guy’s balls in his hand, the air just whooshes out of Joel’s lungs with an embarrassingly loud sound. Both actors moan, and Joel’s breathing gets heavier when he sees Young Guy’s mouth travelling south, back down the throbbing length. Fuck. Is he gonna…

He watches the kneeling guy lick those heavy balls, teasingly and messily. He sucks one into his mouth, then tries to fit the rest of the ballsack into his mouth - and somehow, that is the thing that just fuckin’ breaks Joel and chases the last bit of hesitation out of his head. 

He pushes his sweats down quickly, cock hard and leaking against his stomach as he leans over to grab some lotion to help him out. The cool creaminess makes him hiss for a moment as it touches his hot skin, but as he generously spreads it over his dick, everything immediately feels so, so much better now that he’s giving into it. 

The tight fit of his hand around his cock is both relief and torture, and he roughly strokes himself up and down, matching the pace he’s seeing on the television. It has only been a few minutes, but he is achingly hard already, more turned on by porn than he has been in a long, long time. 

He gasps when the guy on the screen teases the other man’s foreskin, clearly riling him up and then backing off again - until he seems to have pushed him too far.

With a growl, Boss Guy grabs the younger man by his hair and tugs him up to his feet. But before Joel can be disappointed about the interrupted blowjob, the camera angle switches and shows Younger Guy being shoved back against the wall. Leaving no doubt about who is in charge, Boss Guy’s large hand is immediately wrapped around the base of the slighter man’s throat - not choking him, but nevertheless a clear display of dominance that makes shivers run down Joel’s spine. 

Young Guy whines as he stares back at the older man. His chest is heaving as he fumbles to undo his own jeans; not just pulling his cock out, but shoving his pants all the way down. 

“Please. Fuck my ass.” 

They’re the first words said during the movie that actually register with Joel, and his cock once again responds with resounding affirmation. On the tv, the guy is roughly being put on all fours, and then Boss Guy is on him like a starved man. Strong hands kneading his ass, spreading him wide to admire his hole - and when the Young Guy whines again, it’s because there’s a tongue up his ass and a hand firmly wrapped around his cock, starting to jerk him off.

“Jesus.” Joel’s breathing stutters as he’s enraptured by the view, his hips bucking up as his mind is reeling - hell, even imagining it. How it would feel to be pushed down like that and have someone eat his ass like that. Tongue, lips, fingers… He bites his lip hard as he watches a thick finger slip into the guy’s ass, making Younger Guy moan loudly, and all of a sudden Joel is mentally transported back to a holiday fling he’d had in his twenties. 

She - he couldn’t remember her name - was a lot more forward than he was used to. Barely an hour after she had made the first move at him in a bar, they were fucking at her apartment. She’d slipped the tip of her finger into his ass, right when he was about to come down her throat, making him orgasm so hard that he thought he was going to black out for a moment. It had been exhilarating, the shock of the sudden surprise lessened by the amount of alcohol he had consumed - and it had never happened again afterwards. He probably hadn’t even thought about it anymore… 

…until now. 

Until he watched the guy on the screen arch his back, drunk on pleasure as Boss Guy continues to eat him out and open him up. How Younger Guy grabs his own dick, starting to jerk himself off as he surrenders to how the other man handles him, getting him ready to get fucked. 

Joel’s breathing is heavy, hips thrusting up as he fucks his fist hard, unable to stop the thoughts that are suddenly embedded in his mind. Which one of the two guys did he wish he could be? The one getting the rimjob of a lifetime, or the older, broader guy who held him down and was about to take him?

He curses as the fantasy slams him over the edge much faster than he expected, and with a loud groan he spills his seed all over his hand and sweatpants, barely avoiding the couch. His heart races as he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen, seeing Boss Guy make the Young Guy cry out with his fingers buried into him - and suddenly it’s too much, all of it, right there. 

He fumbles for the remote and turns off the tv, his hand suddenly trembling. As post-nut clarity sinks in, he feels a wave of anxiety wash over him that he hasn’t experienced before. It crawls through his chest, flowing his throat and brain, shoving aside the euphoria of his orgasm. Scoffing at him about what he just did - about what got him so fucking turned on. The nerve wrecking doubt of whether he should report it’s the wrong tape when returning the VHS, or… not.

‘Just play dumb’, that little voice at the back of his brain whispers. ‘Do you really want to have a conversation with the rental guy about how you just got off to gay porn?’ 

He drains the rest of his bottle of beer, trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. But they only grow louder, questioning him (‘You hit your mid thirties and suddenly you’re into dick? Are you having an early midlife crisis?’ ), reminding him of all the times in an average week he hears gay slurs all around him. Mr. Adler’s vocal dislike “of those city boys”. Tommy’s asshole friend at the hardware store - shit, Tommy. What the hell would his brother think of him if he knew what he just jerked off to?

Another beer later, still trying to suppress the panic in his brain, he finds himself staring at Tess’ phone number. It’s been a long time since they last hooked up, especially since she’d been pretty seriously involved with someone for a while. But that relationship had recently ended - plus, in addition to living pretty close to him, she is one of the few people he knows who wouldn’t mind a last minute thing on a Friday night.

He sighs as he hits the dial button, his skin crawling when he looks over at the stacked VHS tapes on his coffee table. Sure, he doesn’t have to call her - but the other option is to just sit here and probably get more anxious about the whole thing. He just had to shake it off, spend some time with her, even if it’s just to reassure himself that *that* is what he is actually into.

“Hey, it’s Joel,” he says, eyes still closed and his head tipped back against the couch. “Yeah, all ‘s fine. What are you doing right now?” 

Her laugh, always somewhere between cheerful and mocking, sounds so good to him right now. As he suggests where to meet up, he can’t help but think back of the last time they fucked - it was also a weekend that Sarah wasn’t home, except for that time Tess had ended up at his doorstep. And in his bed, for most of those two days. He almost didn’t go into work that Monday, physically worn out, but god - it had been good.

This will be good, too. Drinks, then her place. No VHS tapes to think about or questions to ask himself.

 —-------

Somehow, less than two hours later, he’s right back on his doorstep again. 

The beer was good. Tess had been more than fine - that perfume he always likes on her had been calling his name, whispering all kinds of promises. Reminding him this was basically a done deal. It felt good when her hand moved to rest on his thigh after the second drink, her eyes much too observant as always, reading him like a book. “My place?” 

Plain, simple, uncomplicated and direct; Tess all the way. Exactly what he wanted. They made out in the parking lot, pressed against his truck, and when Tess had grabbed his hand and guided it into her underwear, he had lost all sense of restraint. 

Joel ate her out rough and fast on the backseat, groaning against her pussy when she came by his tongue alone. Once they made it to her place, they fucked in the bedroom, and it was good - but it wasn’t… the same as usual. 

Even when he was buried deep inside of her, that goddamn video was on his mind. How Boss Guy had been preparing the Young Guy to get fucked, opening him up with his fingers and mouth. And, Jesus Christ, he’d blown his load right into Tess before he even realized it. First time since he was a teenager that he had fucked up so badly. He’d been too embarrassed to stick around, even though she didn’t make a big deal out of it, and that’s how he found himself home again.

Shower, then bed, he decides - especially when his watch signaled that it was close to midnight already. He scrubs his skin hard in frustration with his body wash, leaving the shower on too hot for too long just to get distracted, but once he lays down in his cool bed, he finally feels more balanced. Ready for sleep.

Even after twenty minutes. Thirty.

He’s not sure what time it is when he goes back downstairs. 

The video tape is still in the VHS player, almost taunting him. As if it knows Joel better than he knows himself. 

“Just five minutes,” he tells himself as he settles in on the couch, turning the tv on and hitting play on the VCR remote again. 

Maybe ten at the most. 

Just to see if they do fuck.

main masterlist | follow @longlongtime-updates for fic updates

dividers by @saradika!

Heads up to folks who dropped some love on the announcement post (and some of y'all who might be interested!) (sorry if I tagged you while you already saw it, I forgot to do this last night):

@lilac-boo @maladptivedaydreaming @pedritofics @ghostofaboy @elvenmother

@crowandmousewritingco @cosmic-kid-in-motion @seventeenpins @demonsandbullets @oliveksmoked

@ohforficsake @thebeldroramscal @pascalisfunky @uniqueoafempathmuffin @tallulahfalls

@malakalse @the-blind-assassin-12 @buggito @laprofesoratinacita @ghoapiumm

@quinnnfabrgay-writes @mullyisthedefinitionofaidiot @bumblepony @thischarmingmandalorian @sixhours

@millersamour @gothcsz @covetyou @chronically-ghosted @clubsoft

@joeloverture @ovaryacted @realultracunt @tastyycroissant @drawsomely-sweet

@tzqbzqs @dugiioh @tobyte11 @letstalkinthemorning @captaincoffeegirl515

@alltheglitterandtheroar @pretty-forest-nymph @keiroheartx @chujo-hime @sillyboy689

@courier6sblog @dadskat @almostempty

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 3)

You reunite with your crow friend! But it seems to need your help with… a man?

nav: one, two, three (current), four, five, six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, mentions of blood and death, descriptions of a panic attack, bossman is here yay

“Congratulations! You’ve just won the loyal customer raffle at Linkon Supermarket!”

“But I shop at Bloomshore Mart.”

“Yup, congratulations!”

You furrow your brows, eyeing the paper the delivery driver is enthusiastically waving in your face. Sure enough, it announces the conclusion of the famous supermarket’s year-end raffle, and there it is: your full government name printed neatly under “winner.”

Beyond his shoulder, you notice the other worker unloading boxes from the delivery truck. He’s dressed in the same uniform, with identical dark curls and also sporting a black face mask. He catches your gaze and gives a lazy thumbs-up.

There must be something wrong with your memory, because you could swear you haven’t stepped foot in Linkon Supermarket in years—let alone registered for their raffle. That place isn’t exactly known for catering to the humbler economic classes.

And it’s still 5:30 a.m. Have supermarkets always done graveyard shift deliveries?

“Thanks…” You squint at the driver’s name tag. “…Lukas.”

“No problem!”

Once the two workers finish unloading and stacking boxes of who-knows-what in your living room, they wave cheerfully before speeding off down the street. Half-asleep, you manage only a bemused wave in return.

You think you might’ve been cursed. Or blessed. It’s hard to say. Because ever since your crow friend escaped a week ago, it feels like you’ve already blown through a lifetime’s worth of luck.

In the span of days, you’ve gotten a raise and better employee benefits (odd, considering you’re still just an assistant manager), won lifetime vouchers for three of your favorite food spots, and now, apparently, won a supermarket raffle—complete with at least three months’ worth of groceries.

Rummaging through the boxes, you find they’re stocked with all your usual brands. Snacks, non-perishables, beauty products, household items—everything. Even fresh produce.

For the first time in a while, you won’t have to worry about going hungry.

—

You’re not sure why you’ve come back to the park tonight.

It’s late, and you’ve already visited the crows earlier, spoiling them with extra bags of peanuts thanks to your recent streak of good fortune.

The crows seem to wonder the same thing. While they peck enthusiastically at the peanuts, their beady eyes occasionally flick toward you, as if to silently judge your lack of anything resembling a social life.

Admittedly, you’ve been hoping to see your crow friend again.

You think you’re starting to come to terms with its disappearance. Life goes on, right? It’s just an animal, after all. It probably doesn’t feel the same complex emotions humans do—the kind that have you so affected by its absence after only a few days of sharing a space. (Maybe it was a one-sided friendship all along...) It probably just followed its instincts, leaving to do whatever it is that lone crows do.

Still, a petulant part of you feels bitter. Sure, it left behind a hoard of treasures—trinkets, gems, and gold so polished they must be real (though you’re not ready to think about where it might have stolen them)—but it could’ve at least waited for you to come home before flying off.

In hindsight, maybe it’s a good thing you never had pets. Your apparent abandonment issues would be a nightmare to deal with if they got lost, ran away, or died.

Suddenly, a familiar series of shrill caws pierces the air. Before you can process what’s happening, something crashes into your lap, a blur of loose black feathers hitting your face.

Could it be…?

The unmistakable garnet glint in the midnight-feathered avian’s eyes confirms it. Without hesitation, you scoop the bird into your arms, pulling it tightly to your chest, and press a rough, enthusiastic kiss to its head.

“Where have you been?” you exclaim, laughing as you nuzzle the void-like creature against your cheek, smothering it in an embrace. “I’ve been so worried about you!”

Its muffled caws are drowned out by your babbling. “Oh gosh—your wing! How is it?” you say, quickly pulling back to inspect it.

Its feathers look good—healthy, even. In fact, they almost seem brand new, gleaming like a freshly unboxed gadget. Its once-injured left wing no longer looks broken—or as you’d thought before, no longer resembling a mechanical part with a loose screw.

Before you can start fussing over it again, the bird suddenly wriggles free from your grasp and lands steadily on your lap. It caws again, but something’s different. It’s louder, more piercing—frantic. It paces across your lap, continuing to practically scream at you, as if trying to tell you something.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask, your heart squeezing at the sight of its feathers puffing up with each stressed caw.

You try to pat its head, hoping to calm it down, but it jumps off your lap and lands on the ground, still cawing. The other crows, clearly spooked by its urgent cries, start to scatter. Bewildered, you bend down, attempting to scoop it into your arms again, but it evades you by hopping a few feet away, still cawing—loudly.

“What is it?” you say, exasperated. I can’t speak crow!

You step closer, bending down once more, but it hops away—again.

You stare up at the heavens. This has to be some cosmic joke. You can’t believe you’re playing this strange version of tag with a bird.

You don’t even realize how far you’ve walked, now a good distance from the bench you were sitting on. You’ve reached the darker area of the park, still desperate to grab the cawing bird and figure out what’s wrong. Then, without warning, your foot catches on a tree root. You stumble, and before you can recover, you hit the cold, wet ground with an unceremonious thud.

“Well, there goes my good luck streak,” you mutter, trying to push yourself up. Good thing nobody’s around to witness your embarrassing lack of coordination.

“Tell me about it.”

The sudden presence of a deep, unfamiliar voice makes you freeze. Heart pounding wildly, you scramble to sit up, eyes darting toward the source.

It wasn’t a tree root you tripped over. It was a leg—a stretched-out leg attached to a man slumped against one of the park’s statues. A huge, beautiful man, with silver hair and a pair of breathtaking garnet eyes, half-lidded and filled with amusement. He’s clutching his abdomen, the fabric there soaked in dark, ominous red.

Blood.

A field of red datura blooms. A starry night sky with the clouds beneath you. Mountains of gold against jagged walls. A burning plaza. A bloodied claymore.

You don’t register the ringing in your ears or the flash of blurry, unfamiliar images racing through your mind. Your gaze remains locked on the man’s injury. Before you know it, you’re shrugging off your puffer jacket and sweater. Now clad in just your turtleneck, you drop to your knees and press your sweater firmly against his wound.

You, waiting for your turn to walk on stage to receive your diploma. A university staff member rushing toward you. You, running out of the graduation venue. Two totaled SUVs. Three dead bodies.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you work methodically. Stop the bleeding. Stop the blood. Apply pressure. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Just keep pressing. Don’t think about how much there is. Don’t panic. You fold the sweater tighter against the wound. Okay, stop the bleeding first. That’s all you know. Just keep the pressure steady. He’s losing too much. Is this enough? Should I tie it off? No, just keep pressing. Keep him alive.

The edges of your vision begin to blur. You have to save them. You have to save him. They can’t leave you. He can’t leave you. Not again.

“Sweetheart.”

The word, softly spoken, snaps you out of your trance. Your eyes lift to meet his, and the world seems to still. You’ve never met this man in your life, but the way he looks at you—it hurts. It feels like an ancient grief has surfaced from the depths of your soul.

You finally notice the state you’re in. You’re shaking. Badly. The cold winter air bites into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. Your palms are scraped from your earlier fall, but you hardly register the sting. The man’s hands—large and warm—enclose your trembling ones, grounding you.

And it’s like you’ve never known peace until this very moment.

note: can u tell the extent of my yearning to be spoiled with groceries LMAO

nav: one, two, three (current), four, five, six or: read on ao3

check out my other works!

[cameronsbabydoll]

SUGAR-COATED CHAINS — CHAPTER TWELVE

WARNINGS — rafe implies that he wants reader as a housewife, he’s a bit condescending, possessiveness, kinda a short chapter sorry y’all!

The penthouse was quiet when you woke up, sunlight pooling in from the towering windows. You stretched beneath the soft sheets, feeling the faint ache in your muscles—a reminder of last night. Rafe had left early for work, but not before pressing a firm kiss to your temple, murmuring, Be good, sweetheart.

You smiled to yourself as you padded into the kitchen, still wrapped in one of his shirts. It smelled like him, clean cologne and something distinctly Rafe. The space still felt intimidating, but you were slowly making it yours—or at least, making it feel like home.

Your phone vibrated, breaking your thoughts.

Best Friend: How’s the rich housewife life treating you?

You rolled your eyes, but your lips curled.

You: I’m not a housewife.

Best Friend: Yet.

Your stomach fluttered at the implication, but before you could dwell on it, a knock at the door startled you.

A delivery.

A sleek, carefully wrapped box sat in the courier’s hands. Your name was printed in bold letters, a signature already signed off at the bottom—Rafe’s.

You took it inside hesitantly, fingers ghosting over the crisp edges before peeling back the paper.

A velvet jewelry box.

Your stomach fluttered as you reached for it, fingers ghosting over the soft material before lifting the lid.

Inside was a delicate gold necklace, the pendant was a cursive R.

Your breath hitched.

It was subtle, dainty—but the message was anything but. This wasn’t just a gift. This was a brand, a claim.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your daze.

Rafe: Put it on, angel.

You swallowed, doing exactly that. The weight of the pendant felt heavier than it should have.

By the time Rafe returned home, you were curled up on the couch, absently twisting the necklace between your fingers.

He smirked the second he saw you. “Knew it’d look good on you.”

You felt heat creep up your neck, but before you could respond, he casually added, “Handled something else for you today too.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rafe tossed his keys onto the counter, strolling over to where you sat. “Told your apartment complex you won’t be coming back.”

Your stomach dropped. “You—”

“Don’t worry about it, angel,” he murmured, tilting your chin up. “You weren’t going back there anyway.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Rafe just grinned. “Now, go get ready. We’re going out.”

—

The restaurant was upscale, dimly lit, and buzzing with quiet conversation. Rafe had taken the liberty of ordering for you before you even had a chance to glance at the menu.

You weren’t surprised.

The waiter set down your plate, and you swore you caught the way his eyes flickered over you just a second too long.

It wasn’t obvious, but Rafe noticed.

His grip on your thigh tightened under the table.

“Problem?” His voice was cool, almost pleasant—but there was a dangerous edge to it.

The waiter’s face paled. “N-No, sir.”

Rafe didn’t say anything else. Just smirked, fingers pressing into your skin possessively.

“You see that, angel?” he murmured once the waiter scurried away. “Doesn’t even take much to make ‘em nervous.”

You swallowed, shifting in your seat.

Rafe’s smirk widened. “You like when I do that, don’t you?”

You hesitated.

And then—

“Go ahead. Sit on my lap.”

Your eyes widened. “Rafe—”

“C’mon, baby.” His tone was smooth, but his grip made it clear this wasn’t up for debate. “Humor me.”

Your pulse pounded as you obeyed, moving onto his lap in the middle of the restaurant.

Rafe hummed in satisfaction, his hand resting possessively on your hip. “Much better.”

He wasn’t subtle about the way he kissed your neck. Wasn’t subtle about the way he shot the waiter a smirk.

You were his. And he wanted everyone to know it.

—

The apartment was quiet by the time you settled into bed. Rafe lay beside you, scrolling through his phone, his free hand absentmindedly playing with your hair.

You curled into his side, sighing softly.

“Do you ever miss your old life?”

The question came casually, but something about it made your stomach twist.

You hesitated. “I mean… sometimes?”

Rafe hummed, not looking up from his phone. “That’s cute.”

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he finally glanced down at you, a smirk tugging at his lips, “you’re not going anywhere, angel. No point in missing something you can’t have.”

The way he said it—so effortlessly, so matter-of-fact—sent a shiver down your spine.

Rafe turned his attention back to his phone, fingers lazily tracing patterns on your shoulder. “If you could do anything, what would it be?”

You perked up a little at that. “Like, a job?”

He nodded.

You bit your lip. “I always thought about working in publishing. You know, editing books.”

Rafe chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

He kissed your temple. “You’d look better at home, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught.

His grip on you tightened, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Taking care of me. Our house. Maybe a kid or two.”

Your heart pounded. “Rafe—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he murmured.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what they gift you for valentine’s day 𐙚 .ᐟ

synopsis: valentine’s day means something different to each of them—some treat it like a grand romantic event, others act like it’s just another friday, and a few are probably panicking last-minute. but whatever they give you, one thing’s for sure: it’s undeniably them, for better or worse.

featured character(s): lilia vanrouge, malleus draconia, silver, sebek zigvolt, leona kingscholar, ruggie bucchi, jack howl, vil schoenheit, rook hunt, epel felmier, jamil viper, kalim al-asim, riddle rosehearts, cater diamond, trey clover, ace trappola, deuce spade, azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech, idia shroud, no ortho shroud

content warning(s): none!

a/n: happy valentine’s day! ❤️

link(s): (masterlist)

an overly extravagant display of affection

why settle for one gift when he could give everything? a sea of roses flooding your dorm, an entire box—no, several boxes—of gold-wrapped chocolates, or even fireworks painting your name across the night sky. to him, valentine’s day isn’t just about romance—it’s a stage, a perfect excuse to turn his feelings into something grand. love, in his eyes, should be seen, felt, and impossible to ignore. he doesn’t believe in halfway gestures; if he adores you, the world will know it.

⤷ kalim, malleus, rook

a single, meaningful item that shows they know you

this isn’t just a generic valentine’s day gift—it’s something that proves he listens. something small you once mentioned in passing, something he went out of his way to track down, something that perfectly aligns with your tastes in a way that leaves you wondering just how long he’s been paying attention. maybe it’s a first-edition book from your favorite author, a piece of jewelry that fits your aesthetic so well it feels like he had to have spent time picking it out, or a limited-edition item from a brand you once mentioned offhandedly. it’s not about extravagance—it’s about thoughtfulness, about making sure you know he sees you.

⤷ idia, jade, jamil, leona, ruggie, vil

a carefully crafted, handwritten letter

it's more than just a few words hastily jotted down onto a card—this is a letter, deliberate and meticulously composed. every word is chosen with purpose, every stroke of ink placed with careful intent, as if he agonized over each line, rewriting certain sentences more times than he’d ever admit. it feels less like a simple valentine's note and more like a confession woven into ink, every phrase carrying the weight of emotions he might struggle to voice aloud. this gift is more than a simple gesture—it’s a glimpse into the feelings he’s likely held onto far longer than he ever intended.

⤷ malleus, riddle, rook

a bouquet, but with intention

it’s not just about flowers—it’s about what they mean. this isn’t some store-bought, last-minute bouquet; every bloom has been deliberately chosen, each one carrying a message. roses for love, lilacs for first emotions, camellias for admiration—there’s no need for him to say anything outright because the meaning is woven into every petal. whether he expects you to recognize the symbolism or not, the sentiment is there, tucked between soft petals and carefully arranged stems. and if you do look up the meanings? you’ll see everything he couldn’t quite put into words.

⤷ cater, epel, trey,

jewelry, meant to be worn always

it’s not flashy or excessive, but it’s meant to last. a necklace, a bracelet, a ring—something simple but chosen with care, something that feels right for you. the weight of it is subtle but constant, a quiet reminder of him no matter where you are. he won’t say it outright, but the thought of you wearing something from him every day pleases him. and if anyone asks where you got it? well, he wouldn’t mind hearing you say his name in response.

⤷ floyd, jamil, leona, lilia, ruggie, sebek

a luxurious experience rather than an object

he sees no reason to limit valentine’s day to just a material gift—not when he could give you a memory. a private dinner under candlelight, an exclusive event, a perfect evening where every little thing has been arranged so you don’t have to lift a finger. it’s not just about extravagance (well, maybe partially); it’s about making sure you feel special, about ensuring this night is one you won’t forget. to him, valentine’s day isn’t about what you receive—it’s about how he can make you feel.

⤷ azul, jade, kalim, malleus, rook, vil

handmade, because it means more that way

he could have just bought something, but that wouldn’t have meant enough. instead, he put in the time and effort himself. maybe it’s a home-cooked meal, carefully prepared with your favorite flavors in mind, or a bouquet he arranged by hand rather than picking something up from a florist. maybe it’s a small carved trinket, a handcrafted piece of jewelry, or even a carefully stitched charm meant to bring you luck. perfection isn’t the goal—it’s the sincerity, the intention behind giving you something that holds a part of him.

⤷ deuce, epel, jack, jamil, silver, trey

something playful, because love should be fun

who says valentine’s day has to be serious? he doesn’t just want to give you a gift—he wants to make you laugh. maybe it’s a ridiculously oversized plushie, one so big you practically have to wrestle it through your door. maybe it’s a scavenger hunt, little notes leading you to the actual gift just to watch you figure it out. maybe it’s a box of chocolates with one secretly filled with something spicy, just to see your reaction. love doesn’t always have to be grand or serious—sometimes, it’s just about enjoying each other’s company.

⤷ ace, cater, epel, floyd, lilia, ruggie

something simple, but given with genuine care

he doesn’t make a big deal out of valentine’s day, and he doesn’t see the point in overcomplicating things. what matters is that he thought of you. a warm cup of your favorite drink waiting for you in the morning, a carefully wrapped box of chocolates, a small charm for luck. he won’t make a scene about it, but there’s something undeniably sweet about how naturally he makes sure you’re taken care of.

⤷ deuce, idia, jack, jamil, sebek, silver

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[teenidlegirl]

. ˚ ꪆ　　. . .　　someone steals miguel's valentine　　౨ৎ

a very late valentines idea but had to share it…

it’s that time of year where everything is pink and red with hearts everywhere. another year of celebrating valentine’s day. the entire spider society is decorated in pink and red. everyone is clad in those colors in various styles. cards, flowers, boxes, candy being passed around. everyone is in the holiday spirit.

well, everyone expect miguel.

before, he hated valentine’s day. it’s the day of love and he had no one. everyone he cared about was gone. what was the point of celebrating if you didn’t have someone to celebrate it with?

every year on that day, miguel would spend it in his office sulking like any other day. either going through reports of anomalies or rewatching videos of his precious gabriella, his true valentine.

peter and the spider teens would offer him gifts, which miguel wasn’t fond of. the spider teens would give him various candy and cards. a special card from hobie that had a drawn middle finger inside, which of course pissed him off and tossed it away. the only gift he accepted was a drawing of himself from mayday. he was on the verge of tears but couldn’t corrupt his ego so miguel stored it away in a drawer.

he hates valentine’s day.

until this year, miguel is celebrating for the first time and it was all because of you.

when he first met you, miguel was undeniably mesmerized by you. a pretty, smart, determined yet sassy woman. at first, he was against the idea of having another assistant since he already had lyla but it was her idea to have an extra one. plus, the medical staff needed some extra help so you weren’t only his assistant but also a nurse in some way. not to mention you aren’t a spider person and come from his own universe, just an ordinary person.

as time went on, miguel developed a crush on you. of course the idiot denies it and refuses to acknowledge it. but the way his heart beat increased and cheeks warmed up whenever you’re there said otherwise. miguel hasn’t felt this way about a woman in years and it honestly scares him. no matter how hard he tries denying his feelings for you, he couldn’t.

now here he is, trying to come up with a valentine’s day gift for you. marching around his office, a frown on his face and bunch of grumbles from his lips. why is so hard to get you a gift? maybe because he doesn’t know what to get you or what you’d like. or maybe because he hasn’t done this in years. it’s like all brand new to him and he doesn’t want to mess up.

“why not make her a card and write a poem inside it? it’ll be cute!” lyla magically pops up by his side.

“a poem, seriously, lyla? i can’t write a poem and it’s ridiculous. think of something else.”

the ai rolled her eyes. “oh please, miguel. women love poems. well, most of them but she definitely does.”

miguel stops marching around when she refers to you. do you like poems? would you like a poem from him? the man can’t even write one for fuck’s sake.

“no, suggest something else.”

“i’ll help you! that’s literally my job.” she cross her arms, shooting an obvious look.

miguel ponders for a moment before sighing. “fine.” he just can’t believe he’s doing this, writing a damn poem but it’s for you so supposedly it’s worth it.

you are worth it.

after lots of arguing, miguel finally crafted a poem, with lyla’s help of course since she mainly composed it herself and miguel only made a few tweaks to not sound that cheesy. the part he did make himself was the card. a simple red heart with your name in the middle. miguel isn’t an artist but it doesn’t look that bad, he put in his effort just for you. he decides to leave the card on your desk while you’re on your break. miguel stays there for a moment, thinking that this was a stupid idea and was about to take back the card but it was too late to back out when he heard the familiar sound of your heels clicking approaching. miguel rushes off in time before you could notice him. his heart beats frantically with anticipation, pounding in his chest.

returning to your desk, your eyes light up in surprise when you notice a card with a heart on it. your head tilts in curiosity as you pick it up. back in his office, miguel pulls up the monitor of your mini office and feels his heart race as you inspect the card. a million thoughts ran through his mind.

do you like it? do you hate it?

opening the card, you read the poem written inside. it was so heartwarming, making you smile shyly. miguel catches that and his heart skips another beat. as you finish reading the poem, you eyes land on the tiny signature at the end. a tiny ‘— M’ in black ink.

who is ‘M’?

your brows furrowed in confused as you think of people you know that have a ‘M’ lettered name. one particular name pops up to your mind and your smile widens immediately. miguel noticed your realization and his heart has never beaten so damn fast.

do you know it’s him?

those crimson eyes follow your tiny silhouette as you exit your mini office and head to the cafeteria. those thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion as miguel continue following you through the monitors. you enter the cafeteria and approach one of the spidermen, making him more confused.

what are you doing?

with the card pressed against your chest, you gently tap the spiderman’s shoulder and he turns around. miguel’s eyes widen in shock. marco, spiderman from earth-9025. share some similarities with miguel in terms of appearance, expect marco isn’t abnormally tall or insanely buff.

“hey, um… i wanted to say thanks for the card, it’s very sweet of you.” you smile.

marco’s brows furrowed in confusion. “card? i didn’t…” his eyes land on the card in your hand then decides to change his mind. “oh! um, no problem! i’m glad you liked it. h-happy valentine’s day.” truth be told, marco has a crush on you as well.

oh miguel just lost his shit. how the fuck dare that little shit take credit for the card that he made for you? the poem that he, and lyla who helped, wrote for you?

his fists clenched at his sides, blood boils with anger and jealousy as miguel seethes at the sight in front of him. that fucker took credit for his gift to you and is acting all lovely dovely with you.

someone stole his valentine.

oh that little shit is gonna pay for it.

beside the angry and jealousy boiling in his vein, sadness lingers in his heart as he watched you smile at marco. smiling at the wrong man. miguel should be the one be blessed with that smile. but instead another man has that honor and it pisses him off.

miguel couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the day. he watched you engage in a flirty conversation with marco in the cafeteria which went on for a while. the little shit had shitty jokes and flirting tactics but apparently it made you smile and laugh. miguel hated every second of it yet he couldn’t look away. he couldn’t look away from you, seeing you so happy with another man.

he feels so… defeated.

yet again, miguel did only sign the card with his first initial. there are thousands of other people who have names that start with an ‘M’ so he isn’t the only one. how can he be more stupid than he already is? finally, he turns off the monitor after lyla repeatedly told him to shut it off a while ago. he can’t bare it anymore.

someone else took credit for his work and now has claimed your heart before he could.

his first valentine’s day, in a long time, ruined.

perhaps it was stupid to give it a chance.

as he was preparing to leave for a mission to distract himself from his broken heart, miguel sees you approaching with that gorgeous smile on your face and two coffee cups in your hands.

“you look like a zombie.”

oh you never fail to amaze him with your sarcasm, one of his favorite traits about you. “funny.” he said flatly, taking the coffee from you, muttering a ‘thanks’ in return.

“so, any gifts you gotten?” you take a sip of your coffee as you lean against the ledge of his desk.

well, maybe that mission could wait. it wasn’t canon event threatening so. besides, miguel would spend time with you than be anywhere else.

“the usual, a drawing from mayday and unnecessary gifts from the kids.” he grumbles.

you chuckle. “lemme guess, hobie got you another special gift? another middle finger?”

“no, a shit emoji drawing with my mask on it.”

you almost choke on your coffee. “oh my god- that’s fucking hilarious, i’m sorry.”

miguel rolls his eyes, unable to ignore his heart fluttering at the sweet sound of your laughter. “what… what about you?”

now, he’s a bit anxious. partly because he wonders of your thoughts about his gift. but miguel is mainly still pissed off at marco for stealing his valentine.

“a shit ton of flowers, definitely not use to that but i loved it. some cards and candy. oh! i got a card with a really cute poem i thought it was from marco.”

he frowns at the mention of marco’s name. while you babble about the poem, miguel just wanted to grab you by the shoulders and tell you that he is the one who wrote it, he is the one who made the card, not that little dipshit marco. that idiot probably doesn’t even know how to treat a woman.

“but i gotta be honest…”

one of his eyebrows quirk up, intrigued.

“he’s a terrible fucking liar.”

okay, now miguel is confused. one minute you’re babbling about marco, now you’re calling him a liar.

“i know he didn’t write it. the way he was talking earlier didn’t match the vibe of the poem. he behaves like an average frat boy.”

there’s a tiny spark of hope. if miguel was a dog, his tail would definitely start wagging.

“if he didn’t write it, then who?” he can’t help but play along, secretly hoping you’d figure it out.

although, he was a bit confused by your sudden change of opinion about marco since you were having a lovely dovely time with him in the cafeteria earlier. but perhaps you were being nice to him.

“hmmm… i have someone in mind.” a teasing smile on your lips that make miguel’s knees weak. “i was thinking of who else has a name starting with the letter ‘M’ and have his way with words.”

that tail would be wagging faster. a wave of hope begins coursing through him. god he hopes you know it’s him. please, please, please say it’s him.

you reach behind you, pull the card from your back pocket, and raise it up. “did you ask lyla to write it?”

miguel blinks, shocked yet pleased. shocked that you assume lyla wrote the poem, which was the truth. pleased that you knew he was the true creator.

“i… uh… she did help me.” he admits sheepishly.

“i basically wrote it.” lyla magically appears in between you and miguel.

“lyla.” miguel groans, shooting a light glare.

“but mr. grumpy bug here did make the card.” the ai winks at you then disappears.

he appreciates his ai assistant having his back but calling him out like that, especially in front of the woman he likes, is embarrassing.

you can’t help but laugh. “well, she has a way of words but your heart is in the right place.”

speaking of his heart, it skips another beat.

“it was her idea… the poem! but i… i thought of getting you a… gift.”

oh god, he sounds like an shy idiot.

a smile creeps up to your face. he’s really cute when he’s shy, especially as the brooding grumpy man he is. “very charming of you.”

miguel doesn’t miss the sarcasm in your tone, making him roll his eyes but with a shy smile.

“but seriously though, it was nice of you to do that for me since you hate valentine’s day.”

“well… maybe i don’t have a reason to hate it anymore.” miguel briefly glances at you.

you can’t deny the way your heart flutters at that. truth be told, you always had something for miguel. every time you’re with him, you feel different. he is undeniably an attractive man. you tried burying your feelings since he was a closed off person. but now with this little fiasco, perhaps you can dig them up.

while at first you guessed wrong at who gifted you the card, you’re glad it was miguel and not marco. at a first glimpse, marco seemed like a nice guy which is why you assumed first it was him but after that encounter in the cafeteria made you realize he’s still a boy. majority of the things he said made you cringe. you only stayed and engaged in the conversation to not hurt his feelings, hence the smiling and laughing. but that’s when you realize it was someone else. you realized it was miguel, he was the right one. honestly, you didn’t think he’s the type to do something like that but you wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.

“maybe you don’t.” you smile softly at him.

perhaps next valentine’s day, miguel would have someone to celebrate with and will definitely make sure no one else will steal his valentine.

sure as hell not that dipshit marco.

©⠀TEENIDLEGIRL⠀♡⠀don’t plagiarize or repost my work

[lafortezasboy]

LET ME LOVE YOU.

ariana grande

( part two of: one last time )

— summary: it’s been a few days after the party and you and sophia have been keeping contact. with daily check in’s with her and making sure she’s okay, you have to make sure that your girlfriend doesn’t find suspicion either. sophia was impatient. when were you going to end it with her? taking matters into her own hands, she decided to do something about it.

— warnings/tags: gn!reader, nonidol!sophia, cheating, afab!reader, dom!sophia, sub!reader, oral (r and s receiving), fingering (r receiving), risky sex, use of “yn”, dirty talk, mommy kink, finger sucking, slight gagging, pet name “puppy”, not proofread

— a/n: i lowkey forgot this was an au and in the beginning i had put yoonchae and sophia in the same room, but pretend they’re in separate rooms but are still roommates. the other kats live in other apartments together as roommates ykwim. you got me? okay.

when are you going to leave her?

soon.

sophia sighed at your reply, tossing her phone on the bed as she rolled in her blankets and groaned quietly. soon? you’ve said that a dozen times ever since that party! does soon just mean a year for you? it’s like you cared for your girlfriend’s feelings more than hers… she grabbed her phone again, noticing how you didn’t send a double text. you were busy. were you too busy being your girlfriend’s instead of being hers?

“yn?” your girlfriend called after you sent the text. you snapped your head back to look at the door and you smiled lightly.

“hi, my love,” you greeted softly, standing from the couch to greet her properly. “did you buy the pizza for tonight?” you asked as you helped carry the tote bag filled to the brim with items from the grocery store.

“of course i did,” she replies with a giddy smile, biting her bottom lip slightly as she pulls the frozen pizza from one of the other bags.

“it was this brand, right?” she asks, looking up at you. you nodded with a smile.

“you got it,” you assured with a thumbs up. taking everything out of the tote bags, you began to place the food in their rightful places instead of on the counter or in the bag. you took your time sorting them out, making sure that everything was in place. you’ve been living with her for about three months now. it’s not hard to adjust to a small apartment. when you went to store the cereal boxes in the cabinets, your arm reaching up, you felt her own arms wrap around your waist. it felt…weird. it hasn’t felt this weird and uncomfortable before.

though, she didn’t sense this. her kisses began to go from your shoulder to the back of your neck. you called out her name, but her hands slipping under your shirt.

“please?” she asks you quietly, kissing your ear after she had asked.

reluctantly, you gave into her needs. you turned around and kissed her lips. they didn’t fit as perfectly, but they were kissable. she tugged you closer, backing up until you two entered the room of hers.

by the time night fell, you couldn’t sleep. you tossed and turned beside your girlfriend, hoping you didn’t wake her up. before you could even think, your feet moved and went into the kitchen. you maneuvered to the cabinets, opening them and grabbing a glass cup before pouring yourself some water.

you took your phone out, leaning against the counter as you looked at your dry lockscreen. no texts. you swiped up and opened sophia’s icon.

“read, huh?” you murmured as you read the little grey letters under your speech bubble. it’s been over six hours since she’s last seen your message. you sighed, putting your phone down. you closed your eyes, tilting your head up. soon. you picked up your phone again. as if on cue, sophia texted you.

i can’t sleep :(

maybe try to

why’d you text me so fast?

you can’t sleep either…can you?

caught in the act, you can’t deny the smile that lit up from your face as she asked you those questions.

so what if i can’t?

come over

i can help, i promise.

you don’t think your heart’s ever beat this fast. you looked at the cracked open door. you’ll be back before she wakes up. you moved quietly to the front door, slipping your shoes on and grabbing your keys. you swore you almost sped down the streets just to get to her apartment. going to her apartment without needing the gps felt so…nostalgic.

once you exited the car and headed towards the doors, sophia was already waiting there in order to bring you into her apartment.

“yoonchae’s asleep,” she mentions her roommate, looking at you with a finger to her lips.

“we have to be quiet.”

you hummed, “yes, ma’am.”

she turns away from you, a small roll of her eyes escaping before she tried to hide her smile. walking up a flight of stairs, you finally ended up back in her apartment. walking through the creaky hallway, she shoved you into her room. when you looked around, you didn’t see a difference. she didn’t change that much either. before you knew it, sophia launches herself onto you, lips immediately attacking yours. a perfect fit. those familiar lips were finally back onto yours, and it felt as heavenly as it did before.

“cmon, baby…” sophia husks out between kisses, moving to gently push you onto her bed. she looks down at you before straddling your hips. she doesn’t waste her time, lips attaching onto your neck. though, she pauses.

“you do went at it, huh?” sophia sneered out quietly, her nails tracing the fresh hickeys your girlfriend left on you earlier today. she felt possessive. you were hers. you always have been.

“do you know how to say no, yn?” she asks you. “because if you knew you were mine,” she leans back down, “you would’ve said no to her.” sophia doesn’t hesitate to bite down onto your neck. you winced, hands on her shoulder as she bites down a bit harder.

“s- soph!” you stuttered, squirming under her.

she hums softly in fake confusion, moving her kisses down as she pretends she hasn’t done anything.

“i wonder,” she whispers, as her fingers hook into your pajama pants, “do you still fit around my fingers like you used to?” sophia kisses your exposed pelvis, her left hand pulling from your pants to push your shirt up a bit to expose your stomach.

“you used to be tight, wet, sweet,” she lists out. a quiet moan escapes right after at the thought. she’s missed you.

“find out,” you challenged her, trying your best to keep a steady voice. but the feeling of her lips against your pelvis and her voice made you nervous, your voice breathy and shaking a bit. sophia hums and taps the side of your hip, gesturing you to lift your hips for her. you obliged and she swiftly took both your pants and underwear off.

“find out…” sophia repeats. “will you let m-”

“yes,” you replied quickly, “fuck yes.”

sophia laughs humorously at your eagerness and she hums before moving to gently kiss down your thighs. her right hand sneaks between your thighs, her other holding your right thigh open. her thumb circles your clit slowly and softly, making you whine and squirm.

“you can’t be that sensitive,” she assumes hotly against your skin, considering you had sex with your girlfriend earlier.

“what if- what if i am?”

sophia smirked slightly. “then i’m the one who made you this sensitive after all,” she whispers. before she could even hear what you were going to say, she dived in and began to suck at your clit. she moaned softly, eyes shutting as she tasted you.

“sweet…” she describes against you, forcing vibrations through your body.

you let out moans, trying to be quiet as yoonchae was dead asleep across the hall from them. with your left hand in her hair and your right slammed right against your mouth, she went even further. she doesn’t want you to hide your noises, even if her roommate was asleep. your moans only gradually grew a bit louder, still trying your best to keep it quiet.

“so- sophi- sophia…?” you questioned out through a sputter of moans. she only hums against you, the vibrations once again sending down your body.

“slow- slow down,” you tried to say. when you told her this, her tongue circled around your clit and she sucks a bit harder.

“ahh- so- sophie, please…” you stuttered out.

sophia pulls back after a bit and she roughly rubs her thigh against you, making you bite your lip and muffle another moan.

“you’re so demanding,” she murmurs as she pushes her lips against yours, letting you taste how you tasted.

“are you like this with her?” sophia asks you as she pulls away.

you looked up at her and nod. you were quite demanding when in bed with your girlfriend.

“well,” sophia murmurs, moving to the side and bringing her hand down, “i’m not your girlfriend.” she plunged her fingers in deeply without warning, making you moan and gasp at the same time. your back arched off of the bed.

“i’m your ex,” she said simply, curling her fingers in and out.

“and i don’t like it when you boss me around.”

your breathing quickens, and so did hers. the small sounds of your squelching cunt filling the empty rooms with moans and whatnot.

“‘m… ‘m sorry…” you slur out as your hand goes to hold her wrist between your legs, trying to slow down her quickening pace. your legs were practically shaking now.

“no, you’re not,” sophia whispered, not slowing her pace down. it only make your stomach flex and your head fog. it hurts…but it felt good.

you tried your best to muffle your moans, but it wasn’t working. anything you used to muffle your mouth made you louder. you quickly tugged at her shirt, pulling her down. sophia smirked slightly, following your lead but stopping a few centimeters away.

“yes, baby?” she asks, her fingers plunging in and curling into a spongey section inside. before you could even ask, you pulled her into a kiss, moaning loudly against her lips when she hit that spot.

sophia didn’t pull away, letting you pull her into a kiss, even if it was demanding.

“i need to- i need to cum, soph. p- plea- please…?” you asked sophia against her lips, your stuttering becoming much more separated as she kept destroying your sex. she stopped and shook her head.

“that’s not my name, baby,” she cooed out.

“m- mommy!” you exclaimed, a whine lacing your words. “le- let me cum…please? i’ve been good- i swear.”

“there’s my good baby…” sophia cooed. she went even faster before feeling your walls tighten and legs quake.

“go on. i know you’ve been good,” she whispers softly. you pulled her down for another kiss, muffling the moan that escaped when you finally released from your high. your stomach untwisted the knots, a rush of heat escaping your body and onto her fingers.

sophia pulls back from the kiss and watches as you pant heavily, chest heaving up and down as she slowly pulls out. she moves her ring finger up to her lips and sucks it clean before lowering her middle finger to your lips. complying to her silent order, you took in her middle finger and tasted your release, a small moan escaping as your tongue licked. teasingly, sophia pushed her finger in a bit deeper, making you gag slightly. she bites her bottom lip before she pulls away.

“sorry…” she murmurs, not meaning it. she wipes the saliva off before kissing you softly, straddling your stomach. the kiss was less heated than the previous ones, but still sloppy and messy and filled with passion. a lightbulb clicks in her head and she pulls away.

“are you sorry for bossing me around?” sophia asks you.

you blinked a few times and nod your head.

“i’m sorry,” you say, your voice now much more steady and clearer. “i didn’t mean it. i didn’t mean to—”

“can you show me you’re sorry?”

you paused at her words, your eyes slowly fogging with lust. sophia chuckles softly and combs her fingers down your hair.

“is that a yes?”

of course you nod immediately and sophia hums gently before having you switch their positions. as you kissed down her neck, taking her shirt off and grabbing at her breasts, soft moans spilled from her lips. those familiar moans that you’ve missed so much have finally been heard because of your actions. you left small hickeys on her neck and stomach, not wanting to give her too much foreplay. you had to get back home soon and you knew she was impatient.

when you grabbed her pants and took her panties off, you immediately moved your head in before she pulls your hair up.

“i’m still in charge, yn,” sophia whispers a bit shakily, “don’t forget.”

“yes, ma’am.”

“not my name.”

“yes, mommy,” you corrected yourself.

“that’s my good puppy,” sophia praised. her hand loosened in your hair and guided you back down to her dripping cunt. your tongue took a gentle swipe from her slit and she groaned softly. her hand immediately pulled you closer, forcing your lips onto her clit as if you were just some fuck toy. though, you didn’t mind. it’s been a while.

you sucked and circled the tip of your tongue against her clit, being gentle but rough with your sucking. she throws her head back into the soft pillow behind her, both hands finding their way to grip your hair even tighter.

“s- so good, mahal,” she whispers out breathily, praising your work on her body lovingly.

“so, so, so good…” sophia moaned out. she was much more quieter than you were.

her praise encouraged you to quicken your speed. when you did, her moans got a bit more louder than usual and your heart quickened. you can tell she was getting closer and closer to her peak. it was exciting you.

“baby,” she warns you.

“i know…”

she moans at your acknowledgment of her closeness and before you both knew it, she released. it dripped off of your face as she finished and you breathed heavily. you looked down and desperately lapped at her sweetness, taking in every drop. it tasted sweet. so sweet.

sophia let out soft moans as you cleaned her up with your tongue. her hair loosening and tightening at the same time as she tried to calm down.

“en- enough, puppy,” she whispers as she forcefully pulls your hair up. you whined softly at the tugging before letting yourself rest against her chest and between her legs.

“get the blanket, yn.”

you reached over to the side and grabbed the item, draping it over the two of you. you both were worn out and fulfilled. her fingers moved to the back of your head, seeping through your silky hair and scratches the back of your scalp.

“so,” sophia whispers, pushing her nose against your hair, “you’re breaking up with her?”

you paused before nodding your head.

“give me your phone,” she demanded you. you looked up from her chest before reaching down on the floor where your pants laid and reached for your phone. you unlocked it for her and then handed her the mobile device. she takes it gradually, tapping through your phone. you didn’t really care about what she did, knowing you could trust her will all your might. you laid sleepily on her chest, knocking out in her arms. sophia looked down at you before opening your chat with your girlfriend, going to the camera and snapping a photo of you on her chest. she bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile before sending it with a caption before blocking her number.

i think they ended up in the wrong arms tonight.

or not!

— final a/n: in honor of beautiful chaos coming out i HAD to finish this story… ngl i put this aside when i had to write the sex part LMAOOO

[xoami]

LIMERENT, ⋆｡°✩ 𓈒𓈒 sick and in love

𖥔 PRECIS. In which, you and your stalker have a special bond. PAIRING. stalker!sunghoon x lovesick!reader GENRE. fluff, angst, suggestive WARNINGS. skinship, mild kissing, mdni

authors note ୨୧ This comeback has my creativity on 10. I spiraled and wrote several chapters to this prompt. I may release them depending on how this goes.

─────────

You met your stalker on a gloomy Wednesday. Well, that’s not exactly true…

You caught him.

It was raining that night, hard, cold drops hammering the pavement like they had a score to settle.

You’d just locked up the café, slipping your keys into your coat pocket when you glanced across the street—and there he was…

His tall, lean figure half-shadowed under the flickering orange glow of a busted streetlamp, camera pressed to his chest like a confession. Dark hair, damp and messy. Lips parted like he forgot how to breathe when you noticed him.

His tired eyes were blown wide under wet lashes…

You didn’t scream, You didn’t run.

You tilted your head, lifted your hand to wave, and he disappeared.

Sunghoon… Park Sunghoon.

That was his name.

You found it scrawled on the inside of a brand new book, ´The Fall of the House of Usher’ that appeared on your porch days later—delicate cursive, slanted and careful, and in pretty red ink.

You pressed your fingers to it, lips curling.

The book smelled like cologne—woodsy, clean, cold. Like cedar, mint, and winter.

Later you learned that Sunghoon always smelled like winter.

⸻

You’re not exactly normal either.

No one really talks to you much… not since you stopped trying.

You like your space, your routines.

Your tea cabinet is alphabetized, your bed is always made, except when he comes.

You talk to stray cats more than you do to people. They meow at the windows at sunset, and you always let them in.

So, maybe it wasn’t that strange to you when the gifts started…

Roses, dark red and wilting at the edges.

A little box with a dainty, golden locket.

A velvet ribbon tied around a cassette tape with no label… classical music.

An envelope of photos—grainy, warm, quiet. Some of you at the market, some of you brushing your hair in the mirror, some of you flat on your stomach in bed, dipping strawberries in melted chocolate.

You should’ve been scared, but you weren’t.

You felt closer to something…someone?...

You felt admired.

You felt pretty.

⸻

Days…

Weeks…

Months…

Time passed, slow as molasses.

Patterns continued, and eventually your stalker became less and less… out of reach. He never started to feel less like a ghost however.

Park Sunghoon.

You remember the first time you heard heavy footsteps in the halls, you were quick to type away on your phone.

You: Is that you?

Your phone had buzzed not even a moment later. One message:

Unknown: ;)

Soon, it became routine.

He’d crawl through your window, always at odd hours of the night.

Most of the time, you were already half asleep, your cheek mashed against the pillow, fingers twitching toward dreamland…

But you’d stir at the faint creak of the floorboards, the subtle shift of air, the familiar cold scent curling into your room like fog.

Then the bed would dip behind you, and arms would wrap around your waist. Strong, still trembling slightly.

You’d smile even in slumber.

Sunghoon’s fingers were always ice cold, and he’d tuck them beneath your night dress, pressing into the bare warmth of your stomach like he needed to feel it.

You’d wiggle your hips against him just to tease, and he’d choke on a quiet sound, pulling you closer. You liked the way he shook.

You liked that you made him shake.

⸻

He doesn’t speak much.

When he does, it’s breathy… flat but thick with meaning. His words don’t land—they linger.

“I’d never hurt you,” he whispered once, his mouth brushing the curve of your neck as he held you on the fire escape.

“I’d kill for you, though.”

You think he already has.

You never asked why there was blood smudged on his cheeks, or dried under his fingernails some nights…

Never asked why or whose it was.

You never asked why his hands tremble when you kiss over fresh bruises.

You just guide him to the bed, giggling as he sits stiff as stone on the edge, waiting for you climbed into his lap. You trace the veins down his neck, pressed your lips to the chiseled line of his jaw, and felt the tension coil in his spine.

He never moved first.

You always had to pull his hands from his sides, coax them to your hips, your thighs, your ribs…

Like he was scared he’d burn you.

You wanted to burn.

⸻

He writes you love letters…

Little scraps of obsession.

‘Hello Angel,

Your lips have been haunting me… your smile too. I saw you laugh at a joke from your co-worker today. The cashier. It made me want to scratch his eyes out. Anyhow, you looked beautiful… I’ll see you soon. Leave your window open?

- Yours truly, S.’

You tape them to your bathroom mirror like confessions.

Late at night, you write your name across his pale chest with cherry lipstick, his arms, his hips—right over his heart.

You like the way his eyes roll when you straddle him, brows furrowed, his mouth always parted like he forgot how to breathe again. He trembles when you kiss, like every touch is sacrilegious.

You think he cried the first time he saw you naked.

A single tear, down his cheekbone, as his hands stayed frozen above his head like he didn’t know where to put them. You kissed the tear, then kissed lower.

⸻

The photos keep coming… the ones he takes.

You sip tea and sort through them like postcards at your kitchen table.

You, always you. At your window, or stretching in bed, or with headphones on and unaware, mouthing the lyrics to a song he later asked about.

“I like knowing you’re watching,” you once told him, brushing his hair back from his face as he lay in your lap.

He blinked up at you, as if waiting for the punchline.

You smiled.

“It makes me feel wanted.”

Sunghoon’s lips curled—just barely. A twitch of something fond and unhinged.

⸻

You still leave your window open without asking, but he has a key now just in case.

You always sleep deeper with his arms around you… and he’s beginning to leave clothes of his for you in the mornings… A simple black hoodie, a thin white t-shirt, a striped dress shirt.

You always wore them, nothing underneath.

Your stray cats still curl on the windowsill, still keeping you company in his absence.

Your house smells like rose petals and cold cologne. Your walls are now lined with clothesline, his secret photographs pinned along them with fairy lights.

You never fail to wake to the softest kisses on your shoulder, the words “mine, mine, mine” breathed like prayer.

On the fire escape, you hold his hand and he presses his lips to your temple.

“You’ll never know a love like mine,” he whispers.

“I know,” you whisper back, smiling.

And that’s all you need.

[everrinsly]

suna being the best sugar daddy.

free necklace. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

suna buys you the necklace you stare too long at... no reason... just because.

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🖤💰

It’s just a necklace.

At least, that’s what you told yourself yesterday when your eyes lingered a little too long on a shop window while you and Suna were walking to lunch. It had been nestled between flashy earrings and gaudy bracelets—just a simple, delicate chain with a single charm. 

A tiny white opal set in silver.

Pretty. Small. Dainty. 

Very expensive.

You didn’t say anything, of course. You just slowed your steps for a second too long—maybe sighed, maybe tilted your head, maybe twitched your lips.

But you forgot one critical thing.

Suna sees everything.

He shows up to the little bookstore you work at the next day, completely unannounced, fifteen minutes before your lunch break even starts.

You blink up at him from behind the counter, a stack of paperbacks in your hands. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

“I left early,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just drive across town during peak traffic hours. “Didn’t feel like eating alone.”

You narrow your eyes. “You hate the food around here.”

“I brought us takeout from that soba place you like.” He lifts a neatly packed brown bag, and it smells way too good for you to keep scowling.

You stare.

Suna stares back.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m generous.”

Lunch is spent like most meals with him—shoulder to shoulder at the tiny table in the back corner of the bookstore’s break area, half-surrounded by old romance novels and battered mystery hardcovers. His legs are stretched out comfortably, yours tucked neatly beside his. Every time his thigh brushes yours, you forget how to chew for half a second.

You try not to overthink it.

Try not to melt when he passes you your chopsticks without asking or opens your drink before you even reach for it. 

Or when he tilts his head to watch you eat like you’re the view.

It’s fine. It’s totally normal. 

And then, as you’re tossing away the containers and wiping your hands, his voice cuts in—low, casual, but laced with something softer.

“Angel,” he says, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

You blink. “Hm?”

“Got you something. Almost forgot.”

“What?”

He’s already reaching into the pocket of his EJP jacket, pulling out a small white box. 

No brand name. Plain. Unassuming. Expensive.

“Rin…”

He holds it out. “It’s nothing. Just open it.”

Your heart stutters.

The box is warm from being in his pocket.

You open it.

Inside is the necklace.

The one from the window. 

Opal charm, silver chain, exactly as you remember it.

Your breath catches. “How did you—?”

“You stared at it for like five minutes yesterday,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Didn’t like how sad your face looked when you walked away.”

You want to tell him off. You try to tell him off. You really do.

But your throat’s tight, and the box is shaking just slightly in your hands.

Suna steps closer.

“Turn around,” he says, already taking the necklace out.

You hesitate. “Rinnie, you don’t have to—”

“Yeah, but I want to.” His voice is quieter now. “C’mere. Lemme do it.”

You bite your lip, cheeks hot, and turn.

He’s careful.

Slow and steady. 

The chain brushes your collarbone as he drapes it around you. His fingers are warm against the back of your neck as he fastens it, knuckles grazing your skin more than strictly necessary. He doesn’t pull away when he’s done. He just lingers, hands resting lightly on your shoulders.

Then—

A soft press of lips to the back of your neck, right above where the clasp sits.

It’s barely anything. A whisper of contact. A touch you can’t call platonic, not really. 

But Suna acts like it’s nothing, like of course he does this, like you’re imagining how your stomach flips at the feel of it.

You slowly turn back around—

But he’s already looking at you.

His eyes flicker to your necklace, then back up to your face, and there’s a small smile curling on his lips. Not smug. Not teasing. Just… soft. 

Like you’re his favorite sight.

You open your mouth to say something. Anything. 

But his hand is already reaching for yours—fingers warm and  wrapping around your wrist before sliding down to gently hold your hand.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, tugging you a step closer. “I wanna take you somewhere.”

“I—Rin—!”

He leans in just slightly, nose nearly brushing yours. “You’ve still got twenty minutes of your break, yeah?”

You hesitate. You should probably say no—probably ask where, probably remember the stack of books you promised to restock for your supervisor. 

But he answers for you anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, already walking backward and bringing you with him, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah, you do.”

Just like always, your feet follow him before your brain catches up.

And as you trail beside him toward his car—heart fluttering, pulse too loud—you lift your free hand, almost without thinking, to touch the opal at your neck.

[delilahsturniolo]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 💌 everything but goodbye . . . c.s

in which . . . you can’t help but keep living in denial

warnings . . . grief, loss, hallucinations due to trauma, heavy and emotional distress & angst, death of a partner, mentions of a car crash, mental health struggles, slight panic attack, no happy ending, plot twist. please read with discretion and remember this is only fiction. i am in absolutely no way romanticizing any of these topics, this is simply for writing purposes, please scroll if you are uncomfortable.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

you don’t remember the first time he came back, only that one day you were alone, and the next, chris was there. he’d always been gentle with you. hands warm, voice quieter than usual. you thought it was because of how broken you were, because of the panic attacks, the way you woke up crying without knowing why, the long silences where your chest ached and your heart pounded and you couldn’t breathe.

but chris never made you feel ashamed. he’d stroke your hair, press kisses to your knuckles. whisper, “it’s okay. i’ve got you.” and you believed him, you always do. even when you couldn’t remember the last time he texted you first. even when his calls never showed up in your logs.

you told yourself, grief messes with time. trauma makes memory fuzzy. maybe you’re just healing slowly. he was here now. that’s what mattered.

every day, you woke up just after sunrise and found his hoodie draped over the back of your desk chair. he always left before you opened your eyes, something about “early meetings,” but his scent lingered on your pillow. sometimes he’d show up at night, knocking softly, eyes tired, rain dripping from his hair.

you never asked questions. you were just so glad he kept coming back to you. you have a box of keepsakes you don’t open anymore. photos. love notes. polaroids of the two of you from that summer in hawaii, your legs over his lap, sand in your hair, sunburn on his nose.

you don’t open the box because it hurts. but more than that, you don’t open it because you don’t need to. because he’s still here.

the day everything unravels, you wake up with a strange feeling in your chest. like static. like something important is shifting, and your body knows before your mind catches up. it’s storming outside. thunder rolls low and heavy, and the windows rattle with wind. you wrap yourself in a blanket and pad into the kitchen, hoping chris left a note or a cup of coffee warming in the pot.

there’s nothing. your stomach sinks.

you try calling him, something you haven’t done in a while, because he always just…shows up. but the number doesn’t ring. disconnected. you frown, try again. same thing.

you check his socials. haven’t been updated in almost a year.

weird.

weird.

weird.

your fingers tremble as you open the box you swore you’d never touch again.

inside, everything’s just as you left it, except now you’re seeing it like it’s brand new. a photo, creased down the middle. chris’s handwriting on the back.

our last beach trip. best weekend of my life.

you turn it over. you’re in his arms. his lips on your cheek. but there’s a date written in the corner. almost a year ago.

almost exactly the same week the dreams started. no. you flip through the stack. ticket stubs. a dried flower from the bouquet he gave you on your birthday. a ripped envelope.

and then, at the very bottom, a folded piece of paper you don’t remember ever seeing before. it has your name on it. in his handwriting.

hey love,

i’m writing this because sometimes words spoken aren’t enough. sometimes, life feels too heavy, too unpredictable. i don’t know if i’ll get to say all of this out loud again, so here it is

you are everything. every quiet moment, every laugh we shared, they’re all pieces of my heart.

if tonight is the last time i get to come home to you, please don’t carry any blame.

this isn’t on you. it’s on fate, on chance, on something neither of us could control.

promise me you’ll keep fighting, keep living in color, for the both of us.

i’ll be watching, in every breeze, every shadow that dances with you.

and i’ll be loving you, forever.

so don’t give up on yourself. don’t give up on us.

please.

all my love,

chris.

your vision blurs. your whole body goes cold.

you drop the letter.

and then it all comes back at once.

the sirens.

the hospital call.

his car getting flipped over, all because the rain was too heavy, he went off the road. the letter…he had a feeling of what was going to happen. he knew, his gut told him to write that letter. and that’s why he gave you an extra long hug, and deeper kiss before he left. he only wrote the letter just in case he didn’t come back, little did you both know, he didn’t come back.

all because he was in a rush, picking up flowers for you because you were upset that day. the moment doctors pulled you into a sterile room with shaking hands and quiet eyes and said, “we’re so sorry…we did the best we could..”

you fell apart. and then…you forgot. you forced yourself to forget. and your mind, aching for him, started stitching together pieces of what used to be. it pulled his voice from voicemails. it built his silhouette out of shadows and old clothes. it conjured the ghost of a boy who’d never let you cry alone.

you didn’t heal. you hallucinated love.

and now, now that you remember, he’s gone. really gone. no more footsteps in the hallway. no more kisses to your shoulder. no more “i’ll be back soon.” just silence. you sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, as the storm crashes against the windows. and for the first time in almost a year, you truly cry for him.

not a ghost. not a dream. just the boy you loved. and lost. you sit up, frantically shaking your head, dusting yourself off. no no no, what are you thinking!? he’s not gone, he’s still here, obviously.

right…?

© delilahsturniolo

💌: i was afraid to post this

[jhyoos]

Fight For You

boxer!abby x model!reader

summary: you meet abby at a high-end party.

mentions: fame au, modern au, everyone is alive, mentions of ed, smoking, drinking, romance, angst, smut, fucking in the bathroom, oral & fingering (r!receiving).

author note: suprisingly this was highly requested ! very long fanfic so get something to eat!

You were a model—not a household name, not a face plastered on every billboard in Manhattan or Paris—but you walked. You moved. You made it somewhere. You’d been in a few Vogue spreads, dimly lit behind the star of the page. You’d walked Victoria’s Secret runways, wings stitched to your back like borrowed dreams. You weren’t the centerpiece, but you were there, shimmering in the glow of flashbulbs and eyes that didn't always see you.

As much as girls romanticized it—modeling was war. Polished smiles in front of the camera, but behind the scenes? It was elbows out, lips stitched shut. A competition of bone counts and measurements, where praise sounded like “you finally look thinner” and love came in the shape of hunger.

When you first started, your manager had you on diets so strict they felt like rituals—punishment masked as discipline. Celery sticks for breakfast, water for dinner, shame for dessert. There were nights when your body rebelled, when you’d throw everything up until your vision blurred and your ribs ached. You smiled anyway, because that’s what pretty girls did.

Then came the miracle.

Victoria’s Secret reached out. They wanted you—a new Angel. And God, you flew. You cried in the back of your Uber, mascara bleeding into your palms. When the official post dropped on their Instagram, your phone lit up like a Christmas tree. Follows. Blue checks. Brands. People cared.

And yet... people commented.

Under the glowing announcement, buried between the fire emojis and “she’s perfect,” came the venom. “She’s too thick to be an Angel.” “She doesn’t have the face for it.” “Bet she slept her way in.”

You told yourself not to look. You did anyway. You always did.

And you tried to brush it off. You liked the positive comments. You reposted the good ones. You told yourself the hate came with the fame. That it was just noise. But even angels have soft spots under their wings.

You weren’t famous-famous. You were known. Seen. Not always remembered. But in a world that wanted you to be skin and air, you were something real. And that, maybe, was enough.

Abby Anderson was everywhere.

Her face graced the cover of every major sports magazine—ESPN, Women’s Health, Boxing Monthly—always front and center, gloves slung over her shoulder like royalty, like muscle wrapped in silk. When competition season rolled around, her image lit up city billboards like neon prayers. Times Square. L.A. Live. Hell, even Tokyo had her gritted smile above the skyline.

She wasn’t just known—she was inevitable.

Her Instagram was a force of nature. Millions of followers, all eyes on her knuckles, her callouses, her workouts, her smirks. The caption could be two words—“Try me”—and it’d break the algorithm. Her fans called themselves the Anderson Army, flooding every comment section with love, awe, thirst. Her fights sold out in minutes. Pay-per-view numbers shattered records. Even people who didn’t watch boxing knew who she was.

Abby was a beast in the ring. Some called her a bull—not because she was reckless, but because she was unstoppable. Every match she walked into, she didn’t just win, she dominated. Her fists moved like poetry written in blunt force. Her footwork was tactical, brutal, almost unfair. Opponents fell before the second round like they knew what was coming.

And she looked damn good doing it.

Viral TikToks caught her mid-punch, sweat-glossed and godly, jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. There were fan cams edited like music videos. Tweets that said, “Abby Anderson could knock me out and I’d say thank her.” Gym clips turned into thirst traps. She didn’t try to be hot—she just was.

She had the fame, the fans, the money, the muscles, the girls who lined up for a chance to be close. And her team? Top-tier. Nutritionists, trainers, publicists, stylists. Everything about her life looked like it was curated for a champion, and it was—because she earned it.

Every scar, every bruise, every early morning and broken rib—it paid off.

Abby Anderson had the world in a chokehold, and the world loved it.

Your friend was the kind of model who didn’t just walk runways—she owned them. Her name alone got invites to the most exclusive parties in the city, the kind of places where no phones were allowed but everyone knew everything that happened anyway. You were surprised when she asked you to be her plus-one.

“Please come,” she’d said, voice syrupy over the phone. “Some other friends are coming, but you're the only one who doesn’t drink. Help me make sober choices, yeah?”

You laughed softly but agreed. You couldn’t say no—not just because you cared, but because deep down, you wanted to see it. That other world. That forbidden, neon-lit underbelly of the elite.

She helped you pick out a dress, too—that dress. A black, sequined slip of a thing that clung to every curve like it had been sewn on with whispers. The neckline plunged like a dare, held up by the thinnest black straps. A small silver clasp cinched the cutout just beneath your chest, the only thing keeping the whole thing from unraveling completely. It was short—dangerously short—and it shimmered with every breath, every turn, catching the light like stars stuck to your skin. Paired with simple black heels and your hair down in soft waves, you looked like temptation bottled.

The party was already in full swing by the time you arrived.

It was hot—humid with bodies and bass, sweat and perfume clinging to the air. The kind of party where everyone was somebody. The room reeked of status, of secrecy. Celebrities you once idolized were tucked into dark corners, drinking like they were trying to forget their own names. Others were laughing too loudly, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. The scent of weed, champagne, and something chemical lingered everywhere. A haze of smoke floated near the chandeliers like a ghost.

If only the paparazzi saw this. The unfiltered version of fame.

Your friend tugged you by the wrist to a booth she had rented out—elevated just enough to overlook the dance floor like a throne. You sat down, pressing your thighs together on the cold leather couch, the sequins of your dress crackling faintly. You nursed a single drink, barely sipping it as the others around you knocked shots back like water.

Laughter. Slurred voices. Someone snorted something off a phone screen. You stayed silent, posture poised, eyes scanning. Watching.

Eventually, your friend stood, swaying just a little. “I’m heading to the dance floor with them,” she said, already halfway gone.

You nodded, a little uneasy, but you understood. This was her scene.

Now it was just you. Sitting alone in a storm of sound and sweat, the only one not drunk, not high, not tangled up in the mess. Just quiet, calm, and breathtaking in your dress like a still frame inside a film reel spinning too fast.

You lasted longer than you thought you would—sitting pretty and still, the only clear head in a room full of beautiful chaos. But it was starting to crawl under your skin. The sound, the heat, the way the air felt like it was breathing you in. Your nerves were humming too loud for comfort. So, with a quiet sigh, you got up from the booth and decided to make your way to the bar.

Eyes followed you the moment you stood. Like hounds catching a scent.

You kept your gaze low, trying not to make contact. You weren’t here to mingle with the rich tweakers and chemically confident heirs of nothing. Every time someone tried to strike up a conversation, you gave them a single word—“No.” “Sorry.” “Taken.” Short. Sharp. Enough to cut without bleeding.

Then someone touched you.

A hand, too firm, closed around your arm. You stopped cold. Turned.

His face was familiar—he might’ve been in a movie, or maybe the son of someone who was. But his pupils were so wide they swallowed the color of his eyes, and the whites were streaked red like cracks in glass. He wasn’t just high. He was gone.

“Hey…” he slurred, breath sticky. “What you doing all alone?”

You flinched at his tone, at the sway of his body. Your stomach twisted, but you managed a polite, strained smile. “I’m not alone, sir. I’m here with my friends.”

“Mm,” he grinned, like he didn’t believe you. Like he didn’t care. He tugged your arm, pulling you closer like you were some party favor to unwrap.

Your heart skipped in fear and instinct—your fingers grabbed at your arm, trying to yank free.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asked, voice low and greasy.

“I—”

Before you could answer, you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. Solid. Protective. Warm.

“Fuck off,” a deep voice growled behind you. “She’s with me.”

The guy froze. His hand dropped like he’d touched fire.

You turned your head—and there she was.

Abby Anderson.

She stood tall, her shadow swallowing the guy whole. Muscles carved into her like she’d been sculpted, not born. Her jaw clenched just enough to say try me. The air shifted. The guy muttered something, barely audible, then backed off into the crowd like a kicked dog.

You exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes.

“Thank you so much,” you said, voice still shaky with adrenaline.

“No problem,” Abby replied, eyes steady on yours.

Then she looked you up and down—slowly, deliberately. Her gaze lingered at your dress, lips twitching in approval. “You want a drink?” she asked.

You nodded. “Yeah... I was on my way to the bar.”

“Perfect,” she said, her hand brushing your lower back. “Let’s go.”

The dance floor was a different world entirely—smoke in the air, lights strobing in pulses of red and gold, bodies packed so tight you could feel the music in your bones. It wasn’t dancing, not really. It was moving, grinding, existing too close and not close enough all at once.

Abby held your hand as she led you through the crowd like she knew exactly where to go. Her grip was firm, grounding. She stopped in the center, surrounded by heat and rhythm, and turned to face you with a look that was half playful, half something deeper.

You bit your lip. “So this is the part where you pretend to dance?”

Abby chuckled, hands already settling on your waist. “Nah. This is the part where I let you lead and pretend I’m doing something.”

The bass thumped through the floor, into your heels, your spine. You started slow, swaying your hips to the beat, your hands brushing up Abby’s chest to hook behind her neck. She followed your rhythm effortlessly, bodies pressed just enough to tease, but not quite enough to satisfy.

She was warm, solid, her scent sharp and clean beneath the smoke and sweat. Her gaze didn’t leave yours—not for a second. Not even when your thighs brushed, not even when your hips tilted forward in a soft, suggestive grind.

You felt her breath catch. Yours did too.

You tilted your head up, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Still pretending?” you whispered.

“No,” she breathed. “Not anymore.”

Her hands slid down to your hips, pulling you flush against her. Every motion was slow and deliberate, like she was trying to memorize how you moved, how your body fit into hers.

Your hands were in her hair now, fingers threading through the strands as your mouth hovered near hers, your noses touching, foreheads brushing.

And then—

She kissed you.

Right there on the dance floor, under a flickering red light, while the whole room spun and bodies crashed around you. Her lips crashed into yours with a heat that left no room for second thoughts. It was messy and perfect, her mouth tasting like whiskey and victory. Her hand slid up your back, cradling the base of your neck like you were something precious, and the kiss deepened—tongues brushing, teeth grazing, everything hungry and real.

You kissed her like you were tired of pretending. Like the night belonged to you both and everyone else was just noise.

By the time you pulled away, breathless and dazed, her forehead was still pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, lips slick from yours.

“Still wanna call it one dance?” you asked, voice husky.

She smirked, lips brushing yours again. “Nah. I’m not done with you yet.”

“Come with me,” she murmured, her voice like gravel and silk.

She took your hand again—firmer this time—and pulled you through the crowd. Past the dancers. Past the bar. You barely noticed where you were going, but when she pushed open the heavy black door and the cool tile of the upscale bathroom greeted your heels, it hit you—

This wasn’t gonna be a quiet conversation.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the chaos outside. The room was dim, bathed in golden light from crystal fixtures on the walls. Too pretty a place for what was about to happen.

You turned around to face her, but Abby was already close again, crowding into your space in the most delicious way. Her hands found your hips, then slid around to your lower back, pulling you against her like she needed you there.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, leaning down, lips brushing over your jaw. “Walking around like that in that little black dress…”

Your breath caught as her mouth ghosted along your skin—cheek to jaw to neck.

“I didn’t know I’d catch a boxer’s attention,” you teased, voice barely steady.

Abby’s teeth scraped lightly against your throat, just enough to make your knees wobble.

“You caught a lot more than that,” she growled. “You think I was just gonna let you sit there alone, looking like that? Not a chance.”

Her lips met yours again, but this time it was rougher—needy. Her hands explored your back, your sides, fingers grazing bare skin as she pushed you gently until your back hit the cool tile wall. The contrast made you gasp, and she took full advantage, deepening the kiss like she owned your mouth, like she’d waited too long already.

Your hands were in her hair again, tugging gently, nails dragging along her scalp. She groaned into your mouth, one hand sliding down to your thigh—lifting it so it rested against her hip.

You moaned softly as the pressure between you built, your bodies locked together in this stolen moment of heat and hunger and want.

“Say the word,” she breathed against your lips, her hand hovering, waiting.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

That was all she needed.

Her lips brushed yours—not a kiss yet, just the idea of one. Soft enough to make your breath catch. Her nose nudged yours, foreheads touching. You could smell her—warm and clean beneath the sweat and cologne, with a faint trace of whiskey still on her breath.

Her hand slid up your thigh, knuckles grazing the hem of your dress. “This is driving me insane,” she whispered. “You in this little thing, walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You grinned, high on the rush. “Maybe I do.”

Abby groaned, a low sound in the back of her throat that lit you up from the inside out. Her mouth met yours in a kiss that melted all the air between you. Her lips were soft but firm, her hand gripping your waist, dragging you into her as if she couldn’t bear even an inch of space left untouched.

You whimpered into her mouth when she pressed you harder into the wall, thigh slipping between yours, nudging upward with steady pressure.

“You’re already warm,” she whispered against your lips, voice thick and ragged. “And fuck—you’re shaking.”

You were. It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation, trembling like your body already knew what was coming.

Her hands moved with purpose—sliding up your sides, over your ribs, finding the zipper of your dress and pausing. “Can I?” she asked, voice low.

You nodded.

The zipper purred down, slow and deliberate, as cool air kissed the skin of your back. Your dress slipped from your shoulders like it was made to fall. Abby let it, guiding it down your arms until it pooled around your feet.

The way she looked at you then—

Like she was starving. Like you were everything.

Her hands roamed up your thighs, trailing goosebumps in their wake. Her palms were rough, used to wrapping around gloves and landing punches, but they touched you like silk. Her fingers splayed across your stomach, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra as she leaned in and kissed the base of your throat—slow, reverent.

“You’re unreal,” she murmured against your skin.

You tilted your head back, a soft moan escaping you as her lips traveled down your collarbone, every kiss a promise, every pause a test of restraint. She took her time, building you up with touches and kisses so gentle you felt like you were going to come apart before she even got there.

She dropped to her knees, lips ghosting over your stomach now, her hands gripping your thighs again. You looked down at her—this powerhouse of a woman, a boxer with bruised knuckles and fire in her eyes—kneeling for you, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Abby…”

“I got you,” she whispered. “I want to take care of you.”

And the way she said that?

It didn’t sound like a pick-up line.

It sounded like a promise.

Her mouth pressed a kiss to your hipbone. Then another. Then lower.

You threaded your fingers into her hair, back arching as you felt her breath where you needed her most, every nerve ending screaming awake, your whole body aching for her.

When her mouth finally met your skin, hot and slow and deliberate, you gasped—and that was when you stopped thinking altogether.

You were hers. In this moment. In this heat.

Your breath hitched, when you felt her mouth on your heat, exploring you.

She picked up on every whine you made in certain spots and attacked them with her tongue.

"Fuck you're so sweet," she mumbled against you which made up moan.

She was slow, at first. torturously soft licks and kisses on your clit that made your knees buckle. Then deeper—pressing and sucking in a rhythm that felt otherworldly. You gripped her hair, fingers tangling in her golden strands, moaning shamelessly as she devoured you like it was the only thing she needed to survive.

She worked you open like a prizefighter dissecting her opponent—calculated, relentless, skilled. She knew exactly when to add pressure, when to ease up, when to slide her two thick fingers inside you and curl them just right, making you yell out her name in pleasure.

She sucked on your clit as she continued to finger you. The sound of your arousal filled the bathroom as she fingered you. "Fuck Abby," you moaned out.

The sound of your voice moaning out her name only made her more determined to make you cum. Her fingers got faster and your moans only got louder.

You heard loud knocks on the bathroom door and a few voices, but that didnt stop Abby as you grew closer to your climax.

Abby pulled her mouth away and stood, her fingers still inside of you as she kept a steady pace. Her thumb rubbing your abused and swollen clit making you tremble. She used her other hand to grab your throat, gripping it with just enough pressure. "Are you gonna cum?," she whispered.

"Yes...fuck yes. I'm so close," you whined.

"Be a good girl and cum all over my fingers," she commands.

After a few more pumps of her fingers inside of your cunt. You came and hard. Abby kissed you muffling your moans as she slowed her pace, helping you calm down from your high.

The silence after the storm was thick and golden.

Your chest was rising and falling fast, dress wrinkled and hanging low on your hips, hair a wild halo around your flushed face.

You both stayed like that for a few heartbeats—no words, just the sound of your breathing and the muted thump of the party outside, miles away from the moment you were in.

Then, slowly, Abby's big hands gently slid up your sides.

“You good?” she asked, voice hoarse and low, her thumb brushing along your jaw.

You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah,” you murmured, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Very good.”

She let out a soft laugh, something cocky and proud warming her expression. “Yeah? Scale of one to ten?”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes twinkling. “Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“Damn right,” she said, grinning now, stepping behind you to pull the straps of your dress back over your shoulders.

Her fingers moved deftly, pulling the zipper up in a slow, smooth line that sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

Then you turned around to face her and—

“Oh my God,” you giggled, pressing a hand to your mouth.

“What?” Abby blinked, instantly alert. “Did I mess up the zipper?”

“No,” you said, biting your lip to stop from laughing. “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth. Like… everywhere. You look like you fought a tube of MAC and lost.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

You nodded, laughing now, reaching up to wipe her face gently with your thumb. “You look ridiculous. Hot, but ridiculous.”

Abby grinned, totally unfazed. “Badge of honor.”

Then—bam bam bam—a sudden knock on the bathroom door, followed by the obnoxious giggle of some drunk stranger.

“Yo, hurry up in there! We gotta piss!”

Abby rolled her eyes and looked at you with a smirk. “And just like that… the moment’s gone.”

You both burst out laughing, quietly, like a shared secret. She reached for the door handle, pausing just before she opened it.

“You wanna get outta here?” she asked. “We can go somewhere quieter. Talk. Or… not talk.”

You tilted your head, smiling soft, still feeling the fire she left behind glowing low in your belly.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

The bathroom door swung open and the two of you stepped out, back into the chaos.

The music hit first—thick, heavy, vibrating through your chest. Then came the blur of heat, perfume, weed, strobe lights flickering off mirrored walls. People pressed in from every side, some dancing, some spilling drinks, all of them moving like they were floating through honey.

But you weren’t really paying attention to any of it—your focus was still wrapped around Abby, your skin still buzzing where she touched you.

Then—

“Baaaaabe!” your friend slurred, suddenly appearing from the crowd like a glittering, unhinged fairy. Her dress was sliding off one shoulder and her mascara had migrated halfway down her cheek, but she was grinning ear to ear, holding a bottle of something pink and dangerous.

She threw her arms around you in a sloppy hug. “We’re leaaavinggg,” she declared, then looked up at you with wide eyes. “I want Whataburger. Like now.”

You blinked. “You’re hungry?”

“I’m starviiing,” she drawled, stumbling a little in her platforms. “I want fries. And a honey butter chicken biscuit. And you’re drivinggg.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Mom friend mode: activated.

You turned back to Abby, who stood there watching you with that low smirk that made your knees weak. Her hair was tousled now, lips wiped clean, but her eyes still held that same heat from the bathroom. That want.

You hesitated. “I’m sorry,” you said, stepping closer, keeping your voice low. “I gotta take care of her. But I’ll—um—I’ll add you on Instagram. And we can text. Set something up. Soon.”

Abby nodded, the smirk shifting into something softer. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t leave me on read.”

You smiled, heart fluttering a little. “I won’t.”

And even though it wasn’t a kiss goodbye, there was something electric in the way your eyes lingered on each other just a second too long, like the universe wasn’t done with this yet.

Then your friend yanked on your hand. “WHATABURGER, BITCH.”

You laughed, throwing one last look over your shoulder at Abby before diving into the crowd, one arm wrapped around your intoxicated bestie, guiding her like a lighthouse through a sea of chaos.

Your phone buzzed in your purse.

A follow request from Abby Anderson.

Your friend was still tearing up her Whataburger like it was a competition and she was winning gold. Honey butter chicken biscuit? Gone. Fries? Vanishing. Drink? Half-empty and clutched in her glittered claws like she was fighting dehydration and heartbreak.

You? You were in another world, sipping your diet coke and staring at your phone like it had just whispered something sinful.

[1 notification] abbytheanderson sent you a follow request.

You blinked. Already? You hadn’t even left the damn parking lot. She was good.

You tapped accept, and no lie—your stomach flipped like it was performing stunts. Not even thirty seconds later, another buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: hey beautiful

You bit down on a smile, typing back before your brain could overthink it.

you: hey you :)

Buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: couldn’t let you disappear like that. you left me wanting more.

You swore your pulse skipped. This woman had a black belt in flirting.

you: good thing you found me then

abbytheanderson 🥊: definitely. hey, random—but you free this weekend?

Your heart sped up. You took a quick sip of your drink to cool down your face, fingers dancing over the keyboard.

you: yeah, i think so. why?

abbytheanderson 🥊: there’s a film showcase downtown. some sports doc screening, bunch of celebs. got an invite +1, and i figured it might be more fun with you.

A movie showcase. That was not casual. That was dress up, flashbulbs, maybe a red carpet territory. Your stomach turned into champagne bubbles.

you: you want me to be your date?

abbytheanderson 🥊: unless you’ve got another famous boxer in your dms rn 👀

You laughed into your drink.

you: nope. just the hottest one.

abbytheanderson 🥊: damn right. i’ll pick you up saturday. wear something that’ll make me stare the whole night.

You locked your phone with a sigh, brain short-circuiting. Your bestie looked up from her fries with ketchup on her cheek.

“Why do you look like you just got proposed to?”

You smiled into your straw. “I’ve got a date.”

Your best friend stood behind you, clutching a makeup brush like it was a wand. "Sit still or I’m gonna make your winged liner look like a lightning bolt."

You giggled, sipping your iced coffee while she dabbed a warm highlight onto your cheekbones. “If Abby sees me and combusts, I blame you.”

She winked. “That’s the goal.”

The dress was hanging up on the door like it needed its own spotlight.

It was the dress—like Aphrodite and red carpet royalty had a baby and named her “divine.” A shimmering champagne gold that sparkled under even the faintest light, clinging to your curves like it was sculpted just for your body. The fabric was sheer but layered in all the right places, ruched along the hips and gathered at the waist in a delicate knot that accentuated everything. Strapless and sensual, the neckline cupped your chest softly and dipped into a subtle sweetheart shape, drawing the eye upward—no necklace needed, just collarbones and confidence.

The choker was a sheer mesh ribbon, soft and romantic, tied in the back like a little secret. And in your hand? A small velvet clutch that looked like luxury.

"Okay," your friend said, stepping back and crossing her arms like a proud stylist. "You look like you're about to walk into a movie and walk out with the star."

You turned to the mirror and exhaled. You looked… expensive. Golden. Ethereal.

And somewhere out there, Abby Anderson was probably trying to tie a tie and not think about your lips.

“Okay,” you said, smoothing your dress down, trying not to ruin your makeup by grinning too hard. “Let’s go melt her brain.”

The car door clicked shut behind you, heels clicking on the pavement like your own entrance music. The showcase was already buzzing—paparazzi lights flashing in bursts, guests in tailored designer looks pouring into the venue like liquid silk and velvet. Your driver looped back around, and your friend gave you a quick squeeze on the hand.

“You got this. Go make that boxer wish she had a mouthguard.”

You grinned, rolling your eyes and walking toward the entrance, that golden dress shimmering with every step like you were dipped in honey and starfire. The fabric clung just enough to whisper with movement, catching the camera flashes even when they weren’t aimed at you. Heads turned. People stared. And somewhere near the doors—

She saw you.

Abby was standing near the carpet, talking to some guy in a sports jacket, but the second her eyes landed on you? Conversation dead. Her jaw? Slightly dropped. Like someone had just uppercut her with Cupid’s fist.

She looked… good. Too good. A tailored black suit, no tie, but the first two buttons of her shirt open to show a bit of her collarbone and that stupidly strong chest. Her hair slicked back like she stepped off a Vogue Homme cover, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a drink she no longer remembered existed.

You saw her lips move—"Holy shit."

You floated up to her like you were gliding, heels clicking like punctuation to her stunned silence.

“Hey,” you said, giving her a smile that would’ve won wars. “I clean up alright, huh?”

“‘Alright’?” Abby shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving you, and damn if there wasn’t a glint of something primal in them. “You look like a damn goddess.”

You blushed, biting your lip just a little. “Not bad for a plus-one?”

“I’m upgrading your title. You’re the main event now.”

She reached out, offering you her arm like some old Hollywood gentleman, but the smirk on her face was all Abby—cocky, smooth, a little dangerous.

You took it.

The two of you walked the carpet together, and the cameras noticed. Photographers subtly turned toward the tall boxer and the glowing mystery girl on her arm. Whispers floated like perfume: “Is that Abby Anderson’s date?” “Who is she?” “She looks like a star.”

Inside, the lights were dimmer, the ambiance expensive and dramatic—velvet seats, champagne trays, and a giant screen waiting for the showcase to begin. Abby guided you to your seats, but not without sneaking glances at you like you were illegal and she wanted to get arrested.

“So,” she murmured, leaning close once you were seated. “What are the odds I get you to be my plus-one again? I was thinking… a real date. One with dessert and less paparazzi.”

You looked at her, still glowing from the lights, the crowd, the adrenaline.

“I’d say the odds are pretty high,” you whispered back.

She grinned, and you swore your stomach did a little backflip.

The movie hadn’t even started, but you already felt like you were living in one.

The afterparty was on the rooftop of the venue—elevators opening to golden lights strung like constellations, sleek white lounges, and a panoramic view of the city glittering below like a spilled jewelry box. The music was mellow, expensive-sounding. People sipped cocktails like they were made of stardust and name-dropped producers like prayers.

Abby got swept into a circle of suits and sharp smiles, people clapping her on the back, toasting to her latest win, asking questions with ulterior motives. She smiled through it, charming without trying, but you could feel her eyes flick to you every few minutes.

You wandered off to the ledge, the wind teasing your hair, your dress still glowing faintly under the rooftop lights. You leaned your elbows on the glass railing, the city stretching out like a promise, the hum of nightlife pulsing below you like a heartbeat.

Your drink was cold in your hand, but your skin still buzzed from earlier—her arm on yours, the way she looked at you like you were art in motion.

“Hey.”

Her voice came soft behind you, lower now, free of the public version of herself. You turned and found her there, hands in her pockets, her suit jacket open just enough to make your pulse trip.

“You done charming the VIPs?” you teased.

She gave a low chuckle, stepping up beside you. “They were boring as hell. I missed this view.”

You raised a brow. “The skyline?”

“No,” she said without hesitation, her eyes dragging down your profile like a caress. “You.”

That earned her a quiet laugh from you, heat rushing up your neck. “You’re really laying it on tonight, huh?”

“I’m just saying what I’m thinking.” Her shoulder brushed yours. “So… what do you do when you’re not breaking hearts in golden dresses?”

You hesitated for a second, still looking out at the city. “I model. Victoria’s Secret.”

That made her blink. “Wait—seriously?”

You nodded, a little sheepish. “I mean… I’m not like, one of those Angels. I’m usually backup. Fill-ins. Commercial stuff. They don’t exactly put me on billboards in Times Square.”

Abby looked at you for a long moment, her head tilted. “That’s wild.”

“What is?”

“That there are people out there who didn’t put you on a billboard. I’d hang a photo of you in every damn room of my house.”

You turned to her with a laugh, playful and warm. “Wow, romantic and a little bit stalker-y. Impressive.”

She grinned, closing the small space between you. “Tell me where the line is, and I’ll try not to cross it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. The city lights caught in her eyes, and something about her felt safe even in the middle of all this chaos. You smiled, heart softening.

“There’s no line,” you murmured.

Abby’s smile shifted, gentler now. She looked at you like you were something to be unwrapped slowly. “Then I’ll keep standing right here.”

You turned toward her fully now, leaning your hip against the railing, one hand cradling your glass while the other played with the condensation on the side. The wind tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, making it shimmer even more in the light. Abby was looking at you like you were unreal, but she blinked when you spoke, brought back to the present.

“So…” you tilted your head, curiosity playing in your voice. “Why boxing?”

That made her smile, and not the kind she gave the higher-ups—this one was smaller, more personal, like a story lived too long in her chest.

She shrugged a little. “I used to watch it on TV with my dad. Every Saturday night. He was always busy at the hospital, but when there was a fight on, we were synced. Like… we got each other.”

You nodded softly, listening.

“I started wrestling in school—figured it was the closest I could get. Got recruited, did alright. But it never felt like mine, y’know? Then I tried boxing. First time I landed a punch clean, everything clicked. I was like—this is it. This is the fire.”

You bit your lip, something warm blooming in your chest. There was a sparkle in her eyes now, not from the city lights, but from the weight of meaning behind her words. Passion always looked good on people—but on Abby? It was devastating.

“That’s hot,” you said, softly but truthfully. “Like, actually hot. You knowing who you are like that.”

She huffed a little laugh, rubbing the back of her neck, suddenly sheepish. “You’re the first person I’ve told that to in a while.”

You shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Well… you picked the right person. I’m an excellent secret-keeper. They don’t let just anyone model underwear, you know.”

That made her grin wide, her eyes roaming your face like she was trying to memorize it. “You really gonna keep talking like that and not expect me to kiss you again?”

Your breath caught a little, heartbeat fluttering as the tension curled tighter between you like a string pulled taut.

“I mean,” you whispered, leaning in just an inch, “I wouldn’t be mad if you did.”

She didn’t rush. Abby leaned forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. You leaned in, too, until your lips met in a soft, barely-there kiss. Not like the heated one from the club. This one was warm and lingering, like a question you already knew the answer to.

When you finally pulled back, both of you smiling, you rested your head lightly against her shoulder, looking back out at the glittering skyline.

“So…” you murmured, “You planning on knocking anyone out tonight, champ?”

She smirked. “Only if they try to take you from me.”

The car ride back was quiet in a good way. Abby drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing your thigh like she just had to remind herself you were really there. The city outside the window melted by in a blur of neon and soft shadows, and the gentle beat of the music wrapped around you like a lullaby.

By the time you reached your apartment, the air had cooled down to a soft breeze, lifting the hem of your dress and brushing over your skin like a whisper. Abby parked and got out before you could even reach for the door handle. She walked you to your door like a proper date, her hands in her pockets, her steps slow—like she didn’t want the night to end just yet.

You turned to face her at your door, heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Thank you for tonight,” you said, your voice warm and low, your smile a little sleepy but no less sincere.

Abby looked down at you with that easy grin of hers, one side of her mouth curling higher than the other. “No problem, angel,” she murmured. The nickname settled on your skin like velvet, making your cheeks heat in the soft moonlight.

You turned to unlock your door, keys jingling—but something stopped you. A quiet little nudge in your chest. You turned back around, heart kicking up a notch. She looked surprised at first when you stepped toward her, but she didn’t ask questions.

You leaned in and kissed her.

This one was slower. Softer. There wasn’t any club music thudding behind you this time, no crowd, no chaos. Just the two of you and the buzz of the porch light. Her lips tasted like the mint gum she always chewed, yours like sweet gloss and maybe a little bit of stardust.

When you finally pulled away, her eyes fluttered open like she’d been floating somewhere far off.

She smirked and licked her lips, clearly feeling the gloss residue.

You laughed quietly, hand brushing her chest as you stepped back toward the door. “I put on just lip gloss this time… so it’s not hard to take off.”

She grinned, something a little cocky flickering behind her lashes. “You planned that?”

You winked. “Maybe.”

“Smart girl,” she murmured, biting her bottom lip before taking a slow step back. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

You nodded, your fingers resting on the doorframe, reluctant to let the night end. “Okay. Drive safe.”

“Always do,” she said, and then—one last look, one last smirk—she turned and walked back toward her car, the night gently folding around her.

You leaned against the door with a quiet exhale, smiling to yourself like a fool.

an : i don't want it to be too long...so part 2 coming soon!

[pure-smut]

feral.

featuring: Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

contains: college!Sukuna, established relationship, birth control tampering, unprotected s*x, noncon/dubcon, breeding k*nk, size k*nk, cunnilingus, multiple rounds, creampies, stalking, toxic behaviour

word count: 2.4k

note: all characters are aged up to 21+!

MDNI | 18+ content

series: 1. infatuated | 2. obsessed | 3. addicted | 4. toxic | 5. feral

masterlist

a/n: okay this is the actual final part!! tysm for all the love y'all have given this series, sukuna is truly one of my muses he's just so fucked up lmaooo

“Good news,” you say, beaming. “No more condoms!”

Ryomen Sukuna’s head snaps up from where he was lazing on the couch, scrolling his phone.

“What?”

“No more condoms!” you repeat. “I switched to a different kind of pill, it won’t make me feel as bleh.”

Sukuna can only stare at you. You cross the living room and kneel beside him on the couch. He’s been so patient with you, so doting, you feel bad you changed up your birth control so suddenly last time. You reach across to run your fingers through his hair.

“I know you hated the condoms,” you say, an apologetic smile on your face.

“Stupid things,” Sukuna grumbles, leaning into your touch.

The two of you had only had sex once with a condom and it was obvious Sukuna was displeased. Since then, you’ve been sticking to hand and mouth activities, which is great but not enough forever.

“Well, I’m sorry,” you tell him. “We don’t need to use them anymore.”

You lean across to press a kiss against his lips.

“I missed you, ‘Kuna,” you tell him softly, your eyes glancing down pointedly. “All of you.”

A grin crawls across his face as he kisses you back.

“You still have me, baby,” he says. “I’m right here.”

Truthfully, Sukuna’s been slipping you sleeping pills every couple of nights, taking his fill of you without a condom. You wake up every so often a bit achy and sore but Sukuna’s careful to clean up after himself, never leaving a trace, so you don’t pay it much mind. Meanwhile, Sukuna’s happy to keep doting on you, knowing he’s spilling his seed unprotected in you without you even knowing.

He slipped you the morning after pill the first couple of times but the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea of getting you pregnant. Your needy little pussy so eager for his cum, fucking his load into you until it takes. The idea was intoxicating. So he stopped spiking your coffee with the morning after pill. All he needs to do now is wait.

Until you interrupt his plans again.

Sukuna waits until you’re out of the house before he starts rifling through the bathroom cabinets. He finds your new pills quickly, a few of them already popped. He regards them with disgust. Just another barrier between you.

He takes a picture of them, making a note of the name and brand. After some difficult searching and a trip to the dark web, Sukuna finds someone who’ll send out several identical boxes, except filled with sugar pills instead. With a grin, he orders them.

Sukuna has to spend a few days finishing inside you knowing you’re still protected, waiting for the fake pills to arrive. He knows you’d get suspicious if he refrained from sex – it’s Sukuna, after all – so he fucks you the way you want, the thought of the prize at the end keeping him going.

You return home one day to see Sukuna with your favourite flowers, the lights turned low, and a smile on his face. Your sweet boyfriend.

You remember what you thought of him before you got together – an arrogant fuckboy would be putting it lightly. What should have been a quick, albeit satisfying, one night stand has somehow turned into the most loving relationship you’ve ever had.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him deep, your tongue flicking over his. He’s been in a semi-bad mood ever since you said you were switching pills but he seems to have gotten over it, returning to the gruff but loving guy you know.

“I love you, baby,” Sukuna mumbles into your mouth. “Get on the bed.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond before he carries you through to the bedroom himself. You’re used to this, being manhandled by Sukuna, so you only giggle as he throws you onto the bed. He reaches under your skirt to tug off your panties before crawling between your legs.

Sukuna inhales the scent of you. You smell so dark and sweet, it’s like you’re custom built to turn him on. Ever since the night he broke into your room to taste you as you slept, he hasn’t been able to stop tasting you. You often find yourself in the middle of tasks, cooking or studying, interrupted by Sukuna nudging his face between your legs to lap at you.

Sukuna wraps his arms around your thighs to pull you closer, his tongue parting your folds. You’re already glistening for him, so ready for him, and he loves that about you. Loves that he can take you whenever he wants, your pussy just waiting for him. You taste even better now that he knows you’ve been on the fake birth control pills for a week now, your scent somehow more powerful now he knows you’re unprotected, ready for his seed.

He groans into your pussy at the thought, his cock already throbbing. He licks a fat stripe along your lips before prodding at your entrance, lapping at your sweet honey. His nose nudges your clit, making you groan and card your fingers through his hair. You’d grind against him if you could, if his grip allowed you, but you’re no match for Sukuna’s strength. He always holds you in place, holds you exactly where he wants to.

Sukuna eats your pussy selfishly, the way he enjoys it rather than you – your pleasure being a nice bonus but not always necessary. His thick tongue slides in and out of your hole, gathering as much of your slick as possible, and you have to whine for him to please, please lick your clit. As usual, he brings you to the brink but doesn’t take you over unless you beg him.

Sukuna latches onto your clit, sucking it with just enough pressure to send you hurtling over the edge. His tongue swipes over the sensitive bud as he sucks and your whole body would buck if he wasn’t pinning you down so tightly. You moan and writhe as you come undone on his tongue, Sukuna licking up your juices as they run down his chin. He only pulls away when he’s painfully hard, needing to feel you around him before he bursts.

Sukuna quickly positions himself, slinging your ankles up over his shoulders as he aligns with your sopping cunt. He pushes himself in, feeling the fat head of his cock pop inside you before several more inches follow. You cry out his name, digging your nails into his forearm.

He normally goes slower than this, normally lets you adjust. But when you look up at him, Sukuna’s eyes are feral. Something instinctual has taken over him, has made him desperate to rut into you.

“S-Sukuna,” you whimper. “P-please… slower…”

A muscle bounces in his jaw but he obliges, the sound of your begging appeasing him. He doesn’t push any deeper but instead fucks you with shallow thrusts, only going halfway down his shaft.

It feels like your needy pussy is sucking him in, despite your pleading, and Sukuna has to fight to restrain himself. Your sweet, fertile womb is waiting for him and there’s nothing he wants more than to coat it with his cum.

But he does love you. He loves you so much. He doesn’t want to hurt you, not really, not when you’re whimpering so sweetly for him, your nails digging into him so desperately. So he rocks his hips, waiting for you to adjust, waiting for the wince on your face to turn to pleasure, before he sinks himself deeper.

“Ah, fuck… that’s it…” Sukuna half sighs, half grunts as he bottoms out. “Who’s pussy is this?”

“Y-yours, Sukuna,” you moan.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Sukuna!”

“Say it.”

“I belong to you. All of me belongs to you.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, your brain foggy with lust.

Sukuna’s pushing you to the brink again, his thick cock pistoning in and out of you as he rubs against your most sensitive spot. Sukuna feels you cream on his cock, helpless to it, your body not your own.

As you moan and mewl, Sukuna looks down at you and pictures you pregnant with his child. He imagines your swollen belly, how your heavy breasts will sway, how you’ll be with him forever.

His forever.

It’s enough to finish him. Sukuna groans long and low, sinking inside you as he spurts load after load into your womb. He fills you to the brim, his orgasm so powerful he falls onto his arms, muscles shaking.

He’s still inside you as he kisses you roughly, unlike the sweet, deep kisses he usually gives you after sex. You kiss him back but it’s only when you feel his hips rock again, his length still inside you that you realise he’s not done.

“’Kuna…?”

Sukuna ignores you as he pulls out long enough to flip you onto your stomach. He pushes your leg up, bending it at the knee to give him better access as he slides himself into you again.

You gasp as your tender pussy is violated, your hands splayed out as Sukuna pins your down with his body weight. He’s still fully hard, his girth hitting a new angle as he fucks his load back into you.

“S-Sukuna…” you whimper. “M’sore!”

“Quiet,” he commands you, voice rough. “I can feel how fucking wet you are so be a good little slut and let me finish.”

Sukuna’s harsh voice silences you as you bury your face into the pillow, hands fisting the bed sheets. He’s right – you’re tender but you’re still enjoying it, your pussy drooling around his cock. His cum is only making you sloppier, only making it easier for him to fuck you. So you stay quiet, softly whimpering into the pillow.

Sukuna continues fucking you, the feel of your plush walls still so tight around him and the lewd squelch of your sopping pussy making his second orgasm build quickly. He wants to fuck as much cum in you as he can, wants to fill your womb with it.

The fact that you’re unaware, still thinking you’re protected, is a delicious bonus. A thrill runs up his spine as he thinks about how you’re letting him fuck you, letting him cum inside you, when you never would if you knew.

If you only knew.

You lay there, legs nearly numb and body drained of any energy, as Sukuna continues to saw in and out of you. You feel one of his large hands scoop under your hip, lifting you slightly so he can go deeper. Sukuna handles you like you’re just a hole for him to fuck and you realise the thought makes you even wetter. Your walls are so sensitive, each stroke feels like fire through your body, half pleasure and half pain.

Your abused pussy clenches involuntarily around Sukuna's girth as he forces a orgasm from you, his hips snapping against your ass at a brutal pace.

Having you in this position reminds Sukuna of every night he’s fucked you while you’re asleep, your body limp and pliant, just waiting to be moved to his liking. Except this time he's fucked you into submission, his own personal little fucktoy.

“Fuck…” he mutters, his cock swelling. “You’re such a good girl for me. You’re so fucking good.”

He’s so close. Your pussy feels too warm and soft, too greedy for his cum for him to last any longer. Sukuna grips your hip hard enough to leave bruises, holding you in place as he fucks into you. His balls tighten at his approaching orgasm and you can hear his moans behind you, his cock nearly overly sensitive.

You’re almost relieved as you feel his hot cum spill inside you, Sukuna’s thrusts slowing as his cock throws thick ropes of his sticky seed in your womb. Your breathing is ragged, your face streaked with tears you didn’t realise you were crying.

Sukuna pulls out of you but stays where he is, breathing hard. After a moment, he presses a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“Sorry, baby,” he murmurs. “Couldn’t help myself. You just felt so good.”

Sukuna smooths his hand across your back, pressing more gentle kisses against your neck and shoulder. You let him, blinking away the last of the tears.

“I love you,” Sukuna says quietly.

You roll over to face him, wincing at the tender ache between your legs.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Sukuna kisses you again, the way you remember, soft and deep. You want to ask what came over him but when he tells you he’s going to clean you up and run you a hot bath, you decide you don’t mind.

True to his word, Sukuna gently cleans you before leaving you to soak in the bath. He offers to stay with you but you insist you want to sit alone for a while, peppering him with reassuring kisses. And you do sit alone for a while, for a few minutes.

Quietly, you climb out of the bath and open the cabinet to find your birth control pills. You check you’ve taken the dummy pills Sukuna got you before putting them back in the cabinet. You sink silently to your knees and carefully lift one of the tiles on the bathroom floor. Sitting there are your real birth control pills.

You pop one free, swallowing it quickly before putting it back, replacing the tile without making a sound. You climb back into the bath slowly so you don’t splash before lying back again, relaxing.

You first discovered Sukuna’s sleeping pills when he was out collecting your favourite takeout some weeks ago. You figured that was the reason you were waking up some mornings with a familiar ache.

You discovered the tracking app on your phone the morning after Sukuna had installed it and had spotted him following at a distance behind you some days. So you gave him what he wanted – you made sure he saw you ignored other men and you never lied about your location.

You got your own set of morning after pills once you found the sleeping pills, knowing immediately what Sukuna was up to. He might think you’re unprotected, might fuck you like you are, but only you know that’s not true.

You close your eyes, enjoying the soak of the hot water. You know Sukuna does this because he loves you. Because he’s obsessed with you. You like that he's rough with you you, that he loves you so much he stalks you, that he wants to get you pregnant so he'll never lose you.

You love him just as much back. Your sweet, doting boyfriend who thinks he knows everything about you, who thinks he’s the one in control.

Your smirk to yourself.

If only he knew.

masterlist

Support me on Ko-Fi! ♡

Taglist: @sterzin @venus1224idkpleaze

[melanchoire]

imagine wonyoung trying to be a good girlfriend and decides to prepare something special for your anniversary and tries and fails to cook a delicious meal 💔 y/n comes home in shock at the sight of the smoke surrounding their home and immediately rushes to the kitchen to see wony trying to put out a fire and save her already burnt and ruined meal 😕 however, y/n sees the disappointment in wonyoung’s eyes as she fails to cook her wonderful girlfriend a meal and decides to cheer her up— by eating her out in the kitchen and claims “nothing can ever beat your taste.”

cw: cum eating, cunnilingus, edging, fingering, praise, orgasm denial, squirting.

despite her busy schedule and generally busy life as an idol she always prioritizes you ☹️ it’s more than obvious what wonyoung’s love language is when it comes to her loved ones: affection, sweet words and compliments whenever she sees the opportunity or feels it necessary and too many gifts ❤️ the thing she loves most in her life is seeing that honest smile appear on your face when she starts bombarding you with sudden affection

and despite her busy schedule and generally busy life as an idol she always prioritizes you above all else 🥹 if she has a business proposal meeting from a brand and the meeting is in the morning, she’ll first take you to a restaurant to have breakfast and then drop you off at work and continue with her day. if she has a photo shoot that is taking forever she’ll use her breaks to text you and ask how your day is going (she goes a few minutes over her break and realizes she has the director and stylists calling her name to come back to the set, but of course, she complies only after sending you one last message.) and if she has to work late she will make up for her noticeable absence from home by buying you a nice gift as an apology and a more than provided fuck later 😊

she’s also the type to take you on dates all the time because she’s a loving and thoughtful girl who loves to be able to show all her love in every possible way

but just as wonyoung loves expensive and luxurious restaurants, she also wants to try to be the one who does things because she feels that a homemade meal proves much more than buying a ready–made dinner 🥺 this opportunity is taken advantage of by her on the day of your anniversary — all week she was either evasive or giving very short answers whenever you asked her what you two should do, telling you not to worry too much because she wants to take care of everything

that day, she’s the one who gets home first because she made sure she could leave work early to try to surprise you ❤️ she’s in the kitchen, looking up dinner recipes on her phone’s search engine, and although she doesn’t have much knowledge about cooking because she’s used to you being the one who cooks or just something easier like going out to dinner, she wants to give her best and try to achieve her goal 🥹

roast chicken is her choice: something simple but delicious to make. however, wonyoung doesn’t understand much about how long and what is the proper temperature to cook something like this 🤔❓ she deduces that if you cook something in the oven at medium temperature for about 30 minutes, the food will be perfectly cooked and juicy, giving her the time she needs to get ready and pretty for her long–awaited evening with her beloved 🥰

taking a relaxing bubble bath with water bombs and scented candles is the best way for wonyoung to relax!! she leans her head back against the side of the tub, closing her eyes and enjoying the comforting sensation of warm water and the scent of raspberry and roses filling the room while the music hums in her airpods

what wonyoung didn’t expect was to start smelling a bitter smell. frowning and opening her eyes she takes the box that previously contained the water bombs, reading the content information because she thought she had bought the wrong scent or that it was probably a new flavor from the brand 🤔 but it doesn’t take long for her to remember that she was making dinner! in the blink of an eye she’s out of the shower, putting on her robe and slippers and running out of the bathroom

the house filled with smoke and the dark cloud coming out of the oven are the first things her eyes meet and were two things that were giving wonyoung goosebumps. she’s quick and turns off the oven and puts on her oven mitts, opening the oven door and taking the tray, placing the more than charred dinner on the counter ☹️

“baby? what happened here?” shit, you came home at the worst time 😥 she curses herself in her head for not checking her phone earlier and probably seeing beforehand your text saying you were coming home

she immediately turns around, meeting a confused look on your face and noticing that you were… wet? damn, she didn’t notice that the fire detector had gone off, probably not hearing the shrill noise amidst all the chaos because she was so overwhelmed that she didn’t know what to do 💔 even she notices the giant bouquet of roses and bags of luxury clothing brands in your hands… she feels worse because your gift was so thoughtful for her and she could only make a pathetic attempt

“i just—... wanted to do something special for you.” POOR BABY her tone sounds so honest and sincere at that moment 😞 showing that she really wanted to do something special and unique for you and OF COURSE the image of her sad face breaks your heart. the ever professional wonyoung had failed and stepped out of her perfect artist image, but that wasn’t what bothered her, rather she felt like she had failed you.

“dinner isn’t what matters right now, love. our home almost caught fire, your life was in danger and—”

“it matters to me.” she is STUBBORN but you have to understand her! the expression on her face showed that she really wanted to do something meaningful and was disappointed to ruin things on such a special day 😞

she’ll continue to blame herself and it won’t be long before she starts saying that she ruined such a special date like today, so what better option than to kiss her to shut her up once and for all? 🤗 in another situation she would refuse and distance herself from you because she always prefers to solve things in a serious way, but today is not being a good day for her and she lets you do what you want with her

and you know she wants more than just a kiss when her hands go from delicately holding your face to moving up to your hair and roughly grabbing your locks between her fingers, her tongue slowly sliding along your lower lip and then biting it between her teeth, demanding access there and separating from your lips for just a few seconds just to give you a look from under her eyelashes 😳

this is when your brain finally kicks in and figures out what the best way to reassure your girlfriend is that you’re not mad at her for “ruining” your anniversary: making wonyoung sit on the table and eat her pussy to assure and show her that her sweet taste is more delicious than the most expensive and delicious banquet in the world 😊

she’d blush too much when you’re kneeling between her spread legs and staring intently at her pussy dripping wet that is practically begging you to get fucked 😵‍💫 and of course you do! two fingers sunk inside her until your knuckles tickle against her hole as you close your lips around her swollen clit and focus on moving your tongue against it 🥴 if you were in another moment you’d do nothing but tease wonyoung and make her beg a little because usually she’s the one on top and it’s not common to see her being the submissive in bed, but you can’t miss the opportunity to completely destroy this pretty princess when she needs it most 🥰

denying her orgasm every time she’s close :( never fingering her for too long because you were getting addicted to watching her slick drip from her hole down her slit almost instantly after removing your fingers from her pussy 🤤 almost instantly bringing your mouth closer to her pussy and using your thumbs to spread her folds and letting her sticky sweetness coat your tongue, humming at the warm and yummy taste in your mouth 😋

but you stop teasing her when her sweet moans and whines start to mix with her messy pleas, saying things like “please sweetheart…” “stop teasing me” “i need to cum, i need this” as she moves her hips against your hand, riding your fingers and grinding her clit against the palm of your hand… and you agree 💯 three long fingers fucking her pussy relentlessly while you suck and nibble on her throbbing clit

her knuckles turning white as her hands grip the edges of the counter as if her life depended on it, throwing her head back as breathy moans fall from her swollen lips and her eyes roll back in her head

and she could cum a second time without being touched the moment she sees you drinking her juices like they were cold water on the hottest day of summer 😳 running your thumb along your bottom lip as you look up at her with your lips glistening with her slickness and your chin wet with her juices

at the end of the night, wonyoung sets out for a second attempt at making dinner. sure, with your request that she can only wear the cute apron she bought a while ago when she started watching cooking shows of famous millionaires, admiring the soft curve of her tits against the front and how the apron ties right at her lower back above her ass 🥴

and again dinner was cancelled because you ended up bending her over the counter and fucking her from behind, deciding that the best option would be to order food and let her try her hand at being a good housewife for another day 😊

[baocean]

𝙗𝙤𝙮𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪

⤷ chapter one - creepy old man

*there is text in between the photos, be sure to look out for it!

her phone

“ynnnnnnn.” kie’s voice calls into the house as the front door slams, your smile growing as you shoot up from your chair.

“hi, kie.” you emerge from your room, glancing at the girl, only to spot the blonde boy a step behind her.

he’s empty handed, pushing his phone into his shorts pocket, a goofy grin on his face like kie had just said something funny.

“yn.” he says your name like a joke, only because he knows how angry it makes you.

your lips twist upwards and your eyes narrow just a tad, “jj.”

“it’s been too long, really.” he invites himself right in, throwing his keys and wallet onto the kitchen counter, then making himself at home on the couch.

“not long enough. kie, can i help you bring stuff in?” you roll your eyes, turning to your best friend.

“i just want to relax, we’ll unload later,” she dropped herself next to jj, who was already rolling a joint on your brand new coffee table, “hey, i brought you those donuts you really like.”

“you told me those were for us.” jj looks at her with offense, pausing his movements to drop his jaw.

“yea i just wanted you to pay for it.” kie shrugs, nudging your shoulder with hers. you smile at her.

“ladies, opening night at the frat. you’re both cordially invited.” he says once his joint is finished, sticking it between his lips.

“you’re going to set off the fire alarms.” you scold him, standing back up to walk to the window and opening it, nudging your head towards it.

jj threw his head back as he rolled his eyes, then stood up and got comfy by the window, flicking his lighter as he did so.

you’d gotten more comfortable accommodating to jj smoking in your apartment than you’d like to admit. all of last year, he’d have to smoke out the window of your small dorm room, because apparently he was too lazy to walk all the way outside to do it.

“your coach is gonna freak when he finds out you’re still smoking.” kie shakes her head, lying sideways and spreading out on the couch.

“what he doesn’t know won’t kill him.” he smirks, then blows out a thick puff of smoke into the darkening sky.

by the time all of kie’s stuff was moved in, it was five minutes to eight pm. as jj and kie slowly transitioned her things from boxes into her room, you got started on dinner.

“smells…good? you can cook now?” jj pokes when he comes out of kie’s room for the final time, sliding onto a bar stool.

“don’t you have a drink to go spike?” you don’t even turn around as you stir the sauce in the pot.

“ha, cute. you gonna throw up in a shoe again tonight?” jj reaches across the counter to grab a piece of garlic bread off the pan, taking a bite before you can grab it from his hands.

“i’m not going to your party.”

“wrong. you are, and you’re going to have fun.” jj says through a cheek of food.

“yn, you’re going.” kie calls from her room, jj turning back to you with a smirk so big you wanted to throw the spoon in your hand at him.

you fight with them, but ninety minutes later you’re in the basement of jj’s frat house, watching him shotgun a beer with a frown on your face.

her phone

xoxo, mimi - first chapter! i hope you guys like this idea, im excited to write it! im getting started on the blue tide as well, check it out! :)

masterlist | next chapter

taglist (taglist is open!) @babyamors / @jombies / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @cassiewritessalot / @rottinglexi / @certifiedjjsimp / @str4wb3rrym1lkl0v3r / @cinderellieeeeeeeeeeee / @isinpfortvdmen / @doesnt-care / @dylsdaily / @wasiasproject / @chuuuchuuutrain / @dr3amgrlll / @4jjsbank / @abigailovesz / @lmaowhatt / @idli-dosa / @papercranesandinkstains /