#my search history is now full of just

[cator99]

I always get detained at da border because PROFUNC never ended but basically I'm like if a targeted individual didn't even care

[pucksandpower]

The One Left Behind

Max Verstappen x Lewis Hamilton’s ex!Reader

Summary: your first love was a seven-time world champion with a chip on his shoulder who would stop at nothing to finally get that eighth … even at the expense of you. Your second (and last) love is a five-time world champion with racing in his blood who proves, once and for all, that he would give it all up for you without even being asked … and regret absolutely nothing

Based on this request

The rain taps softly against the glass walls of the penthouse. The lights of Monaco shimmer beyond the windows, reflections dancing across the polished floor like scattered stars.

You sit cross-legged on the oversized couch, Lewis sprawled beside you, his legs stretched out, an arm slung casually over the backrest. He’s scrolling through his phone, something about sector times and telemetry, but his attention isn’t fully there. Not tonight.

“Lewis,” you say, gently nudging his side with your foot.

“Hmm?” He doesn’t look up.

You nudge him harder, and this time he glances your way, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s up?”

“I need you to focus for, like, five minutes.”

“I am focusing,” he says, holding up his phone as evidence. “Race prep.”

“On me, Lewis.”

That gets his attention. He sets the phone down on the coffee table, screen still glowing with data, and leans back, giving you his full, undivided gaze. “Alright, I’m all yours. What’s on your mind?”

You hesitate for a moment, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweater. The words are there, sitting heavy on your tongue, but saying them feels like stepping off the edge of something solid. Still, you’ve been together for almost six years. If you can’t have this conversation with him now, when can you?

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, your voice steady but quiet, “about us. About the future.”

Lewis tilts his head, curiosity flickering across his face. “What about it?”

You take a deep breath. “I want to get married, Lewis. I want to have a family. With you.”

His expression shifts, not into shock or annoyance, but something harder to read. He doesn’t respond right away, which only makes the silence stretch uncomfortably between you.

“I know the timing’s not perfect,” you add quickly, trying to fill the gap. “I know you’re in the middle of-”

“The most important season of my career?” He finishes for you, a wry smile softening his tone.

“Yeah, that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Babe, it’s not that I don’t want those things with you. I do. You know I do.”

“Do I?” The question slips out before you can stop it, and you see the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” he says, his voice low, almost defensive. “Six years. That’s not nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. But sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in the same place. Like we’re … waiting for something that never comes.”

Lewis scrubs a hand down his face, the faintest hint of frustration breaking through his calm demeanor. “It’s not that simple, love. You know how much this season means to me. Winning an eighth title, it’s history. Legacy. Everything I’ve worked for my whole life.”

“And what about after that?” You press, leaning closer. “What happens when you get it? Then what?”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, he looks almost … unsure. It’s a rare thing, seeing Lewis Hamilton unsure of anything.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I’ve never really thought about it. Not in detail.”

“Well, maybe you should,” you say, your voice soft but firm. “Because I have. And I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with just being … your girlfriend forever.”

Lewis winces at the word, like it stings. “That’s not what you are to me. You’re everything. You know that.”

“Then prove it.”

He leans back again, running both hands through his hair as he exhales sharply. “God, you don’t make this easy, do you?”

“It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to be real.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, his dark eyes searching your face like he’s trying to solve some impossible puzzle. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, his voice steady now, resolute. “When I win this season — when I get that eighth title — I’ll retire.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, a small, almost mischievous smile playing on his lips. “I’ll retire. I’ll hang up my helmet, put a ring on your finger, and we’ll start trying for that family you’ve been dreaming about.”

You stare at him, equal parts stunned and skeptical. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Lewis, you can’t just say that to shut me up.”

“I’m not trying to shut you up,” he says, reaching for your hand. His fingers are warm, steady, and when he looks at you now, there’s no hesitation, no uncertainty. “I’m saying it because I mean it. When I win, it’ll be the perfect ending. The perfect time to step away. And then it’s just us. No races, no travel, no distractions. Just you and me.”

“And a baby,” you add, because if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big.

He chuckles, the sound warm and rich, and pulls you closer until you’re half in his lap. “And a baby,” he agrees.

It feels like a promise, one sealed with the way he presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapping around you like they’re anchoring you to him.

But somewhere, deep down, a small, cautious voice whispers: what if he doesn’t win?

***

The suite is silent except for the faint hum of the minibar fridge and the muffled sounds of celebration filtering in from somewhere outside. It’s as if the entire world is rejoicing, but here, in the confines of this hotel room, everything feels like it’s crumbling.

Lewis hasn’t said a word since you got back. He walked in, dropped his helmet bag by the door, and slumped onto the edge of the bed, still in his team gear. His shoulders are hunched, his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly between his knees.

You stand a few feet away, arms crossed over your chest, unsure whether to approach him or leave him to his thoughts. The weight in the room is unbearable, pressing down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.

“Lewis,” you say softly, testing the waters.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

You take a tentative step closer. “I know it hurts-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, cutting you off. His voice is hoarse, raw from the screams and protests he let out over the radio hours ago. He still hasn’t looked up.

You flinch but press on, refusing to let the conversation die. “I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help,” he snaps, finally lifting his head. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a mix of devastation and barely restrained fury. “It’s done. Over. What’s there to say?”

Your heart twists at the sight of him like this — so broken, so unlike the unshakable man you’ve always known. “I just thought-”

“Don’t you get it?” He interrupts, his voice rising. He stands abruptly, towering over you, his frustration bubbling over. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to sit here and dissect how it all fell apart. I want to forget.”

You step back, your own emotions starting to fray at the edges. “You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. You need to face it.”

“And what good would that do?” He shoots back, pacing the room now like a caged animal. “Would it give me my title? My win? Would it change the fact that I got robbed tonight?”

His words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me too.”

The silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. More fragile. You can feel it cracking under the weight of what you need to say next.

“Lewis,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “About what we talked about. Before …”

He stops pacing, turning to look at you with a frown. “What?”

“A few weeks ago,” you clarify, taking a shaky breath. “You said when you won, you’d retire. That we’d start … building a life together.”

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking as he stares at you.

“I know you didn’t win,” you continue hesitantly, “but does that really change anything? Can’t we still-”

“Don’t,” he says sharply, holding up a hand. His expression is hard now, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he showed earlier. “Don’t do this right now.”

“Why not?” You ask, frustration creeping into your tone. “Because it’s not convenient? Because it’s easier to bury yourself in racing than deal with what’s happening between us?”

“That’s not fair,” he snaps, his voice rising again.

“Isn’t it?” You challenge, taking a step closer. “You made me a promise. And now, what? You’re just going to pretend it didn’t happen because things didn’t go your way?”

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it. You’ve never understood. Racing isn’t just something I do — it’s who I am. Walking away now, without that eighth championship … I can’t. I won’t.”

Your chest tightens, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “So what about me? What about us? Do we just stay on pause forever while you chase this thing that might never happen?”

His face twists with something you can’t quite place — anger, regret, maybe both. “This isn’t just about you,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “I’ve given everything to this sport. Everything. And I’m not quitting until I finish what I started.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait?” You ask, your voice cracking. “How long, Lewis? Another year? Two? Five? When is it going to be enough?”

“I don’t know!” He shouts, the words bursting out of him like a dam breaking. “I don’t know, alright?”

The room falls silent again, the weight of his outburst settling over both of you.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters after a moment, shaking his head. “Not right now.”

Before you can say another word, he grabs his jacket from the back of a chair and heads for the door.

“Lewis, wait,” you plead, your voice trembling. “Don’t walk away from this. From me.”

He pauses, his hand on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn around. “I just need some air,” he says, his tone clipped.

And then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there for a moment, frozen, staring at the door as if willing him to come back. But the only sound is the muffled celebration outside, a cruel reminder of everything that’s been lost tonight.

Finally, your legs give out, and you sink onto the edge of the bed, burying your face in your hands as the tears come. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks as sobs wrack your body.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. None of it. You were supposed to be celebrating together, planning your future, looking ahead to the life you’d been dreaming of for so long.

But instead, it feels like everything is slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try to hold on, it’s all crumbling around you.

You don’t know how long you sit there, crying into the silence, but when the tears finally stop, you’re left with an emptiness that feels even worse.

And for the first time in six years, you wonder if maybe Lewis Hamilton isn’t the man you thought he was. Or maybe he is, and that’s the problem.

***

One Year Later

The glass facade of the clinic looms above you, pristine and intimidating. Every time you glance at the sign — Centre de Fertilité de Monaco written in bold looping letters — your stomach churns. You’ve been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed tightly against the chill in the air.

The city is alive around you, luxury cars humming down the streets, the faint sound of waves crashing against the marina in the distance. But you feel like you’re in a bubble, trapped in your own swirling thoughts.

This is what you want. You’ve thought about it a hundred times, planned every detail, read every article, and filled out every form. And yet, your feet refuse to move.

“Just go inside,” you whisper to yourself, though the words feel hollow.

You take a step toward the door, but your hand falters just shy of the handle.

“Y/N?”

The voice is familiar, low and slightly accented, and it stops you in your tracks. You turn to see Max Verstappen standing a few feet away, a look of surprise etched across his face. He’s dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, but there’s no mistaking him.

“Max,” you breathe, startled.

He takes a step closer, his brows knitting together. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at the clinic sign and then back at him, your heart hammering in your chest. “It’s, uh … personal.”

Max’s eyes narrow slightly, curiosity and concern mingling in his expression. “Personal enough that you’re standing outside looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Your face heats, and you instinctively wrap your arms around yourself, as if that could shield you from his gaze. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He pauses, studying you. Then his eyes flicker to the sign again, and something seems to click. “Wait … are you-”

“Yes,” you blurt, cutting him off. There’s no point in pretending now. “I’m here to get artificially inseminated.”

Max blinks, clearly not expecting that answer. “Oh.”

You look away, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal. Lots of women do it.”

“Without anyone here to support you?” He asks, his tone soft but pointed.

You shrug, your voice defensive. “It’s my decision.”

Max doesn’t respond right away, and when you finally look back at him, he’s frowning. “Why?”

The question catches you off guard. “Why what?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want a baby,” you say, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you can’t … I don’t know, meet someone?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Right, because it’s that easy.”

Max shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yes, Max,” you snap, your patience wearing thin. “I’ve been serious about this for a long time. Just because my relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean I should have to give up on what I want.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then he says quietly, “So you and Lewis really broke up.”

You nod, swallowing hard. The mention of Lewis still feels like a punch to the gut, even after all this time. “Yeah. A while ago.”

Max hesitates, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And now you’re just … what? Picking a random donor from a catalog and hoping for the best?”

The words sting, and you glare at him. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?” He presses, his voice still calm but insistent. “You deserve more than that. You deserve more than a child fathered by some random man you only know as lines of descriptions on paper.”

That’s the moment you break. The tears you’ve been holding back for weeks, maybe even months, come flooding out. You cover your face with your hands, trying to stifle the sobs, but it’s no use.

“Hey,” Max says quickly, stepping closer. “Hey, don’t-”

But you can’t stop. It’s all too much — Lewis, the clinic, the choices you’ve had to make on your own.

“I just want-” you choke out, but the words dissolve into another sob.

“Come here,” Max says softly, wrapping an arm around your back and gently tugging you closer. You collapse against him, your face buried in his shoulder as the tears keep coming.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds you, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles over your back. His hoodie smells faintly of cologne and something clean, like fresh laundry.

After a while, your sobs start to quiet, and you manage to pull back, wiping at your face. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be,” Max says, his voice low. He tilts his head, his blue eyes soft but serious. “You’re clearly not in the right state of mind to be making life-changing decisions.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he cuts you off.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do this. I’m saying maybe today isn’t the day. You’re upset. And I don’t think you should do something this big while you’re feeling like this.”

You hesitate, his words sinking in.

“My apartment is just around the corner,” he continues. “Why don’t we go there? We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want. But at least give yourself a little time to think.”

You hesitate, glancing back at the clinic. The weight of the decision presses heavily on you, but so does the thought of going through with it now, like this.

“Okay,” you whisper finally.

Max nods, a small, reassuring smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Come on.”

He keeps his hand on your back as he guides you down the street, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel entirely alone.

***

Max’s apartment is modern, sleek, and surprisingly warm. The large windows overlook the Monaco skyline, the twinkling lights of the city reflecting off the sea in the distance. You sit on the plush gray couch, clutching a mug of tea Max handed you just moments ago. The ceramic is warm in your hands, grounding you as the weight of everything presses down on your chest.

Max settles in the armchair across from you, his long legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the armrest as he watches you carefully. He hasn’t said much since you got here, and you’re grateful for it. But now, with the tea steeping between your fingers and his steady gaze on you, you feel the urge to fill the silence.

“I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max shrugs lightly, a faint, reassuring smile tugging at his lips. “Start anywhere.”

You exhale shakily, staring into the dark liquid in your mug. “Lewis and I were together for six years. Six years of my life … and for a long time, I thought we wanted the same things.”

Max’s brows knit together, but he stays quiet, letting you continue.

“I thought we were building something together,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “I wanted to get married. I wanted kids. He said he did, too. But there was always something in the way — another season, another championship, another goal. And I kept waiting because I believed in him, in us.”

Your voice cracks, and you take a sip of the tea, letting the warmth soothe your throat. Max leans forward slightly, his blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s both comforting and unnerving.

“And then last year …” You pause, trying to steady your voice. “He promised me that if he won his eighth title, he’d retire. That we’d finally start the life we talked about. And I believed him. I really believed him.”

Max’s jaw tightens, his knuckles pressing against his chin as he listens.

“But he didn’t win,” you continue, the memory still fresh, still raw. “And instead of keeping his promise, he said he couldn’t walk away. Not without that eighth.”

“Unbelievable,” Max mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

You glance at him, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “I thought maybe I could wait. Maybe I could put my dreams on hold for him a little longer. But it wasn’t just about the title — it was about him always choosing racing over me, over us.”

Max leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “So you broke up.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you say, your voice trembling. “I couldn’t keep waiting for someone who would never choose me.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unspoken. You’ve said them to yourself before, in the quiet of your bedroom, in the midst of sleepless nights, but saying them out loud now feels different. More final.

“And now you’re here,” Max says after a moment, gesturing faintly toward the direction of the clinic outside the windows.

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes again. “I still want a family. I’ve always wanted that. And after everything with Lewis, I realized I can’t keep putting my life on hold for someone else. If I want a baby, I have to make it happen myself.”

Max stares at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I get it,” he says finally. “I do. But … I don’t know. It just feels wrong. Like, you shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

“I don’t have a choice,” you say, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Not everyone gets a happy ending. Some of us just have to make do with what we have.”

He shakes his head, leaning forward again. “That’s not what I mean. I mean someone like you shouldn’t have to settle for this. You’re smart, beautiful, caring. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Hell, if it were me-”

He stops abruptly, his face coloring slightly as if realizing what he’s about to say.

“If it were you, what?” You ask, your voice softer now, curious.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “If it were me, I wouldn’t have made you wait. I wouldn’t have let you go, period. I would’ve dropped everything the second I got out of the car in Abu Dhabi.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut — not because they hurt, but because they’re so unexpected, so honest.

“You don’t mean that,” you say quietly, though your heart betrays you, fluttering in your chest.

Max’s gaze is unwavering. “I do. You deserve someone who sees you as their priority, not as something they’ll get to when it’s convenient. If I had someone like you …” He trails off, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t need anything else.”

The room falls silent, and you don’t know what to say. Your hands tighten around the mug, and you feel your cheeks flush under his intense stare.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, leaning back. “That probably crossed a line.”

“No,” you say quickly, surprising even yourself. “It’s … nice to hear. I guess I just don’t believe it.”

“Why not?” He asks, his brows furrowing.

“Because if that were true, Lewis wouldn’t have left,” you admit, your voice breaking. “If I were really worth all that, he wouldn’t have walked away.”

Max shakes his head vehemently, leaning forward again. “That’s not on you. That’s on him. He couldn’t see what he had. That’s his loss, not yours.”

You blink back tears, his words cutting through the doubt and self-blame you’ve been carrying for so long.

“Look,” Max says softly, his voice gentle now. “You’re not alone in this, okay? I know it feels like it, but you’re not. And whatever you decide to do, just … don’t rush into it because you think you have to. You’ve got time, and you’ve got people who care about you.”

The sincerity in his voice almost breaks you all over again. You nod, unable to speak, and Max offers you a small, reassuring smile.

“Finish your tea,” he says, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab us something stronger. Tea’s good for a talk, but this feels like a whiskey kind of conversation.”

You laugh softly, the sound surprising you. For the first time in a long time, the weight on your chest feels just a little bit lighter.

***

The first time you showed up at Max’s apartment unannounced, it was a particularly bad day. The ache in your chest had been unbearable, the quiet of your own place suffocating. You hadn’t even thought twice before texting him: You home?

His response came within seconds. Always. Door’s open.

You found him lounging on the couch, his two bengals sprawled out lazily beside him. When he saw you, he didn’t ask questions. He just stood, grabbed two Red Bulls from the fridge, and let you curl up on the floor to play with Jimmy and Sassy while he sat nearby, chatting about nothing in particular until the knot in your chest loosened.

It became a ritual after that. On the days when life felt too heavy, you’d make your way to Max’s. Sometimes you’d talk, sometimes you wouldn’t. But more often than not, you’d end up on the floor with the cats while Max watched with quiet amusement.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Jimmy pounces on the feather toy you’re dragging across the rug, his sleek body moving with a precision that reminds you of Max on the track. Sassy, the more aloof of the two, lounges nearby, watching her brother with disdain until she decides to join in.

You’re lying on your back now, laughing as the two cats leap over you, chasing the toy you’re holding above your head. It’s the first time you’ve laughed all day, maybe all week, and it feels good.

“Careful, Jimmy,” Max calls from the couch, his voice warm with affection. “She’s not a scratching post.”

You tilt your head to look at him, still holding the toy above you. He’s sitting sideways, one arm slung over the back of the couch, a faint smile playing on his lips.

“Jimmy would never hurt me,” you say, grinning as the cat lands lightly on your stomach before darting off again.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Max warns, shaking his head. “He’s a menace.”

“He’s perfect,” you counter, turning your attention back to the cats.

Max chuckles softly, but he doesn’t respond. You’re too distracted by Sassy’s sudden burst of energy to notice the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his smile fades into something softer, something deeper.

After a while, you sit up, your hair slightly disheveled and your cheeks flushed from laughing. Jimmy jumps into your lap, purring contentedly as you stroke his fur.

When you look up, Max is staring at you.

“What?” You ask, your brow furrowing.

He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are warm, almost tender, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“Nothing,” he says finally, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re just … happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you glance away, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s the cats,” you say lightly, trying to brush it off. “They’re good for my mental health.”

“It’s not just the cats,” Max says, and there’s something in his tone that makes you look at him again.

He’s leaning forward slightly now, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on yours. You feel your breath catch, the air in the room shifting, thickening.

“Max …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“You don’t see it, do you?” He says softly, his voice almost reverent.

“See what?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“How incredible you are.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unshakable. You stare at him, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

“Max, I …”

Before you can finish, he’s on the floor in front of you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. He reaches out, his fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, and you don’t pull away.

“You’re amazing,” he says, his eyes searching yours. “You’re strong, and kind, and funny, and … God, Y/N, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak.

“Max,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “This … this is a bad idea.”

“Why?” He asks, his hand still resting against your cheek.

“Because I don’t want to ruin this,” you admit, your eyes filling with tears. “You’ve been my rock these past few months. I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly. “I promise you, you won’t. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this way.”

You’re silent, your heart warring with your head. But when he leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours, all your doubts fade away.

The kiss is gentle at first, hesitant, as if he’s afraid you might pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand sliding into your hair as he pours everything he’s been holding back into the kiss.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Max chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Yeah. Wow.”

You stare at him, your mind racing. This wasn’t what you expected when you came here tonight, but now that it’s happened, you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice filled with uncertainty.

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting you off. “We’ll figure this out, whatever it is. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I promise.”

And to your surprise, despite the broken promises still shattered beneath your feet, you really do believe him.

***

The bedroom is bathed in the soft golden glow of the evening lights spilling through the windows. The Monaco skyline twinkles faintly in the distance, but you’re not paying attention to it. You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, his warmth seeping into you as his fingers draw lazy patterns on your back.

You’re lying on your side, your head resting against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His free hand brushes through your hair, the motion slow and soothing. Every so often, he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, murmuring something sweet against your skin.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, his voice low and gentle.

“I’m just … content,” you reply, tilting your head to look up at him. “This is nice.”

He smiles down at you, his blue eyes soft with affection. “Yeah, it is.”

His fingers trail up to your jaw, tilting your face up so he can kiss you. It’s slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that makes your toes curl and sends warmth blooming in your chest.

When he pulls back, his lips linger near yours, his breath fanning against your skin. “You know, I could get used to this,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

“You mean you’re not used to it already?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

“I mean forever,” he says, and the sincerity in his tone makes your heart skip a beat.

You smile, your fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone. “Forever sounds nice.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, filled with the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional distant hum of the city below.

After a moment, you glance up at him, your heart beating a little faster. “Max?”

“Hmm?” He hums, his fingers still trailing along your back.

“Have you ever thought about … kids?” You ask hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stills for a moment, his hand pausing mid-motion before he shifts slightly to look down at you. “Kids?”

“Yeah,” you say, suddenly nervous. “Like, have you ever thought about having them?”

He doesn’t answer right away, his brows furrowing slightly as if considering your question. Then, to your surprise, he lets out a soft laugh.

“Honestly?” He says, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ve thought about it pretty much daily since I met you.”

Your eyes widen, and you push yourself up onto your elbow to look at him more closely. “Seriously?”

He chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about it before. But now? With you? I think about it all the time.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling at his words.

“I know it sounds crazy,” he continues, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “We haven’t been together that long, but … I don’t know. When you know, you know, right?”

You nod, unable to speak, your throat tight with emotion.

“And I know,” he says softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re it for me, Y/N. There’s no one else. There’s never going to be anyone else.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you laugh softly, leaning into his touch. “You’re really something, Max Verstappen.”

“I mean it,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “So … what do you think? Would you want to have a baby with me?”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest. The question is so outlandish, so unexpected, and yet it feels right.

“You’re serious?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Dead serious,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “You’re going to be an amazing mom. I can already see it.”

You laugh, covering your face with your hands as the weight of his words sinks in. “This is insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, pulling your hands away from your face. “But it feels right, doesn’t it?”

You look at him, at the way his eyes shine with hope and love, and you know he’s right.

“It does,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He beams, his grin so wide it’s almost boyish. “So … is that a yes?”

You laugh, leaning down to kiss him. “Yes, Max. Let’s have a baby.”

He kisses you back, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer. The kiss is different this time — deeper, more urgent, filled with the promise of what’s to come.

When you pull back, you’re both grinning like fools, your foreheads pressed together as you laugh softly.

“This is happening,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

“It is,” you reply, your heart swelling with joy.

“And just so you know,” he adds, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I’m not leaving this bed until we make it happen.”

You laugh, swatting at his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he counters, flipping you onto your back as his lips find yours again.

The night stretches on for what feels like forever, filled with laughter, whispered promises, and the kind of love that feels like forever.

***

The moment you see the two pink lines on the test, your heart stops. For a second, you don’t breathe, don’t blink, don’t move. Then, a rush of emotions crashes over you all at once — joy, disbelief, terror, excitement. You sit on the edge of the tub in your bathroom, staring at the test in your shaking hands, trying to make sense of it.

“Max,” you whisper to yourself, and the thought of him steadies you.

He’s in the kitchen when you step out, his back to you as he busies himself with something at the stove. The faint smell of eggs and toast fills the air, but you can barely focus on it. Your hand tightens around the test in your pocket.

“Morning,” he says when he hears your footsteps, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. “Hungry? I made breakfast.”

You don’t answer, your feet rooted to the floor.

“Y/N?” He says, turning fully to face you now. “Everything okay?”

You nod, though you’re pretty sure you don’t look convincing. Your chest feels tight, and suddenly, you don’t know how to say the words.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “What’s wrong?”

His hands find yours, grounding you in the way only he can. You take a deep breath and pull the test out of your pocket, holding it up between you.

Max stares at it for a moment, his eyes wide.

“Is that-”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “It’s positive.”

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Then, a slow, disbelieving grin spreads across his face.

“We’re having a baby?” He asks, his voice almost a whisper.

You nod, your own tears welling up as you watch his expression shift from shock to pure, unfiltered joy.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, the words finally sinking in.

Max lets out a breathless laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you off the ground. “Oh my God, Y/N, we’re having a baby!”

You laugh through your tears, clinging to him as he spins you around. When he finally sets you down, his hands frame your face, his eyes searching yours.

“Are you okay? How do you feel? Do you need anything? Oh my God, we need to call the doctor, right? That’s what we do next?”

“Max,” you say, cutting him off with a laugh. “I’m okay. We’ll figure it all out.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding quickly. “Okay. But, wow … we’re having a baby.”

The way he says it, like he can’t quite believe it, makes your heart swell.

From that moment on, Max is all in.

***

Max surprises you at every turn. Where you once thought the worlds of racing and family couldn’t coexist, he proves you wrong with every thoughtful gesture, every sacrifice, every time he puts you first.

At first, you hesitate to bring it up. You know how important racing is to him, how much of his life has been dedicated to it. You don’t want to be a distraction, don’t want to pull him away from something he loves.

But Max is quick to shut down any of those thoughts.

“You and this baby come first,” he says one night, his hand resting gently on your still-flat stomach. “Always.”

You blink at him, your throat tight. “You don’t have to say that, Max. I know how much racing means to you.”

“And I know how much you mean to me,” he counters, his voice firm. “This doesn’t have to be one or the other. We’ll make it work. I promise.”

And he does.

***

You don’t feel ready to travel yet, and Max doesn’t push you. He understands when you tell him you’re not ready to face the paddock, to face him. It’s still too raw, too soon. Max doesn’t question it.

“It’s okay,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You don’t need to explain. You do what’s best for you. I’ll come to you.”

And he does.

Even in the middle of the season, when his schedule is packed and his commitments are endless, Max never misses a single appointment. He’s always there, whether it’s for the early check-ups or the first ultrasound.

“Can you believe that’s our baby?” He whispers during the first scan, his voice filled with awe as he watches the tiny flicker of the heartbeat on the monitor.

You can’t answer, your own emotions overwhelming you. Instead, you squeeze his hand, and he leans over to press a kiss to your temple.

***

The weeks pass, and soon it’s time for the big ultrasound — the one where you’ll finally learn the baby’s gender. Max is in São Paulo for the Brazilian Grand Prix, and you’ve convinced yourself he won’t make it back in time.

“It’s okay,” you tell him over the phone the night before. “You’ve got a race to focus on. I’ll record everything for you.”

“Y/N,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not missing this.”

“But-”

“I’ll be there,” he promises. “Trust me.”

True to his word, Max walks into the clinic the next afternoon, still in his favorite set of sweats for traveling, his hair slightly disheveled from the flight.

“Max,” you say, standing up from your chair in the waiting room, your heart swelling at the sight of him. “You made it.”

“Of course I did,” he says, pulling you into his arms. “I told you I would.”

The ultrasound room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the machine and the occasional click of the technician’s keyboard. You’re lying on the examination table, Max sitting beside you, holding your hand tightly.

“Are you ready to find out?” The technician asks, her eyes crinkling with a warm smile.

You glance at Max, and he nods, his excitement barely contained.

“Let’s do it,” you say.

The technician moves the wand across your stomach, and a moment later, the screen lights up with the image of your baby.

“Congratulations,” she says, her smile widening. “It’s a girl.”

A girl.

Max lets out a laugh, his hand flying to cover his mouth as he stares at the screen. “A girl,” he repeats, his voice filled with wonder. “We’re having a girl.”

You laugh through your tears, your heart full to bursting. Max leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your lips.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“For what?” You ask, your own voice shaky.

“For this. For her. For everything,” he says, his eyes shining as he looks at you.

You don’t have the words to respond, so you just squeeze his hand, your heart so full it feels like it might burst.

And in that moment, you realize: Max was right. Racing and family don’t have to be at odds. They can coexist, as long as you have someone who’s willing to make it work. And Max? He’s more than willing. He’s all in. Always.

***

It’s been a long start to the season, and the 2024 championship is already shaping up to be a nail-biter. The RB20 is much more unwieldy than its predecessor, the points gap narrowing with a DNF in Australia. The pressure is on, and you know it. Max knows it too.

But despite everything — the late nights, the media frenzy, the endless travel — he never wavers in his commitment to you and the baby. Even as the world watches him fight for the title, Max’s focus always returns home.

As your due date approaches, the Japan Grand Prix weekend looms closer on the calendar. Suzuka is pivotal, everyone says. The kind of race that could determine the championship. The team is counting on Max to deliver.

But Max doesn’t seem fazed by any of it when you bring it up one evening in bed, your hand resting on your swollen belly while his fingers gently trace circles over the skin.

“You know Suzuka’s right around the corner,” you say hesitantly, watching his expression.

“Hmm,” he hums, his eyes focused on your stomach, his lips quirking into a small smile when he feels a kick.

“Max.”

He glances up at you, his gaze softening. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I just … I know it’s an important race. And my due date is so close. What if-”

“I’m not going to Japan,” he says firmly, cutting you off before you can spiral.

You blink at him, startled. “What?”

“I’ve already told Christian and Helmut. They’re putting Liam in the car for the weekend.”

“Max,” you whisper, your heart swelling. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” he says, his voice steady. “This is our daughter we’re talking about. There’s no way I’m missing her arrival, not for any race, not for anything.”

Tears sting at your eyes, and you blink them back quickly. “But the championship-”

“Doesn’t matter as much as this,” he interrupts again, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Y/N, I love racing, but you and our baby? You’re everything. You’re my world. If I have to miss a race, so be it.”

You stare at him, your throat tight, and you can’t stop the tears this time. “I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “I love you too. More than anything.”

***

When the weekend of the Japanese Grand Prix arrives, you’re still pregnant, and Max is at your side, refusing to let you lift a finger.

The race plays out on the television in the background while Max spends most of the day doting on you. He rubs your feet, makes you tea, and checks on the hospital bag for the millionth time, making sure everything is in order.

“Max, sit down,” you say, laughing softly as you watch him double-check the contents of the bag again.

“I just want to make sure we’re ready,” he says, zipping it up and placing it neatly by the door.

“We’re ready,” you assure him, patting the space next to you on the couch.

He finally sits, pulling you close and resting his hand on your belly. “You’re sure she’s not coming today?”

“She’s not on your schedule, Verstappen,” you tease, and he laughs, leaning in to kiss your temple.

***

But she does come.

Two days later, in the early hours of the morning, the first contraction wakes you. At first, you’re too groggy to register what’s happening, but when the second one hits, you gasp, clutching at the sheets.

“Max,” you manage to get out, shaking his shoulder.

He bolts upright, his eyes wide and alert. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I think … I think it’s time,” you say, your voice trembling.

Max is on his feet in an instant, grabbing the hospital bag and helping you out of bed with remarkable calmness for someone who was sound asleep just seconds ago.

“You okay?” He asks, his arm around your waist as he guides you to the car.

You nod, though your breaths are shallow. “Yeah. Just … hurry.”

***

The hours in the delivery room pass in a blur of pain and anticipation. Max never leaves your side, his hand gripping yours tightly through every contraction, his voice steady and reassuring as he encourages you.

“You’re amazing,” he says, brushing the hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’ve got this. Just a little more, liefje. You’re so strong.”

When the moment finally comes, and the sound of your daughter’s first cries fills the room, both of you dissolve into tears.

“She’s here,” Max whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “She’s really here.”

The nurse places the tiny, wriggling bundle in your arms, and you look down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it takes your breath away. Max leans over your shoulder, his face close to hers, his tears falling freely now.

“She’s perfect,” he says, his voice breaking.

You glance up at him, your heart swelling as you see the pure adoration on his face. “She looks like you.”

“She looks like us,” he corrects, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her cheek.

***

When the nurse takes her to be weighed and cleaned up, Max stands frozen for a moment, watching her with wide eyes. Then, when they bring her back, he hesitates.

“You want to hold her?” You ask, smiling through your exhaustion.

He looks at you like you’ve just handed him the most precious thing in the world. “Can I?”

“Of course,” you say, carefully passing her to him.

Max cradles her in his arms, his movements slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving her face. He looks utterly awestruck, his tears still streaming down his cheeks as he rocks her gently.

“Hi, little one,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m your papa. And I already love you more than anything.”

Your heart clenches as you watch him, the way he holds her like she’s the most fragile, most important thing in the world.

“You okay?” You ask softly, reaching out to touch his arm.

He nods, but when he looks at you, his expression is serious. “Y/N,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “If you or she ever said the word, I’d stop. I’d walk away from racing tomorrow and never look back.”

“Max-”

“I mean it,” he says, cutting you off gently. “I don’t need any of it. All I need is right here.”

Tears spill down your cheeks as you reach for his hand, your fingers lacing through his. “You don’t have to stop, Max. I don’t want you to. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” he says, his gaze dropping back to your daughter. “You and her — you’re everything.”

The three of you stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other and the overwhelming love that fills the room.

And as you watch Max rock your daughter, his eyes shining with tears and joy, you realize that this is it — this is the life you always dreamed of.

***

The Australian Grand Prix marks the beginning of the 2025 season, and the paddock is alive with its usual chaos: reporters shouting questions, cameras flashing, and engineers rushing to and from garages. But for you, it feels like an entirely different world as you step onto the paddock with your daughter perched on your hip.

She’s bundled in a tiny Red Bull jacket Max had custom-made, her baby blue eyes wide as she takes in the flurry of activity around her. She giggles as a gust of wind tousles her fine blonde curls, and you can’t help but smile, brushing them back into place.

“Are you sure about this?” You ask Max, who stands beside you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

He glances at you, his expression soft but resolute. “You’re my family. I want everyone to know.”

Your chest tightens, equal parts touched and nervous. “It’s just … people are going to talk.”

“Let them,” Max says simply, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. Then he shifts his attention to your daughter, gently tickling her chin. “Aren’t they, prinsesje? Let them say what they want.”

Her delighted squeal pulls a laugh from him, and for a moment, your nerves melt away.

But the attention is immediate. As soon as you cross into the paddock, a ripple of recognition sweeps through the crowd. Photographers pause, their lenses snapping up. Team personnel do double takes. Whispers spread like wildfire.

You’re prepared for it — at least, as much as you can be. What you’re not prepared for is running into Lewis.

You spot him before he sees you, standing just outside the Ferrari hospitality area in conversation with Fred Vasseur. Your stomach twists as you consider turning around, but before you can move, Lewis glances up.

He freezes.

His gaze locks on you, then drops to the baby in your arms, and his expression shifts from shock to something darker. He mutters something to Fred and strides toward you, his movements purposeful and tense.

“Y/N,” he says, stopping a few feet away. His eyes flicker to Max, who hasn’t left your side, and then back to you. “What … what’s this?”

You take a steadying breath. “Hello, Lewis.”

He ignores the pleasantries, his attention fixed on the child in your arms. “Is that your-” He stops, his jaw tightening. “Is that his?”

Max steps forward slightly, his hand now firm on your back. “Yes,” he says evenly, his voice calm but unyielding. “She is ours.”

Lewis’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting between you and Max. “How long has this been going on?”

“Lewis, I don’t think-”

“How long?” He snaps, his tone sharper now.

You glance at Max, who gives you a reassuring nod. Turning back to Lewis, you say, “A little over two and a half years.”

Lewis exhales sharply, shaking his head as if trying to process the information. “Two and a half years. So, what? You moved on that fast?”

“Don’t do that,” you say quietly, your grip tightening on your daughter. “It wasn’t fast. You know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is bitter, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I’m standing, it sure looks like you didn’t waste any time replacing me.”

Max stiffens beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, silently urging him to let you handle it.

“I didn’t replace you,” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I moved on. There’s a difference.”

His gaze softens for a moment, flickering with something like hurt. But then he looks at Max again, and the hardness returns. “With him?”

“Yes,” you say firmly, your chin lifting.

Lewis laughs bitterly, running a hand over his face. “Unbelievable.”

“Lewis,” Max interjects, his tone measured but with an edge of steel. “This isn’t about you. It’s about her. And our daughter.”

“Your daughter,” Lewis repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Right. And you think this is going to work? Bringing her into this circus?”

Max’s jaw tightens, but he stays calm. “It’s already working. She’s happy. We’re happy.”

Lewis scoffs, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is happiness? Dragging a baby into this environment? Do you even understand what kind of life you’re giving her?”

You step forward before Max can respond, your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t get to do that. Not after everything.”

Lewis falters, his anger giving way to a flicker of guilt. “I’m not trying to-”

“Yes, you are,” you interrupt. “I get it, okay? You’re hurt. But you don’t get to stand there and act like you know what’s best for me or my family. Not anymore.”

There’s a long, tense silence. Finally, Lewis looks away, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just … I didn’t think it would end like this,” he mutters.

Neither did you. But you don’t say it. Instead, you adjust your daughter in your arms, her tiny fingers clutching at your jacket, grounding you.

“It’s not about how it ended,” you say softly. “It’s about how we move forward.”

Lewis looks at you, and for a moment, you see the man you loved — the man who promised you a future he could never give. His eyes drop to your daughter, and his expression shifts, softening in a way that makes your heart ache.

“She’s beautiful,” he says quietly, almost reluctantly.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Max steps closer, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. “We should go,” he says, his voice low but kind.

You nod, giving Lewis one last look before turning away.

***

In the Red Bull motorhome, you sink into a chair, your emotions crashing over you. Max kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he studies your face.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, though tears blur your vision. “It’s just … hard. Seeing him. The way he looked at me.”

Max leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your guilt, not your sadness. Nothing. You’re here with me now, with our daughter. That’s all that matters.”

His words soothe you, and you reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you too,” he says, his voice unwavering. Then he glances at your daughter, who’s dozing peacefully in her stroller. “And I love her more than anything.”

You smile through your tears, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. No matter what challenges lie ahead, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

Nine Months Later

The final race of the 2025 season is a sea of chaos and celebration. The Yas Marina Circuit glows under the floodlights, the air electric with cheers as Max steps onto the top of the podium for the fifth time in his career. Champagne sprays from the bottles, glistening under the lights, but Max barely seems to notice.

His eyes search through the crowd, scanning the blur of faces until they land on you. There you are, cradling your daughter in your arms, her little Red Bull ear protectors sitting snugly over her head. She’s clapping her hands in that uncoordinated, infant-like way that makes his chest ache with love. And you — God, you. Your smile is soft but radiant, tears glinting in your eyes as you look up at him.

Max feels his heart tighten, his grip on the champagne bottle slackening. He’s been chasing dreams for as long as he can remember — titles, wins, perfection on the track. But now, looking at you and the life you’ve built together, he knows none of it compares to what he has waiting for him off the podium.

He knows what he has to do.

As the podium ceremony winds down, Max fumbles at the inside pocket of his race suit. His fingers brush over the small velvet box he’s carried with him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. This is it. There’s no better time.

Lando Norris, standing to Max’s right after clinching second place, notices his movement and raises a brow. “What are you up to?”

Max doesn’t answer, too focused on what’s coming next. His fingers close around the box, and his pulse quickens.

He steps forward, champagne still dripping from his suit, and motions to the crowd below. “Can we … can someone help her up here?” He calls, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

You blink, confused, as several Red Bull mechanics glance at each other before moving to you. One of them gestures toward the podium. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “You’re part of this moment.”

“What? No, I-” you stammer, clutching your daughter closer. “I’m fine here-”

“Y/N,” Max says from above, his voice carrying across the noise. His tone is warm but insistent. “Please. Come up.”

Your heart races as you glance around, overwhelmed by the attention, but the mechanics are already helping guide you to the platform. Before you know it, you’re being hoisted onto the podium, your feet landing on the cool metal as you steady yourself.

Max steps toward you, his eyes locked on yours. His gaze is tender, but there’s a flicker of nerves there, too. The crowd’s roar dulls in your ears as he takes a deep breath, his focus entirely on you.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. He drops to one knee, the champagne bottle rolling away unnoticed. In his hand is the small velvet box, now open to reveal a sparkling diamond ring.

The crowd erupts.

Your breath catches.

“Y/N,” Max says again, louder this time, his blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I once thought winning a championship would be the best moment of my life. But then I saw you. Holding our daughter, looking at me like that, and I realized the best thing I’ve ever done has nothing to do with racing. It’s us. It’s you. It’s her.”

Tears blur your vision, your hand covering your mouth as you stare down at him.

“I love you,” he continues, his voice cracking. “I love you more than anything in this world. You’ve given me everything I never knew I needed. You’re my family, Y/N, and I don’t want to wait another second to make it official.”

He swallows hard, his hands shaking as he holds the ring toward you. “Will you marry me?”

For a moment, everything seems to stop. The crowd, the cameras, the other drivers — it all fades away. All you can see is Max, his face open and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen. The man who’s always so composed under pressure, the fierce competitor, is looking at you with nothing but love and hope.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Then, louder. “Yes, Max. Yes!”

The crowd explodes into cheers as Max lets out a breathless laugh, his face lighting up in relief and joy. He stands quickly, wrapping one arm around your waist while slipping the ring onto your finger with the other. It fits perfectly.

Before you can say anything else, Max cups your face and kisses you, his lips warm and urgent against yours. The kiss is met with an even louder roar from the crowd, but all you can focus on is him — the way his hands tremble slightly, the way he pulls you closer as if afraid to let go.

Your daughter giggles in your arms, and Max pulls back just enough to glance down at her. He grins, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What do you think, prinsesje? Did Papa do okay?”

She babbles something incomprehensible, and the three of you laugh.

***

Later, in the quiet of his driver’s room, the chaos of the podium ceremony behind you, Max pulls you into his lap as you sit together on the small sofa. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her stroller nearby, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm.

Max toys with the ring on your finger, his expression thoughtful. “You know,” he says, his voice soft, “I’ve won a lot of things in my life. But this … this is my greatest victory.”

You smile, resting your forehead against his. “You’re pretty good at making me cry today, Verstappen.”

He chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Get used to it. I plan on spending the rest of my life making you cry happy tears.”

You hum, leaning into his touch. “Good. Because I plan on spending the rest of my life loving you.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. “Deal.”

And in that moment, with Max holding you close and your daughter sleeping nearby, you realize that this — this is your podium. Your victory. Your forever.

***

The night is impossibly quiet for Abu Dhabi, the hum of the city dulled by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite. The celebrations are over, the crowds dispersed, and now it’s just the three of you. Your daughter sleeps soundly in her cot near the foot of the bed, her tiny face relaxed in peaceful dreams.

You’re wrapped up in Max’s arms, the weight of the day finally catching up with both of you. His chest is warm against your back, his heartbeat steady as his fingers lazily trace patterns on your arm. The ring on your finger catches the faint glow of the bedside lamp, a small, perfect reminder of the life-changing moment you shared hours ago.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, shifting slightly to glance up at him.

Max’s gaze is soft, his blue eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse from the day’s shouting and champagne sprays.

“About?”

He pauses, his fingers stilling on your skin. You can feel the hesitation in him, the way his body tenses ever so slightly. It’s not like Max to be unsure — he’s always been decisive, charging into life with the same fearless determination he has on the track.

“Max?” You press gently, turning fully to face him now. “What’s on your mind?”

He exhales a long breath, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he starts, his accent curling warmly around the words. “But after today … I think I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

His hand moves to yours, thumb brushing over the ring he gave you just hours earlier. He stares at it for a moment before meeting your gaze, his eyes clear and steady.

“I’m going to retire,” he says softly.

The words hit you like a jolt. For a second, you’re sure you misheard him. “Retire?” You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Max,” you say, your brow furrowing. “You just won your fifth title. You’re at the peak of your career. Why would you …”

He shifts slightly, sitting up so he can look at you more directly. “Because I don’t need it anymore,” he says simply. “I’ve achieved everything I ever wanted in racing. More than I ever thought I could. But now …” He pauses, his gaze flicking briefly to the cot where your daughter sleeps. “Now I have something I want more.”

Your chest tightens, emotions swirling in a chaotic mess you can’t quite untangle. “Are you sure? I mean, Max, this is huge. Racing has been your entire life.”

“I know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. “And I’ll always love it. But I don’t want to spend the next ten or fifteen years chasing something I don’t need, not when it means missing out on moments with you. With her.” He nods toward your daughter, his face softening.

You sit there in stunned silence, trying to process what he’s saying. “But what about the team? And your fans? You love the thrill of it, the competition-”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off gently, reaching for your hand again. “I love you more. I love our family more. And I don’t want to be the kind of dad who’s always gone, always distracted. I’ve seen what that does. I don’t want that for her.”

His words hit you square in the chest, a wave of emotion crashing over you. Tears prick at your eyes as you search his face, looking for any sign of doubt or hesitation. But all you see is love and certainty.

“You’re really serious about this,” you say softly, your voice trembling.

He nods. “I’ve thought about it for months. After last season, I told myself I’d give it one more year. One more title. And then I’d walk away. Today, seeing you and her in the crowd, knowing everything we’ve built together … it made me realize I’m ready.”

You reach up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “Max … I don’t even know what to say.”

“Say you’re okay with it,” he says, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Say you’ll let me stay home and annoy you every day.”

A laugh escapes you, watery but real. “I think I can handle that.”

He leans forward, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Good. Because this is what I want, Y/N. You, her, our life together. That’s enough for me. More than enough.”

For a while, you just sit there in the quiet, wrapped up in each other. Your mind is still racing, but your heart feels full, overflowing with love for the man beside you.

“So,” you say after a moment, your voice lighter, “what’s the plan? Are you going to call Christian in the middle of the night and drop this bombshell on him?”

Max chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin. “I’ll give him a day or two to recover from the title celebrations first. Then I’ll tell him.”

“And how do you think he’s going to take it?”

“Oh, he’ll try to talk me out of it,” Max says, rolling his eyes. “He’ll tell me I’m too young, that I’ve got years left in me, that I can win even more. But I’ve already made up my mind.”

You smile, resting your head against his chest. “He’s going to miss you. They all will.”

“I’ll miss them too,” he admits. “But this isn’t goodbye forever. I’ll still be around — just not on the grid.”

“And me?” You ask, your voice teasing. “What if I’m not ready to have you home all the time?”

Max grins, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you closer. “Too late. You’re stuck with me now.”

As the night stretches on, the weight of the day starts to fade, replaced by a quiet sense of peace. Max lies back against the pillows, pulling you with him until you’re nestled against his side.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy but warm, “I used to think racing was everything. That I’d be lost without it.”

“And now?” You ask, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Now I know it was just a part of me. A big part, yeah, but not the most important one. Not anymore.” He pauses, his hand brushing over your hair. “You and her … you’re my everything now.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but this time they’re tears of joy. “Max,” you whisper, your voice catching. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” he says, his words a soft promise against your skin.

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that no matter what the future holds, you’ll face it together.

***

The room buzzes with an electric energy, the kind that only the FIA Prize Giving Ceremony can create. It’s a night to honor champions, to toast to a season of victories, and to revel in the highs of motorsport. The crowd is a mix of drivers, team principals, engineers, and journalists, all dressed to the nines. You’re seated in the front row, a place reserved for the most important people in the room.

Max is on stage, holding his freshly polished World Championship trophy, the applause still roaring from the moment his name was called. His tuxedo fits him like a glove, and there’s a boyish grin on his face that makes him look impossibly proud — and a little nervous.

In your lap, your daughter wiggles, her tiny hands clutching at the hem of your sparkling gown. She’s too young to understand what’s happening, but the excitement of the room has her wide-eyed and curious. You adjust her slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as you watch Max step up to the microphone.

“Wow,” Max begins, his voice carrying over the hushed murmurs of the crowd. “What a year. What a … career.”

There’s a ripple of surprise at his choice of words. You feel it too, a sharp intake of breath as he pauses. He hasn’t told anyone outside of your family and a select few about his decision yet, and it hits you that this is the moment.

“I want to start by saying thank you,” Max continues, his accent thick with emotion. “To everyone who made this season possible. To my team at Red Bull — Christian, Helmut, GP, the engineers, the mechanics — every single person who has been part of this journey. We did this together. Five championships in the last five years … it still feels surreal.”

The room breaks into another round of applause, but Max raises a hand to quiet them.

“But tonight isn’t just about this trophy or this season,” he says, his voice steady despite the emotion creeping into it. “It’s about something bigger. About knowing when it’s time to close one chapter and start another.”

Your heart races, and you tighten your hold on your daughter as Max’s words hang in the air.

“When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to race,” Max says, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “I grew up at circuits, watching my dad, dreaming of being in Formula 1. And for the last decade, this sport has been my whole life. It’s given me everything. It’s taught me more than I ever imagined — about hard work, about resilience, about pushing beyond what you think is possible.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down to where you’re sitting. The faintest smile plays on his lips as your gazes meet, and you see the love and certainty there.

“But these past two years,” he continues, his voice softening, “I learned something else. That as much as I love this sport, there’s something I love more. Someone I love more.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, heads turning to you. You feel your cheeks flush, but you keep your focus on Max, your heart pounding.

“Last season, I became a father,” Max says, his tone warming with pride. “And it changed everything. It changed the way I see the world, the way I see myself, and the way I think about my future. I realized that as much as I love racing, I don’t want to miss the little moments … the things that really matter.”

The room falls completely silent, everyone hanging on his every word.

“So,” Max says, his voice unwavering now, “tonight, as I accept this trophy, I also want to announce that this was my last season in Formula 1.”

Gasps ripple through the crowd, followed by stunned silence. Your daughter squirms in your arms, oblivious to the magnitude of what’s just been said.

Max smiles faintly, taking in the shocked faces in the room. “I know it might seem sudden,” he says, “but this is something I’ve thought about for a long time. I’ve achieved everything I could have dreamed of in this sport. I’ve worked with the best team in the world, competed against the best drivers in the world, and I leave with no regrets. But now, it’s time for me to focus on the next chapter of my life. On my family.”

He glances down at you again, and this time his gaze lingers. “Y/N, you and our daughter … you’re my everything. You’ve given me a reason to look beyond the racetrack, and for that, I’ll always be grateful.”

Your vision blurs with tears, and you can’t help but smile up at him. The crowd erupts into applause, some people rising to their feet in admiration and respect.

After a moment, Max raises a hand again, signaling for quiet. “I want to thank the fans,” he says, his voice growing steadier. “You’ve been with me through every win, every loss, every crazy overtake and late-breaking move. You’ve pushed me to be better every single day. And while I won’t be on the grid next season, I’ll always be part of this sport. It’s in my blood, and it always will be.”

The applause grows even louder this time, the room filling with a wave of emotion and admiration. You clap along, your daughter bouncing slightly in your arms at the sound.

When Max steps down from the stage, he comes straight to you. The cameras follow his every move, the flashes almost blinding as he crouches in front of you.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.

He reaches for your daughter, lifting her into his arms with ease. She giggles, grabbing at the shiny lapel of his tuxedo, and Max laughs softly, the sound breaking through the tension in the room.

“We did it,” he says, his eyes locking with yours.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. “We did,” you whisper back.

***

The rest of the night is a blur of congratulations, handshakes, and emotional farewells. But through it all, Max stays by your side, his arm around your waist or his hand in yours.

As the event winds down, you find yourselves back in the car, your daughter sleeping peacefully in her car seat. The city lights blur past the windows, and Max leans back against the seat, exhaling deeply.

“That went better than I thought,” he says, his voice tinged with relief.

“You were incredible,” you tell him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He glances down at you, his expression soft. “Are you happy?”

You smile, lacing your fingers with his. “More than I ever thought I could be.”

And as the car carries you through the quiet streets, you realize that this is just the beginning of a new adventure — the one Max always knew was waiting for him.

***

Two Years Later

Lewis doesn’t plan to be on this street. He’s never liked taking the busy Monaco thoroughfares, even after all these years of calling the principality home. But a morning run had turned into aimless wandering, and now he’s here, jogging along the promenade, music blasting in his ears, trying to clear his head.

The past two years since Max retired have been strange. No fierce wheel-to-wheel battles with Verstappen, no reminders on the track of the rivalry that defined his career for so long. And yet, Max still lingers in his thoughts — like an echo, a shadow, a specter. Every headline about the Verstappens pops up in his feed: Max is spotted at home with his family. Max is thriving in retirement.

But it’s not Max that Lewis thinks about most. It’s you. It’s always been you.

Lewis slows his pace as he nears the bakery that used to be your favorite. He has no idea if you still come here, or if Monaco even feels like home to you anymore. He shakes his head, chastising himself for thinking like this. You’re gone. You’ve been gone.

But then, he hears it. A child’s voice, high-pitched and sweet, chattering happily. He instinctively looks over, and his feet stop moving altogether.

There you are.

You’re walking hand-in-hand with Max. Max, who looks completely at peace, a little older but no less recognizable. Beside him, a little girl. She’s animated as she talks to him, her tiny hand curled securely around his. And then, there’s the stroller. A navy blue, high-tech design Lewis recognizes from catalogs. Inside is a baby boy, fast asleep, his chubby face serene as he snoozes against the soft fabric.

Lewis feels the air leave his lungs.

You don’t see him. You’re busy talking to Max, laughing at something he says. You’re dressed casually, a flowy sundress swaying around your knees, sunglasses perched on your nose. Your free hand rests on the stroller handle, the gesture almost instinctive. The sight of you like this — effortless, happy, and surrounded by a family — sends a sharp pang through Lewis’ chest.

It’s everything he could’ve had. Everything he pushed away.

His feet are rooted to the spot. He should turn around, jog in the other direction, forget he ever saw you. But he can’t. He watches, transfixed, as your daughter stops mid-sentence to look up at you. “Mama,” she says brightly, tugging Max’s hand. “Can I have a croissant?”

Max chuckles. “You already had one,” he tells her, his voice gentle.

“But they’re so good!” She says, throwing her head back dramatically.

Lewis can’t stop staring. The little girl is Max’s spitting image, but there’s something about her smile, the way her nose scrunches, that reminds him of you.

And then, she notices him.

Your daughter’s bright eyes land on Lewis, and she grins like she’s just seen a new friend. “Hello!” She says, waving enthusiastically with her free hand.

You glance up, confused at first, following her gaze. Lewis freezes.

But it’s not him you’re looking at. It’s a man unloading bags from his car in front of him, and you nod politely before turning back to Max and your daughter.

Lewis exhales shakily, a mix of relief and a pang of disappointment. He steps back, half-hidden by the awning of a nearby café, watching as you and Max resume walking.

The little girl waves once more, still beaming, before Max gently nudges her along. “Come on, prinsesje,” he says. “Let’s not keep your brother waiting for his nap to be over.”

Lewis stays there, unmoving, as you all walk away. He watches the way Max leans toward you, saying something that makes you laugh again. He watches the way your daughter skips a little ahead, still clutching Max’s hand, her voice bubbling with excitement as she points to a pigeon fluttering by. And he watches you look down at the stroller, adjusting the blanket over the baby boy who sleeps so peacefully, oblivious to everything around him.

It’s a picture-perfect scene. A life filled with love and joy, one that Lewis now realizes — painfully, completely — he could have been part of.

The memories flood in uninvited.

The nights spent on this same Monaco promenade with you, your hand slipping into his as you admired the lights reflecting off the water. The quiet mornings when you’d sit at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee and talking about what life might look like after racing. The promises he made and didn’t keep.

He thinks about the last time he saw you, about the anger and hurt in your eyes, about the way he walked out that night because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words you needed to hear. And now, here you are — walking down this same street with someone who isn’t afraid to put you first.

Lewis sinks onto a nearby bench, running a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, his breathing shallow. He thinks he’s moved on, that he’s made peace with the choices he’s made. But seeing you, seeing your family — it’s a wound he didn’t even realize was still open.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at the spot where you disappeared from view. Minutes? Hours? Long enough for his playlist to loop back to the beginning.

A group of tourists wanders past, laughing and snapping photos of the marina. Lewis doesn’t look up. He stays on the bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of what he’s lost pressing down on him.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, the sun is setting over Monaco, casting the city in hues of orange and gold. He heads straight for the balcony, leaning heavily on the railing as he stares out at the water.

It should be a beautiful view, but tonight it feels empty.

For years, racing has been his everything. It’s been his escape, his purpose, his identity. But now, for the first time, he wonders if it was worth it.

Because no trophy, no title, no amount of glory could fill the space you once inhabited.

And for the first time, Lewis feels like the one who’s been left behind.

[sillylildude]

Woo! Another Chapter Update!!

At last, our valiant, teenage heroes attempt to flee (more or less) undetected from the highly-guarded walls of North Castle. I'd hoped to upload chapter 8 as well today, but I've hit a little snag with the plot that I'm gonna need some time to unravel. So for now, enjoy this fun little chapter! Excited to share more with you soon!!

[i2sunric]

𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐄 (s.jy)

PAIRING: boxer-dad!jake x mom!reader (f)

SUMMARY: being married to a boxer is frightening— twice as much when you’re raising a child (or two) with that very same man. but none of it matters, not really, because your love for him is unconditional, stronger than fear, deeper than doubt, and it has always lived beyond the reach of worry.

WARNINGS: boxing, mentions of blood and wounds, mentions of pregnancy, morning sickness, pet names (baby, love), fear, love making (it’s just the last scene and barely narrated, but you can choose to skip it), starring yunjin huh (lesserafim), babies (jihoon/james & jiheon/jane). lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 12th May 2025

WC: 9.2k

TAGLIST: @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @princesstiti14

NOW PLAYING: Brisbane by Youth in Revolt & Heavenly by Broadside

a/n: the meds against allergy the doctor gave me make me feel high so sorry if there are any errors or shit. anw let me know your thoughts on this fic! 🩷 i honestly like it sm (my search history is full of synonyms lol) and please, if you haven’t, read the sunghoon!dad fic i wrote too!

©️don’t copy or steal this fic & please REBLOG to share.

You always woke up first. That was just the way it went.

The early sun never failed to warm your face through the slightly cracked blinds of your shared bedroom, golden light slipping across the foot of the bed like it belonged there.

Jake’s arm was slung heavy around your waist, his breath slow and deep against the nape of your neck, and just a little too warm. One of his legs was tangled with yours, as if even in his sleep he couldn’t stand to be far from you.

And at the foot of the bed, curled up with a stuffed gray bunny that was beginning to unravel at the seams, was James— Jihoon when he was in trouble.

Five years old. Barely able to tie his shoes right, but already carrying Jake’s stubbornness in his bones.

You shifted gently, trying not to wake Jake as you slipped out from under his hold.

He grumbled something incoherent in his sleep and reached out for you, but you were already halfway to the kitchen.

It wasn’t long before little feet padded after you, and then James was clambering onto a chair at the table, face still puffy with sleep, hair a mess.

“Toast?” you asked.

He nodded, rubbing at one eye. “With honey.”

You ruffled his hair before turning to the counter. “You’re getting too used to sweet things in the morning.”

“It makes me run faster,” he insisted, already kicking his legs under the table like he had a hundred miles of energy to spend.

Behind you, you heard Jake’s heavy steps thudding down the hallway, groggy and shirtless, his curls a wild mess. He kissed your shoulder as he passed, then bent over to ruffle Jihoon’s hair too.

“Morning, champ.”

“Morning,” James beamed. “Can we box today?”

Jake laughed as he sat down. “You wanna box again?”

James nodded so hard his curls bounced. “I’m gonna be a boxer just like you!”

You didn’t say anything at first. Just buttered the toast. Carefully.

Jake noticed. Of course he did.

After six years, he could read you better than anyone. “We’ll be careful,” he said softly, glancing at you over James’ head.

“Boxing’s not a game,” you replied quietly. “It’s not— it’s not something I want him dreaming of every night.”

Jake’s eyes softened, and he reached for your hand as you placed the plate of toast down. “I know, I know it scares you. But he doesn’t see the blood or the bruises. He just sees his dad being strong.”

You looked at him, feeling your chest ache. “That’s exactly why I’m scared.”

James munched on his toast without a care in the world, his feet swinging. “Can I come to your next match?” he asked suddenly, crumbs on his lips. “Please, please, please, pleeeeeease?”

Jake blinked, surprised. “What, the next one? That’s in two days, James.”

“I’m big enough,” he declared, sitting up straighter. “I wanna watch, I wanna cheer. Please, mommy?”

You looked at him, at his big, pleading eyes.

At the innocence behind them.

And then you looked at Jake, with the same eyes who looked torn between pride and guilt. It wasn’t fair— how much James looked like both of you at once, how easily he could tug at your heart.

You sighed. “We’ll see.”

Which really meant yes. Because you were never good at saying no when it came to them.

That night, you helped James into Jake’s old boxing gloves. They were far too big, slipping past his wrists, practically swallowing his arms.

He tried to throw punches, but they were mostly flailing motions that made Jake laugh until he was nearly wheezing on the floor.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, trying not to smile too much.

Jake caught your eye, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on his collarbones from messing around with James. “See? He’s a natural.”

“He’s five.”

“He’s my kid, he’s gonna be unstoppable.”

James fell over trying to jab at Jake’s leg. “Gotcha!” he shouted.

Jake swooped down and scooped him up, holding him upside down while James shrieked with laughter. “You got me, huh? You sure about that?”

“Daaaaaaad!”

“You gonna knock me out one day, champ?”

“Yeah! One punch!”

You bit back a laugh as you walked over, flicking Jake’s shoulder. “Put him down before he vomits dinner.”

“Fine,” Jake groaned, dropping James onto the couch. “You both take all the fun out of my life.”

James poked his tongue out at him. “No I don’t. I’m your best fun.”

Jake looked at him for a long second, eyes warm, and then over at you. “You both are.”

Two nights later, the arena smelled like sweat and nerves.

You had James on your lap, his little legs tucked close to his chest, his hands gripping a paper cup of juice too tightly.

The crowd was loud, the lights bright, and your heart was beating way too fast for someone who wasn’t even in the ring.

Jake stepped into the spotlight wearing his mouthguard and gloves, robe slung low over his shoulders.

He looked fierce. Serious. Beautiful. Like the fighter you’d first met back in college, when he was reckless and full of fire, but still somehow managed to be the kindest boy you’d ever known.

Jihoon bounced excitedly. “There he is! Look, mom, look!”

“I see him, baby.”

The bell rang.

The fight started.

And something was wrong.

You could tell, even if the others couldn’t.

Jake’s steps weren’t as light, his dodges not as quick. The other guy was aggressive, coming in hard and fast, and Jake—he was getting hit. A lot.

Your stomach twisted.

“Mom,” James said, his voice small now. “Why’s dad not winning?”

“He’s trying,” you whispered, arms tightening around him. “He’s okay, he’s— he’s just warming up.”

But then Jake stumbled. His lip was split.

His shoulder sagged like he’d pulled something.

And your son started to panic.

“Mom, he’s hurt. We gotta go help him.”

“James, no, listen to me— he’s gonna be okay, you can’t—”

But your words weren’t fast enough.

James wriggled out of your arms before you could catch him, ducking under the security rope, sprinting across the edge of the crowd.

Someone shouted. You were on your feet, your heart in your throat, but James was already halfway to the ring.

“Jihoon!”

He scrambled up through the ropes, small enough to slip between them, and ran straight to his father.

Jake didn’t even notice at first, too dazed by the last punch.

“Stop the fight!” you screamed. “Stop it, my son’s in there!”

The ref blew his whistle furiously, waving his arms. The other boxer dropped his stance immediately, confused.

Jake blinked down— and froze.

“Champ?”

James launched into his chest, wrapping his tiny arms around his waist. “Don’t let him hit you again! I’ll fight him for you!”

Your vision blurred with tears as you rushed down toward the ring.

Someone opened the gate for you, and you ruan inside, breath shaking, legs trembling.

Jake had dropped to one knee, one arm around James, the other shaking as he pulled his mouthguard out.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What are you doing, buddy? You can’t be in here.”

“You were losing,” James mumbled, clutching him tighter. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

Jake let out a laugh that sounded like it hurt. “I’m okay. It’s just a match.”

“You were bleeding.”

Jake looked up at you then, and his face — Lord, his face —he looked so sorry. So wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve never let him come. This was too much.”

You knelt down beside them, pulling James into your arms, running a hand through his hair. “You scared me,” you whispered. “You can’t run off like that, Jihoon. Ever.”

“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I just— I didn’t want him to lose.”

Jake leaned in, pressing a kiss to both your foreheads. “I’ll never lose anything that matters, okay? Because I’ve already got you.”

The crowd was murmuring. Officials were everywhere. The match was called off.

Jake was disqualified, but he didn’t care.

All he cared about was you. And James. Safe. In his arms.

Later, in the locker room, after everyone had gone, Jake sat with James asleep in his arms, still wearing one glove that dwarfed his hand.

You sat beside him, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Promise me,” you murmured, “that if he really wants to fight when he’s older…you’ll teach him how to be smart. How to be safe.”

Jake nodded, kissing the top of Jihoon’s curls. “I promise. But for now…I just want him to dream about anything else. Anything safer.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “You scared me tonight.”

“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“I love you, Jake.”

He turned, eyes soft. “I love you too.”

And in that quiet moment, with your son snoring softly between you and the world finally still, you felt it again— that fragile, powerful kind of happiness that could only exist when you had everything you loved right there in your arms.

☆.

It was supposed to be your morning to sleep in.

The deal was sacred: on Sundays, or holidays, or any day the world wasn’t demanding something from the two of you at dawn, one of you got to stay in bed while the other kept James entertained.

It had been years of trial and error, balancing exhaustion with parenting, love with chaos, but you’d found your rhythm.

This morning, you were supposed to be nestled in the warmth of the blankets while Jake took James to the kitchen for cereal and cartoons.

You’d heard them shuffling around in the other room— Jake’s low, sleepy voice, and James, wide awake, asking if he could have two bowls because he was ‘super strong today’.

But instead of dozing off again like you usually did, a sharp pain twisted through your stomach, a heat blooming behind your navel and spreading like fire.

You jolted upright, cold sweat already rising on the back of your neck, and before you could think or breathe or blink, you were rushing out of bed.

The bathroom door hit the wall when you shoved it open, and you barely made it to the toilet in time before your stomach gave out.

Violent, sudden.

Your knees hit the tile hard as your body curled in on itself.

“Baby?” Jake’s voice, thick with sleep, came from the hallway.

You couldn’t answer. The retching had stolen all the air from your lungs.

There were small footsteps, bare feet padding quick against the floor, and then James’s voice, high and worried. “Mommy?”

Jake was there a moment later, crouching beside you, his hand on your back.

“Shit— hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He was rubbing gentle circles into your spine, his other hand brushing the damp strands of hair from your forehead.

You forced yourself upright, gasping, “Phone. Get me my phone.”

Jake didn’t waste time asking questions. He was up in a flash, bolting down the hall.

But it was James who surprised you.

He knelt beside you, mimicking his father’s earlier movements, his tiny fingers clumsy as they gathered your hair and held it back.

“I’m here, Mommy,” he whispered. “You’re okay. Daddy’s coming.”

You shut your eyes for a second, heart swollen even through the pain. “Thank you, baby.”

Jake returned a beat later, sliding to the floor with your phone in one hand, his other reaching out to feel your forehead. “You’re burning up. Do you want me to call the doctor? What do you need?”

You didn’t answer at first, just searched the appa until you found the period tracker one.

You looked at him — really looked at him — and said, hoarse and quiet, “My period’s late.”

That madew him pause.

He glanced briefly at James, still by your side, loyal and worried and trying so hard to be brave.

“Late?” he asked.

You nodded. “Like…late late. And I know July’s always weird for me, and sometimes it skips, but this… this isn’t like that. This is…”

Jake caught on. He stood and reached for the bathroom cabinet before you could finish.

His hand went straight to the little white box buried behind cough syrup and cotton pads. The spare test.

He held it up. “This?”

You nodded, pressing a palm against your stomach as another wave of nausea rolled over you.

Jake knelt again and gently coaxed James to his feet. “Hey, buddy. Can you go watch TV for a bit? I’ll bring you snacks soon, I promise.”

“But—Mommy—”

“She’ll be okay,” Jake said, smoothing a hand over James’ss head. “I promise. Just give us a few minutes.”

James hesitated, looking from you to Jake, before finally nodding and stepping out of the room with one last glance over his shoulder.

You leaned back against the wall, breath shaky. Jake helped you up and steadied you with an arm around your waist.

“I’ll wait out there,” he said quietly, placing the test in your hand.

“No,” You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Don’t go.”

He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. “Alright. I’m here.”

The test took less than a minute to take. But it felt like a year.

You placed it on the edge of the sink, both of you staring at it like it might jump to life and scream the answer at you.

You were still sitting on the toilet lid, knees tucked up, your arms hugging them to your chest.

Jake sat across from you on the closed tub, elbows on his thighs, eyes flicking between the floor and your face and the tiny plastic stick.

You broke the silence. “We weren’t planning this.”

Jake gave a breathy laugh that had no humor in it. “We weren’t really planning anything back then, either… when we had James.”

“That was different,” you said.

He met your eyes. “Was it?”

You bit your lip, chest tightening. “It feels scarier now.”

Jake didn’t say anything for a second. Then he moved closer, kneeling in front of you.

His hands found yours, his fingers cold from the tile but steady. “Whatever it says…you’re not alone in this. You’re never alone, love.”

“I threw up everywhere.”

“Still not alone.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, and for the first time since the pain had woken you up, you let yourself cry.

Just a little.

Jake held you through it, fingers curling into your hair, his lips pressing against your temple.

When the ten minutes were up, the test was still face-down on the sink.

Jake turned it over.

He didn’t say anything at first.

You looked at his face, trying to read it. He was too still. His jaw clenched once, then loosened.

His eyes flicked up to yours, wide and stunned.

You stood slowly, walking to the sink, feeling your heartbeat rattle in your ribs.

You saw the two lines.

Pregnant.

Your stomach swooped. Your hands trembled.

“Oh my god.”

Jake was behind you in a second. His hands came around your waist, his head resting on your shoulder.

“That’s real,” you whispered.

“Yeah.”

“That’s real.” you said, more convinced.

Jake nodded, kissing your cheek softly. “Looks like we’re doing it again.”

You turned in his arms, eyes brimming, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “What if I can’t handle it? What if it’s too much?”

“You will handle it,” he said firmly. “Because you’re strong. And because I’m here, and we already made the best little human in the world. We can do it again.”

You clung to him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “He’s gonna be a big brother.”

Jake pulled back just enough to smile at you. Really smile. “Can you imagine him? With a little sibling running after him?”

“He’ll boss them around.”

“He’ll protect them.”

You laughed again, eyes still blurry with emotion. “We need to tell him.”

Jake looked toward the door. “Now?”

You paused. “Not yet. Let’s just…hold it, just for a little bit. Just ours.”

He nodded. “Just ours.”

There was still pain. Still nausea. Still fear.

But Jake was here. You were here. And there was life, again, starting inside you.

Another heartbeat waiting to be loved.

☆.

You never liked hospitals.

They always smelled too clean, too sharp, like something was being covered up.

But you went anyway, let Yunjin drive you in her little too-fast-for-comfort car with her playlist blaring.

She didn’t let you argue. Not when she saw the look on your face after the test. Not when she showed up with a fresh croissant and a determined, no-bullshit attitude.

“I’m not letting you stay in bed and Google symptoms until you give yourself a panic attack,” she said. “We’re going to the doctor. I’ll hold your hand, throw up with you, whatever you need.”

True to her word, she was there when you lay back on the crinkly white paper of the exam table, heart in your throat, the sonographer squeezing warm gel onto your skin.

She didn’t let go of your hand once.

AAnd there it was.

That flickering heartbeat.

Tiny. So small it didn’t feel real until it pulsed across the screen like a drum.

You stared at it, lips parted, heart unraveling. The image was hazy, grainy, but it was there, this new, growing piece of you. Of Jake. Of your family.

You cried, of course. You always cried at these kinds of things, even if you tried not to.

Yunjin blinked hard a few times herself. “You’re really doing this again, huh?”

You laughed, a watery sound. “God, yeah.”

“You’re stronger than me.”

“No I’m not,” you said. “You’d be amazing.”

She squeezed your hand. “But right now, this baby’s gonna have the coolest mom on earth… and well, aunt, duh!”

When you finally did tell your son, Jake was the one who brought it up.

James had been building a Lego tower in the living room, lying on his stomach in his little dinosaur pajamas, humming to himself.

Jake sat beside you on the couch, his hand on your thigh, a soft press of reassurance.

“Hey, bud,” Jake said, ruffling his son’s hair, “we’ve got something kinda cool to tell you.”

James looked up, blinking, pieces of Lego clutched in each hand. “What?”

Jake looked at you. You nodded, and he smiled. “You’re gonna be a big brother.”

James blinked again. “What?”

You leaned forward. “There’s a baby growing in my tummy, sweetheart.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, “A baby? In there?” He pointed, alarmed, at your belly, which still looked more like you’d eaten too much lunch than anything else.

You laughed. “Yeah. In there.”

His mouth dropped open. “Is it gonna pop out soon?”

“Not soon,” Jake said. “You’ve got a few months, but eventually, yeah.”

James crawled closer, pressing his little hand against your shirt like he was trying to feel the baby through your skin. “Is it a girl?”

“We don’t know yet,” you said.

He tilted his head, clearly deep in thought. “Will it like dinosaurs?”

“I hope so,” Jake said, laughing.

James was quiet again for a moment, looking at you, then Jake, then back to you. “Do I have to share my snacks?”

You smiled. “Only if you want to.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said solemnly. “But only if it doesn’t touch my T-rex.”

“Deal,” Jake said.

And just like that, James accepted it.

Sort of. He had questions, of course— How does the baby breathe? Will it be loud? What if it’s a girl and doesn’t like trucks?

But in the end, he was still the sweetest baby boy on earth.

☆.

The first trimester was cruel.

The toilet became your closest companion.

Mornings were the worst: your body felt hijacked, your stomach constantly roiling, everything smelling too strong or too wrong.

Jake woke up every day with you, even when his eyes were heavy with sleep and his matches were approaching.

Even when his training hours stretched him thin. He still tried to take up time to stay with you, to train younger boxers instead of boxing himself.

But what surprised you most was James.

He’d peek into the bathroom every morning, hair sticking out in wild directions, clutching his little stuffed dinosaur by the arm.

And if Jake wasn’t already holding your hair back, James would quietly step in and do it.

He never complained.

He just stood there with a serious look on his face and said things like, “You’re doing a good job, Mommy,” or “It’s okay. Sometimes I throw up when I eat too much candy, too.”

Jake started calling him your bodyguard.

James puffed his chest with pride every time.

Sometimes, when the nausea got bad enough, Jake would carry you to bed, settle behind you, and James would crawl in on your other side and whisper stories to the baby. “Today I drew a robot. When you come out, I’ll draw you, too.”

It was in that moment that you realised you had won in life.

.

☆.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t usually a big deal for the two of you.

You’d never been the candlelight-dinner, wine-glass-clinking, heart-shaped-everything type of couple.

Your love was built on early mornings and grocery runs, on whispered goodnights and holding hands during hospital appointments, on parenting and partnership and choosing each other again and again, even on the days when your patience was thin and the dishes were stacked high in the sink.

But this year felt different.

You woke up to the soft creak of your bedroom door opening and the quiet shuffle of socks across the floor.

Your belly was heavy, so round and taut it felt like you were a balloon stretched to its final inch of give.

And you were tired. So tired.

But when you opened your eyes, you saw them— Jake, holding a bouquet of slightly squashed red roses, and James peeking from behind his leg with something hidden behind his back.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Jake murmured, kneeling on the edge of the bed and brushing a kiss against your forehead.

James stepped forward, biting his lip, then presented you with…a crayon drawing of what looked like three lopsided people holding hands. “This is us,” he explained proudly. “That’s you, and that’s Daddy, and that’s me, the little one in your belly is a circle. I didn’t know if it’s a girl or a boy.”

You took it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Maybe it was.

Jake handed you the flowers with a sheepish smile. “James wanted to get you chocolates, but I told him flowers are important too.”

“Mommy should have both,” James declared.

“You taught him well,” you said, kissing your husband’s lips. Then you reached under in the bedside table drawer and pulled out a wrapped box you’d hidden last night. “And so did I.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “What is this?”

“Open it.”

He unwrapped it to find a tin of dark chocolate truffles and a new pair of wraps for training —embroidered with Best Father Farter across the edge.

His smile cracked wide. “Oh my god.” he laughed loudly “I love them!”

James clambered onto the bed between you both. “Can we eat cake now?”

“After lunch,” you said, laughing. “But yes. Later, we’ll eat cake.”

Jake cooked lunch while you sat on a stool in the kitchen, rubbing your belly and trying to ignore the low ache that had been bothering you all morning.

James danced around in his socks, insisting on wearing a tie for ‘the special day’c and you let him because he looked too cute not to.

The cake was store-bought, a simple one with little pink sugar hearts, but James was excited about it like it was some magical treasure.

You stood up to grab a knife to cut the first slice.

You didn’t even make it to the drawer.

Pop.

The sound wasn’t loud, but you felt it in your body, a deep, sudden release of pressure.

Warmth gushed down your legs.

You froze.

Jake, mid-laugh, stopped. “Did you— did you drop something?”

You looked down at your soaked pants. Then up at him.

“Oh my god.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Is that—? Is it happening?!”

“Yes! Jake, yes— go grab the hospital bag!”

James gasped, horrified. “You peed yourself?!”

“I didn’t pee myself, baby,” you said through gritted teeth as the first cramp twisted through your belly. “The baby’s coming.”

James blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

Jake was moving at light speed— or maybe no speed at all.

He dropped the bouquet. Nearly tripped over James.

Grabbed his phone, then the car keys, then forgot both again.

“Okay, bag— hospital bag, where’s the— where did we—where did you put it?”

“By the door, Jake!” you snapped. “Where it’s always been.”

He stumbled off, yelling back, “I knew that! I’m calm!”

“You’re not calm!”

James was clinging to your leg like a baby koala. “Is the baby falling out right now?”

“No,” you hissed, hand gripping the table as another contraction hit, sharp and fast. “But soon if we don’t move.”

“Should I call someone?” Jake shouted from the hall.

“Yes! Call Yunjin. She needs to come stay with James!”

“I’m already on it!” he yelled back, fumbling his phone.

Yunjin picked up after two rings.

“You’re gonna want to get here,” Jake said, voice too high. “It’s happening. She’s— her water broke. Like actually broke. It’s go time.”

You grabbed the phone from him as he rushed back in. “Yunjin, please— just get here.”

“I’m on my way, don’t panic,” she said, though you could hear the smile in her voice. “Tell James I’ll bring candy.”

“I’ll tell him if I survive.”

You handed the phone back to Jake, your hands trembling. “Get the car ready. I’ll get shoes.”

“You’re not getting anything. I’m carrying you.”

“Jake—”

“I’m carrying you,” he repeated, gently but firmly.

James watched the whole scene unfold like a movie, his eyes wide. “Will it hurt?”

You knelt down, wincing, brushing his cheek. “Yeah, honey. It’s going to hurt. Daddy’s going to be with me, don’t worry. you’re gonna be the best big brother ever.”

He nodded, lip trembling. “I’ll tell the baby that I love her.”

Jake kissed his forehead, voice thick. “You tell her that in person. We’ll be back with your sister soon.”

The hospital was a blur of fluorescent lights and quick footsteps and voices that felt like they were underwater. m

The pain hit in waves, and each time it crashed, you wanted to scream— but you didn’t.

Not yet. Not until it got worse.

And god, it got worse.

Nine hours of it.

Jake never left your side, not for a second.

You yelled at him at least three times.

“Stop talking,” you growled at him during hour five, when he was trying to distract you with some nonsense story about his first amateur fight.

He shut up. Immediately. Nodded like a soldier.

Later, when you were gripping the rail of the bed so hard your knuckles went white, you hissed, “I hate you.”

“I know,” he said.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Got it.”

“Wait, no— touch me again.”

He grabbed your hand without hesitation. “Right here.”

You screamed. He let you crush his fingers.

And when it finally happened,.

the world shrank to pressure and burning and breathless, broken sounds, you gave one last push and everything stopped.

Then—

A cry.

High and raw and brand new.

They placed her on your chest, and your hands shook when they curled around her tiny, wriggling body.

She was pink and warm and squalling like she was furious about the whole ordeal.

You sobbed.

Jake sobbed more.

Your forehead pressed to hers as you whispered, “Hi, baby. Hi, Jane… Hi, Jiheon.”

Jake kissed your temple a hundred times, his face wet with tears. “You did it. You did so good.”

“She’s so small,” you whispered.

“She’s perfect.”

You looked at her again, this little piece of you and Jake and everything that had ever been good between you.

You were exhausted, ripped open and aching, but she was here.

Your daughter.

And she was worth it all.

☆.

The world came back slowly.

Not in one clean breath, but in fragments, blinking against the dim hospital room light, the hum of machines, the sterile scent of disinfectant layered beneath something warm.

Familiar.

Jake’s cologne.

Your throat was dry, lips cracked, body heavy— wrecked didn’t even begin to describe it.

Your stomach ached with the aftershock of labor, your muscles trembling in the stillness, and for a moment, you couldn’t even tell what time it was.

Everything had blurred together into hours of pain, blood, cries, and the weight of her tiny body on your chest before darkness finally pulled you under.

But now—now it was night.

The sky outside the narrow window was ink-dark, the city lights dulled by the thickness of the glass.

You shifted just slightly, wincing at the soreness that radiated through your hips and spine, and turned your head.

He was there.

Jake was sitting in the corner chair beside your bed, hunched forward with a blanket cradled against his chest, shoulders curved inward like a shield.

His hair was a mess,, and his eyes were fixed on her with an expression so full of awe it punched the breath right out of your lungs.

He was crying. Quietly.

Not the dramatic, shaking kind of crying— just slow, steady tears, running along the curve of his jaw and down to his neck as he stared at his daughter.

“Jaeyun…” Your voice cracked like ice underfoot.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at you at first.

“She’s sleeping,” he whispered, brushing one callused thumb over her cheek, his voice so soft it barely stirred the air. “She has your nose.”

You watched him from the bed, your vision still cloudy, but yourr heart was awake now.

He looked so still, so unlike the chaotic Jake you’d known for years.

Not the boy who forgot his keys five times a week.

Not the man who cheered too loud at James’s school recitals. This was something different.

This was a father. Again.

You reached out with a hand that shook from effort. “Let me see her.”

Jake finally turned, startled like he hadn’t realized you were awake.

He sniffed, blinking hard as he carefully got up. “You’re awake,” he said, voice cracking. “God, you— are you okay? You fainted right after they took her. They said you were just exhausted, but you were out. I thought—” He paused. Swallowed. “I’ve been watching you sleep for hours.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re not supposed to say that like it’s romantic, stalker.”

That got a breath of laughter out of him, ragged and wet. He came to the side of the bed, kneeling so he could ease Jane down into your arms. “Here,” he murmured. “Hold her again.”

You adjusted your pillow, barely able to sit up.

But he helped, supporting your back, brushing the strands of hair away from your damp forehead. And then she was there, small and warm and impossibly real in your arms again.

“Hi, baby,” you whispered. “Hi, little Jane.”

“Jiheon,” Jake added softly. “That’s what I’ve been calling her. She likes it… i think. She keeps making this face when I say it— look.” He leaned in and repeated it again in a whisper, “Jiheon.”

Jane shifted slightly, scrunching her face before relaxing again. A barely-there smile tugged at Jake’s lips.

“You look like a dad of two now,” you murmured, brushing your finger along her hair. “There’s something different in your face.”

“I feel different.” He pressed his forehead to your shoulder and just breathed there for a second. “Like… more breakable.”

You rested your cheek on top of Jane’s head and closed your eyes. “You’re not. You’re stronger than you think.”

He pulled back and sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle either of you. “Do you remember what you said during hour seven?”

“Which part? I said a lot of things.”

“You said if I ever touched you again, you’d break my nose.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Still stands. For a while.”

Jake grinned and leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Fair. I’ll wait.”

You both sat there for a while, in the stillness that only came in the dead of night, surrounded by beeping monitors and the soft breathing of your daughter.

After a while, he reached out and brushed the back of his finger over Jane’s tiny fist. “She’s got my ears.”

You snorted. “Poor girl.”

He laughed, pulling the blanket higher around your shoulders. “James is gonna love her.”

“He already does,” you said. “He kept talking to my belly like it was a walkie-talkie.”

Jake smiled again, softer now. “He’s gonna be the best big brother.”

You were quiet for a while.

Just breathing. Just holding her.

And him holding you.

Then, your voice cracked the silence, barely a whisper.

“Thank you.”

Jake blinked. “For what?”

“For giving me them.” You looked down at Jane. “For giving me you.”

His face crumpled a little. “You gave me everything back.”

☆.

Coming home was a blur of motion and scent and warmth—soft clothes, white noise, the lingering chill of February air clinging to your coats and hair as you stepped into the house with a car seat cradled between both hands.

Jane was still asleep.

That delicate, floating sleep only newborns seem capable of, where their tiny chests rise like feathers and fall again, their mouths puckering occasionally, eyelashes still damp against their cheeks.

Your arms ached from holding her, your legs felt like jelly, and your stomach was a quilt of stretched skin and healing muscle, but lord— you were finally home.

Jake carried the bags in with one arm and hovered behind you like you might fall at any second.

His hand was low on your back. “You okay?”

“I’m… tired,” you admitted, your voice raspy with lack of sleep and recovery, but your eyes were clear. “But yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good. I want this moment to be good.”

You looked over at him. “It will be.”

James had been waiting by the window.

The second you stepped inside, his feet came skidding over the hardwood floors in his socks, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Where is she?” he breathed, like he was waiting to see a mythical creature.

Jake gently nudged the car seat toward him. “She’s sleeping. Be soft, okay?”

James crouched like it was some sacred ritual, his tiny fingers gripping the edge of the blanket.

He peeked in with a squint, nose wrinkling, face twisted in deep thought.

He blinked.

Then frowned.

“…She’s kind of ugly,” he declared.

Jake choked on a laugh, reaching to ruffle his hair. “Hey.”

“But it’s okay,” James continued with a shrug. “She’s a baby. I heard some people get plastic surgery when they grow up. She can do that if she wants.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, stifling a snort. “She’s not ugly.”

“She looks like a wrinkly potato.”

“That’s cause she just came out,,” Jake said solemnly, kneeling beside him. “She’ll look better after some milk and sleep.”

James tilted his head, clearly unsure how to feel. “She smells like butt.”

You bent down beside them both, the ache in your legs sharp but ignorable.

Jane stirred a little, her mouth making a soft sucking noise, her hands twitching. “You smelled worse when you were born.”

James’s eyes widened like you’d just told him he was adopted. “No way.”

“Yes way,” Jake chimed in. “You pooped on me twice in the first week.���

James’ face lit up. “Can I hold her?”

“In a bit,” you said, brushing your fingers along his hair. “After she’s fed. And once we’re on the couch.”

He nodded, serious. “I’ll wait.”

☆.

The days passed like smoke curling around your head—soft and slow and smothering all at once.

Jane didn’t sleep unless she was on someone’s chest.

Your chest. Jake’s chest. Occasionally James’s, when he insisted on sitting perfectly still on the couch, puffed up with responsibility.

Your nights bled into mornings, your mornings into afternoons.

You could barely tell what day it was anymore. You were always either nursing, changing, soothing, or trying to catch a moment of quiet to breathe.

But even in the chaos, there were moments that glowed— small, quiet glimmers of peace.

James tiptoed more than he used to. He would pad into your bedroom at two a.m., rubbing his eyes, clutching his dinosaur plushie under one arm.

“Is she okay?” he’d whisper.

“She’s just hungry,” you’d whisper back.

Sometimes he’d crawl into the bed next to you and lie on Jake’s other side, close enough to reach for your elbow. He didn’t ask for lullabies anymore. Just your presence, closeness.

Sometimes he’d doze off again before Jane had even finished nursing.

Other times, he’d stay awake. Just watching.

“I think she likes when you sing,” he murmured one night.

You paused, fingers stroking Jane’s back. “You think?”

He nodded seriously. “Even if you’re a little out of tune.”

And Jake— Jake was different, this time.

The first time around, he’d tried. He really had.

But he was younger, more nervous, too rough around the edges, and there were nights when you’d cried in the shower because you were the one holding everything together.

But not now.

Now he was soft in the ways that mattered.

He remembered the towel you liked best and warmed it in the dryer before you bathed.

He memorized your medications, prepped your bottle without you asking.

He rubbed your feet while Jane fed, whispered affirmations when you broke into tears at 3 a.m. for no reason except that your body wasn’t yours and your brain was drowning and you missed sleeping for more than two hours at a time.

He wasn’t perfect.

He still forgot to put lids back on properly and he still knocked over the baby lotion bottle three times in the same week.

But he had learned you. Learned your limits. Your moods.

What words would help and which wouldn’t. He never made you feel like a burden. Not once.

And when you had nothing left to give— he gave you back to yourself.

You came down one night after a long nap you hadn’t even realized you’d taken, hair sticking to your forehead, your robe askew.

You expected disaster. Bottles unwashed, a screaming baby, maybe Jake asleep on the couch with James up way too late playing video games.

Instead, you found the living room lit in warm lamplight, quiet.

Jake was shirtless, Jane pressed to his chest in the baby wrap, bouncing slightly on his feet as he whispered a lullaby in half-Korean, half-english.

James was curled on the rug with dinosaurs his book, whispering the words to himself, a blanket pulled over his lap.

Your heart cracked open.

Jake looked up and smiled. “She just finished feeding. I pumped from the stash in the fridge, you looked like you needed rest.”

“I did,” you whispered.

“Go back up,” he said. “I’ll bring you tea.”

You hesitated. “I feel guilty.”

“Don’t. You gave her a whole body, we’ll take care of you now.”

You did cry then.

And when Jake wrapped you in his arms that night, you believed him.

You believed that this family, this messy, tired, beautiful family, was being held together not just by your hands, but by all three of theirs.

And that was everything.

☆.

Two years later, the kitchen smelled like strawberries and sunscreen.

It was a Sunday afternoon in early June, sun slanting through the window blinds and painting long, golden stripes across the tiled floor.

The fan hummed softly in the corner, spinning slow circles that barely stirred the air, and Jan e your little girl with her chubby hands and mismatched socks was sitting in her high chair, smearing strawberry juice across her cheeks like war paint.

Jake was crouched beside her, wiping her chin with one of the soft, floral-patterned cloths you insisted on keeping in the drawer.

His hair was still damp from the hose-outside chaos that had been an hour ago— James, laughing as Jake sprayed him down while Jane screamed and clapped from the porch.

Now everything smelled of damp grass and sweetness.

You were at the sink, rinsing a bowl, humming under your breath, tired but soft around the edges with that summer kind of fatigue that didn’t bite.

James sat at the kitchen table, arms folded, face twisted in a look of intense concentration, like he was on the verge of solving the meaning of life.

“Dad?” he said suddenly, sharp like a question he’d been chewing on all morning.

Jake looked over, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, bud?”

James tapped a finger against the table. “How did you and Mom meet?”

You froze mid-rinse, hand still under the stream of water.

Jake blinked, clearly not expecting that. “Why do you wanna know?”

James shrugged, suddenly bashful, eyes darting to the side. “Just curious.”

But you saw the pink flush in his cheeks.

The way he pressed his lips together.

You turned the water off, grabbing a towel, and leaned against the counter just to watch it unfold.

“Wait.” Jake narrowed his eyes playfully. “Did something happen at school?”

James groaned. “Noooo.”

Jake smirked. “Oh my god, it did. Who is she?”

James covered his face with both hands. “Dad, no.”

“She sits next to him,” you supplied, grinning into your towel. “Pretty little thing with the pigtails and glittery pencil case, right?”

James dropped his head to the table with a muffled moan. “You guys are the worst.”

Jake cackled, reaching out to flick his son’s ear. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you how we met, but only if you promise not to laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

James lifted his head, expectant. “Tell me anyway.”

Jake stood, walking toward the fridge to grab a handful more strawberries, before leaning his hip against the counter and settling into storyteller mode.

Jane babbled, still chewing her fruit with delight.

“Well,” Jake began, “your mom hated me.”

“What?” James blinked. “Why?”

You crossed your arms. “Because he was cocky. And late. Constantly.”

“I wasn’t that late.”

“You were twenty-two minutes late to our first study session.”

“Okay, one time—”

“Every time.”

Jake huffed dramatically. “Anyway, we were in college. Same class, I noticed her first. She had this oversized hoodie and earbuds in every time she walked into the lecture hall, and she never talked to anyone.”

“I was tired.”

“Exactly. So mysterious.”

James giggled.

“I tried to sit near her a few times,” Jake continued. “You know, see if I could catch her attention, but she never looked up. So I asked to borrow her notes.”

You raised a brow. “You mean you spilled coffee on your own notes and then cornered me after class.”

Jake grinned at James like it was a badge of honor. “It worked.”

James’ eyes were wide now, totally absorbed. “Then what?”

“She agreed to help me study,” Jake said, placing a hand to his heart like he was reciting poetry. “And the rest… is history.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, it took a while,” Jake added. “Your mom wasn’t easy, she made me work for it.”

“Darn right I did.”

“But then we started spending more time together,” he said. “And she started smiling more. Laughing, she used to pretend she didn’t like me, but I could tell.”

“I didn’t like you.”

Jake shot you a look, grinning. “Tell that to the time you skipped your morning class just to meet me for coffee.”

You scowled playfully. “That was one time. And you had a cold.”

“You brought me soup.”

“Because I’m not a monster.”

James cut in. “Did you kiss?”

Jake opened his mouth, smirking, his eyes shining as if to say and not just that.

You threw a towel at him. “Don’t you dare.”

Jake caught it, snorting. “Yes, we kissed. A lot.”

James made a face. “Ew.”

“And we fell in love,” Jake added, softer now, his smile turning real, almost quiet. “Like, the kind of love where you still want to see their face even when they’re mad at you. The kind where everything feels like home when they walk into the room.”

Your chest squeezed a little.

“She’s still my best friend,” he added. “Even when she makes fun of me for how many times I lose my keys.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s gotten better.”

“Only because you put a tracker on my keychain.”

James giggled again.

“And then,” Jake said, grinning now, “we had you.”

“Wait— how did that happen?” James asked innocently.

Jake froze. You shot him a warning glance. He paled.

“Uh—well, that’s a whole other story.”

James squinted. “Why?”

“Because it’s for grown-ups.”

“But—”

“Nope,” you said firmly, swooping in to pick Jane up from the high chair as she started getting fussy. “You’ll learn in science class.”

James groaned. “Ugh. But science is so boring.”

“Not always,” Jake said under his breath.

“Jaeyun.”

Jake raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay!”

Jane curled against your chest, sticky hands tugging at your shirt, and you kissed her forehead before shifting her to your hip.

“Is that really how you fell in love?” James asked quietly, looking between you both.

Jake looked at you, and you looked at him— and your heart did that warm, foolish little flip it had been doing since the first time he held your hand, since he first made you laugh until you cried.

“Yeah,” you said, brushing your fingers through James’s hair as you passed. “It really is.”

Jake came up behind you, his hand sliding to the small of your back. “Still in love, too.”

You looked up at him. “Even after I threatened to cut your head off if you gave me another baby?”

“Even then.”

James groaned. “You guys are so embarrassing.”

☆.

It was past midnight and the rain hadn’t stopped all day. It tapped gently against the window, like fingertips drumming over glass, soft enough now that it no longer sounded like thunder, but like a lullaby to the tired world.

The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight that spilled in from between the curtains.

The warmth of the bed wrapped around you both like a cocoon.

The scent of rain still clung faintly to your skin from earlier— just from standing by the door too long, shoes soaked, children loud and chaotic and cooped up.

You were fast asleep now, curled beside Jake under the heavy blankets, your body drawn instinctively to his.

Your hand had found its way to his chest, fingers splayed just over where his heart beat steady.

He could feel your breath on his collarbone, soft and rhythmic, your nose cold against his neck.

He didn’t move. He never did, not when you laid like this.

He only let his arm fold around you tighter, holding you like something sacred.

His eyes didn’t close.

It had been a long day, sure— Jane had tried to flush her brother’s dinosaur down the toilet, James had gotten stuck halfway under the couch trying to retrieve a Lego piece.

But that wasn’t what was keeping Jake awake.

It was your sigh. The small one you let out just minutes ago, right before curling closer to him in your sleep.

It had sounded like comfort. Like home.

And that’s what triggered it.

That memory.

The one he couldn’t forget, even if he tried.

The one from before the house, before the kids, before everything.

The night he almost lost you.

It had been raining then, too. Harder than this. Sharper.

You stood in the middle of a soaked parking lot, your hoodie clinging to your skin like paper, hair plastered to your face, eyes wet with more than just the downpour.

You had just stormed off, away from him.

Jake had followed you out of the gym, his steps echoing behind yours, water sloshing in his shoes, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re not listening to me!” you shouted, spinning around to face him, voice breaking over the sound of the storm. “You never listen to me!”

“I do!” Jake yelled back, stepping closer, teeth clenched. “I always do! But you’re asking me to be someone I’m not!”

“I’m asking you to stop killing yourself in the ring every weekend!” you cried, your voice raw. “I’m asking you to choose something, anything, that doesn’t make me wonder if I’ll get a call saying you won’t come home!”

Jake’s jaw tightened.

Water ran down his face, indistinguishable from the tears in your eyes.

His chest heaved, soaked through, breath misting in the cold air.

“This is all I know,” he said. “Boxing is all I have.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping toward him. “You have me. You have someone who stands outside every goddamn fight praying you don’t bleed out, you have someone who waits up, and worries, and loves you so much it hurts.”

Jake blinked at you, and for a second, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

And you shook your head. “But maybe that’s not enough. Maybe I’m not enough. Maybe this… us, was a mistake.”

The silence that followed made the rain sound louder. It filled the space between you like a wall.

Jake stepped forward, one slow step at a time, until he was standing in front of you, his hands shaking.

“Don’t say that,” he whispered.

You stared at him, your face trembling, your eyes full of everything you couldn’t say. “Jake—”

“I know I’m reckless, I know I’m a mess, I know I don’t always think. But you…” His hand rose, not touching you yet, hovering like you were a flame he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch. “You’re the only thing that ever made me want to slow down.”

“I’m scared,” you whispered. “I’m so scared of losing you.”

Jake’s hand finally reached you.

His fingers slid into your hair, soaked strands between his knuckles. He leaned in until your foreheads touched.

“I’m scared, too,” he said, eyes shut tight. “Of not being enough. Of being too broken to hold onto you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re not broken.”

“I am,” he said, voice cracking. “But I’m better with you.”

The rain came harder then, a sudden gust slamming sideways into your bodies, but neither of you moved.

You were shivering. He was freezing.

The whole world felt like it was falling apart, but Jake looked at you like he’d found the eye of the storm.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t clean.

It was desperate and messy and full of everything you’d both been trying to say. His mouth found yours like he’d been drowning and just found air.

Your hands clung to his soaked hoodie, your body pressed to his like you’d never let him go.

Jake remembered how your tears had mixed with the rain, how his fingers gripped your waist too tight, how you’d gasped his name between kisses like it was a lifeline.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you’d whispered into his mouth.

“You won’t,” he’d vowed, breathless. “Not ever.”

And even back then, before promises and rings and babies with strawberry-stained mouths, he had meant it.

Now, in the warmth of your shared bed, he felt you sigh again.

Just a soft one. Almost imperceptible.

Your leg slid against his beneath the blankets, your head nuzzling deeper into the space between his shoulder and neck. Your fingers curled softly against his chest.

Jake swallowed hard. His hand moved to your back, rubbing in slow, gentle circles, his lips brushing your hair.

He breathed you in.

You were here. You were warm and whole and safe.

And so was he.

☆.

The light was soft when you stirred awake.

You shifted, your body stretching slow beneath the blankets, the cotton sheets warm from shared heat. And then you felt him.

Jake.

Pressed against your back, his chest bare, skin hot and solid.

His arm was around your waist, the other resting on the pillow beside him.

Your hand reached down, brushing over the blanket until you found his fingers resting over your stomach.

You laced yours through them, holding him there. And then you turned, slow and gentle, so you wouldn’t wake him. But he was already awake.

His eyes were open, dark under the faint shadows of morning. He was lying on his side, hair mussed from the bed, jaw dotted with the faintest stubble.

His eyes met yours right away.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hey.” His voice was husky, low from sleep… or maybe lack of it.

You frowned softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “You didn’t sleep.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you. As if he was trying to memorize the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes cast shadows beneath your eyes.

You let your palm slide down to cup his cheek.

“What’s on your mind?” you murmured.

He hesitated.

Then, finally: “Nothing I can say without sounding selfish.”

Your brows drew together gently. “Try me.”

But instead of answering, Jake looked down. And you followed his gaze.

The scars. They were always there— some faint and faded, some newer. One near his ribs from that one brutal match three years ago.

Another near his shoulder, still pinkish, like a memory that hadn’t finished healing

You reached out slowly, letting your fingertips trail over the ridges of old pain, old bottles.

He didn’t flinch. He never did, not with you. But his breath did hitch slightly, the tension in his body curling tighter.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the one just below his collarbone. “I love these,” you whispered.

Jake’s throat bobbed with a swallow.

“They’re ugly,” he muttered, half-hearted, like he’d already lost the argument.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “They’re proof you survived. Every one of them means you came back to me.”

Something in him broke a little at that. His mouth opened, maybe to argue, maybe to say something tender, but the words didn’t come. His hand came up instead, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over the apple of it.

“I thought about you last night,” he said softly. “Back when you almost left. Out in the rain…. that fight.”

You nodded, heart aching at the memory. “It was a long time ago.”

His hand slid from your cheek to your neck, fingers splaying out along the curve of it, then down your spine, slow and reverent. “I didn’t sleep because I kept thinking what if you had left. What if I’d pushed it too far, if we never made it here.”

You shifted closer, pressing your body to his fully, your forehead resting against his. “But I didn’t. I stayed. You fought for me.”

His lips touched yours then— barely. A brush, but it was enough to make your stomach flutter.

Even after all those years.

Your hand slid down between you, over the swell of his chest, your palm flat and warm against his heartbeat.

“Still fighting for you,” he whispered, eyes on yours.

And it was then, without another word, that you leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft at first. Slow. Like a secret.

Your lips moved over his with a quiet kind of hunger, not the desperate kind from that night in the rain, but something deeper.

The kind that comes after years of waking up next to each other. After babies. After late nights and early mornings and scars.

Jake kissed you back like he needed you. Like you were the only thing keeping him grounded in that moment.

His hand slipped under the fabric of your shirt, finding the skin of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could live between your bodies.

You pressed yourself to him, your hand roaming his torso, fingers tracing over his skin like you were memorizing the feel of him.

He let out a shaky breath against your lips, his hips shifting forward just enough for you to feel the truth of his want, hard and insistent against your thigh.

“I missed you,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw. “Even with you right next to me.”

You shivered under his mouth, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging gently to bring his face back to yours. “Then take it,” you breathed. “Take me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Jake rolled you onto your back slowly, carefully, his body hovering over yours, warm and heavy and familiar. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world and you let him, eyes fluttering shut, breath uneven.

His hands slipped under your shirt and you arched into his touch, letting him pull the fabric up and over your head. He looked down at you like you were art.

You tugged his mouth back to yours.

When he finally slid inside you, it was slow and careful. You both gasped— every time felt new, felt real, like the first and last and only time.

You clung to him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist.

He rocked into you gently, his mouth finding every part of you he could reach: your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours.

“Always,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth.

The rhythm between you built slowly, nothing rushed. You moved together in sync, bodies finding each other like they were made to.

You moaned softly into his ear, hands trailing down his back, nails digging in just enough to make him shiver.

“Lord, I love you,” Jake breathed, pressing his hips deeper. “I love you so much it scares me.”

“I know,” you whispered, blinking through the haze of your pleasure. “I know, baby.”

You held on to each other through it all, the high and the fall, the quiet panting breaths after, the way your hearts beat wildly in sync beneath the mess of limbs and blankets.

After, when your breathing slowed and he was still inside you, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck, you stroked his back softly.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed the top of his head.

And somewhere down the hall, a floor creaked.

You both froze.

Jake groaned into your shoulder. “Ten dollars that it’s Jane.”

You smiled, lips against his hair. “Or James looking for cereal.”

Jake sighed. “We need a lock on this door.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, pulling the blanket over both your heads as if it could delay reality for just a few more minutes. “Later.”

“Later,” he agreed, pressing one last kiss over your heart.

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mdni][mlw][slight humiliation][praise][implied age gap][fingering][squirt mention][porn][clit play][drool][petnames][mdom][female orgasm]

"Ooh, what movie are we watching?"

Nolan watches as you glance towards the TV screen, cotton nightie brushing along your thighs, manicured feet padding across the carpeted floor and you crawl onto the bed, creeping beneath the covers.

Muscular thighs rest on either side of you, his chin resting on the crown of your head before Nolan presses a kiss to your tresses, a muscular arm wrapping around your midsection and pulling you closer. You're snugly pressed against his chest, your eyes trained on the screen of the TV and Nolan hums.

"It's called 'my wife's search history'."

He responds with a hum, lips brushing against the hollow of your temple and you're trying to wriggle free. But it's damn near impossible.

His bicep bulges, and Nolan's free hand continues to push at the buttons of the remote, your search history displayed on a 70 inch screen.

"Baby, no. This is—" You're interrupted when Nolan tuts you, the corners of his brilliant blue eyes crinkling with amusement at the way your cheeks begin to flush.

"I wanna know what kind of things you're into, sweetheart." He coos, before clearing his throat.

"Okay, first one, 'how to fold an origami chihuahua'." Nolan snorts. "Did you learn how to do it?"

He glances down at you, your lips pursed before you nod your head. Almost reluctantly and he hums, a low rumble of approvement in his broad, burly chest.

"My nimble fingered girl."

And he diverts his attention back to the screen. You're not even sure what to be more embarassed about.

Your trips to Oxford dictionary, your dawdling spent on Urban Dictionary or the stupid things you look up for on WikiHow.

"Ohhh... A Cosmo article." Nolan hums. "You wanna learn how to squirt?"

And your cheeks flare up, and you try to slide lower, but he's got one of those stupidly muscular arms tucked beneath your arms, and he's keeping you anchored.

"You know, everytime you come close, you start crying and make me feel bad." Nolan hums, mocking you and you let out a disgruntled whine.

"Literally, what's the point of you doing this?" You complain. "It's embarassing."

"Is it so wrong of me to wanna learn about my wife and her interests?" Nolan huffs, almost dramatic as he stares down at you, inky moustache raising with his grin as he spots the way your eyes narrow.

"Especially since, you know, I'm never really at home and you feel all," he lets out a heavy sigh, "neglected and all."

And your eyes widen.

"Were— were you eavesdropping on my conversation?" You question, brows scrunching into a frown and Nolan leans down, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head once again.

"Focus on the part that I'm improving my schedule." Nolan chides you gently and he gently uses the hand that's not wrapped around you, to guide your face back towards the TV.

You'd complain and gripe, if you weren't so acutely intune to the way he touches you. Almost reverently.

His hand splayed across the expanse of your belly, his thumb swiping gently at the soft skin just below your breast, tracing the flesh through the fabric of your nightie. And he's just so warm and burly. It feels like you're curled up against a furnace and you're not even mad about that.

"You looked at our house eighteen times on Google Earth."

The laughter in his voice isn't hidden, dimples appearing in his sculpted cheeks and full, dark brows raise in surprise at your next search.

"Omni-Man... Up cape?" He reads, mulling the words over before letting out a breath. "You are shameless."

"I'm plenty ashamed now." You argue and he snorts.

"You weren't ashamed when you were trying to find pictures of my ass on the internet."

The glow of the TV is the only light in the room, the door shut and the light of the ensuite is dimmed, the door slightly ajar. The covers are heavy, weighted blankets that make you feel just a bit more secure in Nolan's arms and his head dips occasionally, pressing ticklish kisses to the curve of your neck.

And he hums. Low and rumbly.

"What's this?" He muses, before scrolling further.

"You watch a lot of porn." He comments. "Like... A lot."

"I'm very particular." You defend, eyes downcast to where his muscular thighs press against yours on either side, bracketing you against his body and your chest heaves as you let out a breath.

"I'll bet." He mumbles. "Guess that's why you went to page 113."

And you press your face against Nolan's bicep, your cheeks burning and your ears tinge red when the screen goes down, a little arrow forming a circle appears for a brief moment before one of the videos show.

Showcasing the exact timestamp where you stopped.

"Hm..." He hums softly. "S'that where you came?"

His voice is so quiet, a husky sound that sends chills up your spine and you weakly nod your head, peeking at the screen and you're watching a girl get her back blown out. Eyes shut, brows furrowed and mouth parted to let out pitchy moans that seemed a bit too loud for your comfort right now.

Especially since it's on a huge ass TV.

Nolan's hand moves between your thighs and you open them willingly, shifting your legs until they're spread salaciously, suspended over his own, thickly corded legs. And he lets out an amused huff of laughter, fingers sliding over the swell of your folds, pressed so snugly against the cotton of your panties. You bite your bottom lip, tilting your head back enough to peer at Nolan through your lashes.

"Keep your eyes on the screen." He instructs you so gently, guiding your head back to focus on the screen of the TV, and he hums softly, dragging a calloused digit along your soaked gusset, tracing your slit. He narrowly dips his fingers into you, just to feel the way your panties cling to your slick, before they move back into place.

Before you breath can stutter, Nolan's ripping your panties at the sides with ease, pulling the fabric out from beneath you and discarding it to God knows where.

And he glances back towards the screen. Tight circles being rubbed around your clit, his blunt digit nestled between velvety folds and he listens to the way your heart pounds in your chest. Breathy sighs slipping past your lips and your brows scrunch in that way that makes his heart sputter just a bit, and he brushes his tongue along his bottom lip.

"That's it..." He whispers softly. "Just keep watching TV."

You keep your eyes glued on the screen. Not because you necessarily want to, but because you know Nolan's spiteful enough to pull away and ruin the orgasm that's creeping up your legs in that steady rhythm.

And you swallow.

"Does it feel good?" He coos softly and you nod weakly, muttering the sweetest 'uh-huh' as your eyes don't even move from the TV screen, lashes fluttering and cheeks flushing.

You look like the cutest thing right now.

A little doll in his lap.

You're just so pretty. Big, blown out eyes, plump lips that are parted to let out the sluttiest sighs and he feels the way your clit throbs beneath the pressure of his finger.

"You almost there, sweet girl?" He hums softly and you nod your head.

Biting down on your bottom lip and your brows scrunch.

Your belly dips inward and that tightly wound cord in your belly snaps.

You're coming at the soft, gentle stimulation so easily, your toes curling against the sheets and your legs attempting to close but his infallible thighs keep them from doing so.

Slick coats Nolan's fingers but he's not really paying too much attention to that, focused more on the way you shift and wriggle in his grasp, and the arm around you tightens it's grip.

One meaty finger pushes into your cunt, the squelch is lewd and your lips are parting in an 'o' shape that makes him dizzy.

Your head lolls and you feel like a whore when drool trickles down your bottom lip, swiped away by Nolan's thumb as his finger curls, pressing against that sweet, spongy spot that makes your vision dot.

Nolan feels the way your nails dig into his forearm, watches the way your brows knit and his head dips, tongue dragging along your pulse. Lingering just long enough to feel the thrumming hidden beneath the curve of your jaw, and he laps up the perspiration speckled across your skin.

"You gonna start clearing your cookies, sweetheart?" He teases you, slowly pushing another thick finger into your drooling pussy and your eyes nearly cross, head tipping back and you can feel the way your brain melts with each pump of his thick fingers.

You feel each callous, each knuckle, you feel the cool band of his wedding ring kissing your plump pussy with each pump.

And you nod weakly.

"Uh huh..." You're lying.

You both know you are and a large, powerful hand grasps your jaw, tilting your head to meet his gaze and Nolan presses his lips against yours.

The kiss is desperate, needy, his tongue dragging against yours, claiming each inch of your soft mouth, your lips slick with your drool and he swallows each of your moans. Each whine you let into his mouth, is an unforgiving thrust of his fingers.

When you're coming around his fingers, you melt into a pliable puddle in his grasp, and you feel the way he presses kisses to the side of your face, gently bringing you down from your high. He pushes your cum back into you, slick fingers dragging against your walls and he lets out a soft breath.

Handing you the remote.

"Pick the next video."

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[ivyues]

Unlocked Trust: Stray Kids' reactions to the sharing of a phone PIN

Bang Chan

You’re in the kitchen preparing a snack when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Chris, can you check that? My hands are full,” you call out.

“Sure,” he says, walking over.

“The pin’s 0921,” you add casually.

He freezes, eyes widening for a moment before he chuckles. “Wait, did you just give me your PIN without hesitation?”

“Yeah, why?” you reply, glancing at him.

“No reason. Just didn’t think you’d trust me that much,” he teases, smirking as he unlocks the phone.

“Are you seriously doubting my trust now?” you quip, rolling your eyes.

He checks the message, his expression softening as he reads it. “It’s your mom. She says hi. By the way, I’m remembering your PIN as proof of my VIP access.”

Lee Know

“Minho, can you look at my calendar real quick? I think I have an appointment tomorrow, but I can’t remember the time,” you say, restricted by the cat in your arms.

“Where’s your phone?” he asks.

“On the couch. Pin’s 0412.”

He picks it up, muttering, “If this isn’t my birthday, I’d be disappointed.”

“Why would it be your birthday?”

“Because you should’ve honored me with such a privilege,” he deadpans.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He quickly checks the calendar, then grins at you. “Yeah, 3 PM tomorrow. Oh, and I’m changing your PIN to my birthday now.”

“Excuse me?” you tease, pretending to be offended. “You think I’m just going to hand over my PIN to you like that?”

He raises an eyebrow, locking your phone with a smirk. “You trust me, don’t you?”

Changbin

He’s driving while you’re in the passenger seat, and his phone buzzes.

“Can you reply to that text for me?” he asks.

“Sure, what’s your PIN?”

“0309,” he says casually.

You pause, typing it in. “Isn’t that your mom’s birthday?”

“Yeah,” he admits with a grin. “She’s the queen of my life. But you’re a close second.”

“Wow,” you say, pretending to be offended. “Second place, huh?”

He laughs, glancing at you. “Fine, you’re tied for first. Happy now?”

You give him a side-eye, smirking. “Tied for first? I’ll take it… for now.”

He chuckles, eyes back on the road. “Don’t worry. You’re first in my heart.”

Hyunjin

You’re folding laundary when you realize your phone is across the room.

“Jinnie, can you put on some music? My phone’s over there.”

“Sure. What’s the password?”

“1010,” you say, not looking up.

“1010? That’s so symmetrical. Why?”

“Because it’s easy to remember,” you reply.

He types it in, then teases, “Guess I should memorize this for emergencies. Or when I need to snoop.”

You laugh. “Snoop all you want. My search history is just memes and dog videos.”

He swipes through your phone, humming along to the music that starts playing. You glance at him, amused by how he seems to have completely settled in. “Just don’t start getting any funny ideas with my PIN.”

However, since that day, you've noticed a significant increase in selfies of your boyfriend filling your camera roll.

Han

He’s lying on the couch, arms wrapped around a giant pillow, while his phone buzzes on the coffee table.

“Jisung, your phone’s ringing.”

“Can you answer it for me?” he mumbles sleepily.

“What’s your PIN?”

“4321,” he says, eyes still closed.

You laugh as you unlock it. “Seriously? 4321? That’s your password?”

“Yeah, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” you tease, “except a toddler could guess it.”

He opens one eye and grins. “But you’re the only one who knows now, so it’s genius.”

You raise an eyebrow, a playful smirk on your face. “Genius, huh? I’ll make sure to tell everyone you’re a mastermind.”

He groans, pulling the pillow over his face with a dramatic sigh. “That's how you abuse my trust.”

You laugh, putting his phone back onto the couch. “Your secret’s safe with me. But just so you know, this is going down as one of your most questionable moves.”

Felix

You’re baking cookies, hands sticky with dough, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Lix, can you check my phone? I think it’s a text from my sister.”

“Yeah, what’s your code?”

“0420,” you say.

He snorts as he unlocks it. “Isn’t that the date we first met?”

You grin. “Yep. Thought you’d like that.”

He looks at the text, then smiles warmly. “Your sister says hi and asks when we’re baking together again.”

“Tell her whenever she wants,” you say.

He leans in, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “Will do. And by the way, I like how you made our first meeting a memorable one… for both of us.”

Seungmin

You’re sitting on the couch, scrolling through your laptop, when your phone buzzes beside you.

“Seungmin, can you check my phone? I think it’s a notification from work.”

“Sure. What’s your PIN?”

“0525,” you say casually.

He freezes, then smirks. “That’s not my birthday, is it?”

You laugh. “No, it’s my dog’s birthday.”

“Of course it is,” he mutters, unlocking the phone. “I guess I shouldn’t expect to rank higher than your dog.”

You glance up, teasing. “It’s almost the same thing, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Me and your dog? Really?”

“Yeah, well, my dog’s loyal, cute, and always there when I need cuddles,” you reply.

“Okay, okay,” he sighs dramatically, “I’ll take second place… but I’m keeping my spot as your favorite human.”

You grin. “Tied for first, remember?”

He looks at you, still smiling. “I’ll take it.”

I.N

You’re sitting on the couch, reading a book when your phone buzzes on the coffee table.

“Innie, can you check my phone? I think I got a message from the group chat.”

“Sure. What’s your PIN?”

“0802,” you say absently.

He freezes for a moment, eyes wide, then grins. “Isn’t that my birthday?”

“Yep,” you reply, still focused on your book.

He chuckles, his voice light with excitement. “I can’t believe you gave me your PIN so easily. I guess I’m extra special, huh?”

“You’re the only one who knows it now,” you say teasingly, glancing at him.

He laughs, checking your phone. “It’s from the group chat, asking when we're all hanging out next. And don’t worry, I’ll keep your PIN secret… unless I need to buy something nice for myself.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”

masterlist

[auroracalisto]

with all the power in oz

movie!fiyero x gn!reader, 2.2k words summary: the reader, rather anxious and studious, finds their self head-over-heels with none other than fiyero, supposed boyfriend to galinda upland. to placate this, they somewhat agree to meet him at the ozdust ballroom. a/n: YOU pronouns are used to address the reader, but there is no usage of y/n. just watched the movie today. tried to find a fic, couldn't. here I am writing one instead. reader worries a lot. so me. you're welcome. also, I'm going into this blind. I have unfortunately never seen the actual musical (downsides to living in the middle of nowhere) so I'm only going off based on wikis and the movie. it should be gn as I read through it like... five different times, but please let me know if I missed something!

Breathtaking. That's what he was. But could you truly refer to a man like him as breathtaking?

The very features that graced his face were absolutely mesmerizing, and you felt like a fool watching him at times. How could you not? He seemed so full of life, so full of... well, not a care in the world, really. It was as if he brushed everything off of his shoulders without hesitation.

You could only wished you were the same way.

No cares, no worries. How lovely that would have been.

No, you hold onto the things that happen to you as if you have no other way to live. You hold grudges, you think over things that happened years ago that no one could possibly remember.

For someone who wished to be a sorcerer, you had a hard time simply letting things go. Your emotions often got the better of you, even when you knew better. Even when you wished it could be the opposite. But perhaps that was the way of the world.

Not a man in Oz could tell you otherwise.

Books in hands, you crossed the path to your dormitory, brows cinched together in mild concentration.

You had a project in your history class, and an extensive paper to complete on the study of mathematics—of all the things you could have had, a paper in mathematics. You'd rather perform magic in front of the entire student body, but you couldn't.

As you walked, you heard your name come from behind you. Eyes flicker back, a soft frown on your lips. You see him—Fiyero. The one fool you meant to avoid with all the gumption within you.

You'd melt just being near him.

"Fiyero," you softly greet.

He gave you a charming smile, coming up to walk with you. "Heading back already?" he asked.

"I am."

"Working on the project, hm? We could work on it together if you'd like. I'm sure our minds could do wonders," he said, a playful wink coming from him.

"I'm fine," you simply said.

He blinked slowly, but his smile never wavered. "Come now," he said, your name leaving his lips rather sweetly. "Surely you're not going to spend the rest of your evening alone. Why don't you come to Ozdust tonight?"

You looked back at him, frowning. "Ozdust. Me. I don't think so, Fiyero."

"And why not? I'm sure you'd be as dashing as ever."

You stopped in your steps, eyes searching his for but a moment. "Dashing. Are you in earnest, Fiyero?"

"Yes," he said, smiling.

"And what of Galinda? You'll be with her. Why invite me?"

"She doesn't need to know. It's not her business," he said. "Besides, she will be busy with Elphaba. I'd much rather spend time with you."

"And I think you're just pulling my leg," you said defensively. You crossed your arms over your chest, careful to keep your books close.

"Pulling your leg? I haven't even touched you," he said, a cheeky grin on his lips. "Come now, don't play coy. You should come."

"And if I do?"

"Then I'll be quite happy."

You rolled your eyes and went to walk away.

A hand wrapped around your bicep, and you paused, glancing over your shoulder at him.

His eyes widened a bit and he dropped his hand, albeit hesitantly. Perhaps he didn't think he would actually reach out to you. He cleared his throat.

"I really would like you to be there. You'll have the time of your life."

"The time of my life," you repeated. "I don't think you realize how much I dread parties."

"Have you ever been to one?"

"No."

"Then how do you know you dread them?"

"I just know," you said. "I feel it in my bones. I know going will just get on my nerves."

He scoffed, placing his hands on his hips. "I think you're foolish for that," he said. "Come on. What are you losing? A couple hours to work on a project that you know you could finish in a morning session? You'll be fine. Come to the Ozdust tonight. I'll show you a good time."

You clenched your jaw. "I don't want—"

"—I would like you to be there. That is all. I won't ask again." He gave you another small smile before he looked away. "I'll see you around. Perhaps tonight?"

You stared him down. He would like to see you there? Was he being honest? And what of Galinda? Would he be going behind her back? Wasn't he madly in love with her, or something? Or was it the other way around?

He said your name once more, and you looked up at him, letting out a soft sigh.

"Right. Perhaps tonight," you softly said.

The smile on his lips was rather... hopeful than anything else. There wasn't anything smarmy by it. He seemed as genuine as the glint in his eye—the one he used when he spoke with anyone he trusted. At least, you hoped so.

The night came quickly as you finished up your outfit—one you would hope you didn't look completely foolish in. The color you chose seemed to fit well with almost anything, but you still worried. You always worried about something.

Time was of the essence. You weren't even supposed to leave Shiz University's campus, but here you were, sneaking like some scoundrel.

Well, perhaps you were, listening to the requests of a man who already had a girlfriend—a fantastically beautiful one at that.

But you paid no mind. You did what you could, and soon, you found yourself walking down the steps of the Ozdust Ballroom.

Never had you been in a place like this. It was almost... breathtaking, had it not been for the overpowering smells of perfume and some kind of drink wafting from the bar. Your eyes flitted from patron to patron until you finally spotted him—Fiyero.

He looked just as handsome as ever.

Good Oz, what in the world were you doing? This was foolish.

You took a step back, staring at Fiyero for a moment as he spoke with another man, drink in hand. You needed to leave. This was ridiculous. You were ridiculous! Never in a thousand years would you ever imagine yourself to do such a thing—

"You made it!"

Fiyero's voice rang out above the music.

You look to him, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. Because of course he saw you as soon as you had decided to leave.

Fiyero smiled and made his way to you, taking your hands in his, drink left with the confused man behind him. Surely he didn't just up and leave in the middle of his conversation.

You part your lips and go to speak, but to your dismay, Fiyero is instant.

"I was afraid you had changed your mind," he said. "You look ravishing, darling."

Your eyes widened. Ravishing? You'd been called many things in your life, but never ravishing.

"Galinda couldn't make it?" you asked.

"Wha—no, she couldn't. But what of it? I didn't ask her to the Ozdust, I asked you. I'm glad to see your face."

Warmth blossomed in your cheeks as you watched him. "Fiyero, please... I shouldn't be here."

"Oh, nonsense," he said, grinning all the while. "Come. Dance with me."

"But I don't—"

"—do not say you don't dance. I can teach you."

"Teach me?"

"It's as easy as breathing," he said.

"For you, maybe, but not for—"

"—humor me," he said, smiling.

You pursed your lips. Of course he had to give you that charming smile and the sweet bat of his eyelashes.

"I do not dance," you repeated.

"I think I will be the judge of that."

He grabbed your hands once more and pulled you out into the ballroom floor, smiling all the while.

"You'll be a natural. I can just see it."

"I feel like if I were a natural, you wouldn't have to teach me," you said, gasping as he pulled you close to his chest. His face was dangerously close to yours, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips.

"You know," he began, eyes flickering back to your eyes. "We all start somewhere, do we not? You should know that better than anyone."

"What? What does that—"

He interrupted you by spinning you by your arm, back into his embrace. The music was rather ambient, not quite one for dancing so enthusiastically, but Fiyero embraced it. Hand to your hand, face close to your face.

"See? A natural."

"You merely spun me around, Fiyero. Do not be foolish."

"You could have fell flat on your face," he said, a boyish grin evident on his lips.

"Stop looking at me like that," you defiantly said. "You are far too close to me for my liking."

"Oh, feisty, are we?" he asked, moving his body along to the music and forcing you to go along, too. You nearly stepped on his toes several times. "I do not think there is anything wrong with the way I'm looking at you. You're rather breathtaking, if I may."

Breathtaking. The same way you had described him only hours before. He wasn't a mind reader, was he?

No.

Of course not. That was foolish. He was merely a man. Nothing of great importance—no power within him other than the power he held in every single eyelash as they batted down at you, making you melt over and over again.

"What of Galinda?" you repeated.

"What of her?"

"You shouldn't be calling someone who isn't yours breathtaking. It's quite..."

"There is nothing wrong with admiring the beauty in front of me," he said, your name playfully leaving his tongue. "Look at me. Galinda and I are only friends."

You rolled your eyes. "Do not lie to me."

His eyes widened a bit. "Lie? I do not lie. We are friends and nothing more. Though I do believe she thinks differently..."

"She must," you said, huffing softly.

"But that does not make it true. I have eyes for someone else."

"Eyes for someone else?"

He tilted his head once more. He was rather endearing when he did that.

"Who did I ask to their very first party?" he asked, smiling. "It's quite a feat, isn't it? Afraid you wouldn't show, and then you do, questioning me and everything I stand for, hm?"

Warmth found its way to your cheeks once more. You looked away from him. With the crescendo of the music, Fiyero pulled you closer, fingers lacing with yours. His lips hover dangerously close to yours.

"You know, if you would just give it a chance, perhaps you and I could make some magic of our own."

You let out a curt laugh. "You—oh, good Oz, I hope you never use that line on anyone! Has that worked for you before?"

He gave a cheeky smile. "It seems like it's working on you."

"Absolutely not!"

"Not even a little!"

"No!"

His smile only seemed to grow. "Truly?"

You looked away, swallowing thickly. "I mean... no. Not even a little. Not at all."

"You're lying," he said.

"I am not."

"I do think I know what I'm talking about," he said, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to the soft skin of your cheek. "Come now," he said. "Stop with the lies."

You looked up at him, a soft huff escaping you.

"Fine. I lied. It may or may not be working. But it's not just because of what you said."

"Oh? Are you saying you like me for more than my suave words?"

"Suave words? Who in Oz said they were suave?"

He just smiled, his eyes flickering to your lips once more. "Do you think instead of just a dance, I could try something more?"

"Try what?"

"I think you know."

You blinked slowly at him, your fingers gently gripping onto his tunic. Your lips part in mild surprise, but you realize that you shouldn't have been. He'd been eyeing you the entire evening.

"Very well," you softly said.

"Wonderful," he replied, and in a swift motion, he pressed his lips to yours. It was short as he pulled back almost as soon as he had kissed you, but it was enough to keep you wanting more.

"Fiyero, that wasn't—"

"—come with me," he softly said, lacing his fingers with yours once more. "Somewhere without so many prying eyes, yes?"

Your answer was almost instant: "Yes."

Fiyero led you back up the staircase, and he didn't look back once at the ballroom.

"Where are we going?" you asked.

"Somewhere where I can see you and only you," he said. "If that's alright."

"Oh," you softly said. "Yes. That's alright."

"Then follow me," he said. "Do you trust me?"

You smiled sincerely for one of the first times in the evening. Did you trust him? What kind of foolish question was that? If you had the chance, you'd do whatever he'd ask of you. You found your answer rather quickly, knowing within yourself that it was far truer than any other statement you had ever uttered.

"With all the power in Oz."

[cloudtransprncy]

One Night Only - Directors Cut

Jennie Kim X Male Reader | 8k words

One night. That’s all you ever get. By morning, she’ll be gone. You’ll tell yourself this was the last time. You’ll both know it’s not.

AN: Ya’ll might remember this if you followed me last year. Spent the last few weeks reworking it—call it the director’s cut. Also Jennie is still my ult and so her coming back into the light is great.

Consequence. The word sits heavy in your mind as you watch the city from your hotel window. Thirty floors below, New York keeps moving. Never stops.

You flick ash from your cigarette. Every choice has weight. You know this. You called her anyway.

Jennie's mouth is on yours, soft and demanding at once. She tastes like cherry lip gloss and expensive gin, sweet and sharp. Her full lips part against yours, tongue sliding against your bottom lip. Her fingers pull at your hair, just rough enough to send shivers down your spine. Between kisses she breathes, "This is stupid," but her body presses closer, breasts pushing against your chest, hips finding yours.

Commitment. You've spent years avoiding that word. Being tied down always felt wrong. You need movement, new cities, different faces. Maybe that's why things fell apart—she saw what you couldn't admit. You'd always choose the road over staying still.

Her skin burns under your hands, smooth and impossibly soft. When you slide your palm down the curve of her waist to the flare of her hip, she sighs against your neck, her breath hot on your skin. "I've missed this," she says quietly, like she's admitting something she shouldn't. You back her against the wall, pinning her with your body. She arches into you, head tilting back in invitation. You feel her pulse jump beneath your lips when you kiss her throat, right at that spot that always makes her grip your shoulders tighter.

The hotel room is all clean lines and empty space. King bed with white sheets. Bathroom with too many mirrors. Mini-fridge you've already raided. View of the city that probably costs extra. Your record label covers it, so you don't care.

As a kid, you'd search for Virgo in the night sky. Stars were constant when nothing else was. Jennie's like that. No matter how far you go, you always circle back to her.

In the half-dark, her eyes catch the light from outside. She's always seen through you, always known the parts you try to hide from everyone else.

---

She'll come. She always does.

You know she's with someone else now—an actor with a jawline made for billboards. In her world of flashbulbs and red carpets, he makes sense. But you were there first, and somehow, you're still not gone.

It's been a year since you ended things, if you can call it an ending. When you call, she answers. When she texts, you drop everything. Some connections don't break clean.

Stop. Go. Stop. Go.

A day between Chicago and Toronto shows up in your tour schedule. When you hear she's in New York for some event, changing your plans feels inevitable.

At sunset, you text her from your hotel room. The message is simple: Here for the night. Room 3045.

She replies with just a question mark. Your conversations have become this—shorthand that only works because you share history.

"I'm in the city for one night," you say when you call her. The silence on her end isn't hesitation; it's calculation. Background noise filters through the phone—glasses clinking, people talking.

"I got a room, for me and you" you add. "One night only." You hang up knowing she'll decide whether to come. You also know what that decision will be.

The knock comes at 12:17. Three quick taps.

When you open the door, your breath catches in your throat. Jennie leans against the frame, champagne glass dangling between her fingers, but it's her body that has your full attention. Her black dress hugs every curve like it was painted on, stopping mid-thigh to reveal legs that seem endless. The material stretches tight across her hips, then tapers at her waist before swelling to accommodate her breasts. The neckline dips just low enough to make your mouth go dry.

"Started without me?" you nod toward her drink, trying to sound casual while your pulse hammers in your ears.

"Needed something to get me here," she says, her lips curving into that smile that's haunted you for months. Her eyes are dark and knowing, lined with perfect black wings that make them look even more dangerous.

Jennie walks in like she owns the place, hips swaying with each step. Those knee-high socks hug her calves, leading up to a thin garter belt that disappears beneath her dress—a promise of what waits underneath. Her skin glows warm and golden against the black fabric. Her dark hair tumbles in loose waves past her shoulders, the kind of perfectly tousled look that makes your fingers itch to grab it.

Her perfume wraps around you—roses with something darker underneath, expensive and intoxicating. The scent that's followed you to hotel rooms across the country, lingering on your sheets and clothes long after she's gone.

She finishes her drink and sets the glass down with deliberate slowness. Her red-painted nails catch the light as her hand moves to your chest. "We shouldn't keep doing this," she says, but her fingers are already working your shirt buttons, knuckles brushing against your skin with each one. Her touch leaves heat trails down your torso. "It's not fair."

"When has anything been fair?" you ask. Her mouth curves into the smile that's always meant trouble.

"Never," she agrees, pressing her hand against your chest. "So we might as well take what we can get."

When she kisses you, it feels like she's taking something back, something she left with you months ago. Tonight, in this room, she's not the girl from magazine covers or someone's girlfriend. She's yours again, temporarily.

"It's been a while," she whispers against your mouth.

"Too long," you admit.

The door clicks shut behind her. You have until sunrise.

Something electric sparks between you the moment the door clicks shut. The air feels different - charged with memory and want. Your bodies remember each other before your minds can catch up.

You're on the couch in minutes, her weight settling into your lap like she belongs there. This kiss is different from the ones you remember - hungrier, more desperate. Her tongue slides against yours, and you taste gin and desire. Her body presses against yours, soft in all the places you've missed.

Your hands find her curves through the thin fabric of her dress. You squeeze her ass, pulling her closer until there's nothing between you but clothing. She moans into your mouth when you press your hardness against her. You can feel her heat even through layers of fabric.

Jennie breaks the kiss, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips for a second before it breaks. Her eyes are dark pools reflecting the city lights outside. They hold yours with an intensity that makes your throat tight.

"I've missed this, Owen," she whispers. Her voice is rough at the edges. She grinds against you, slow and deliberate, the friction making your breath catch. Her fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you back to her mouth. This kiss is deeper, messier, with teeth and tongue and need.

Your hands slide under her dress, finding warm skin. The sound she makes when you touch her bare thighs shoots straight to your groin. You push the fabric higher, revealing more of her, inch by inch. Her breathing quickens as her hips roll against yours. Her nipples are hard points pressing through the fabric, rubbing against your chest.

She lifts her arms as you pull the dress over her head. You toss it aside, forgotten before it hits the floor.

Moonlight spills through the windows, painting her skin silver. She's all smooth curves and shadows in the half-light. Her body is a map you once knew by heart - the slight curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, the dip of her collarbone. You take it all in again, relearning her.

Your hands can't stay still. You need to touch every inch of her, remind yourself that she's real. Her skin is impossibly soft under your fingertips, warm and alive. Each touch makes her shift against you, seeking more pressure, more contact.

The sounds she makes are better than any song you've written. Small gasps when you squeeze her thighs. A sharp intake of breath when your thumb grazes her nipple. Low hums of pleasure when you find a spot she likes. Each sound builds on the last, creating a rhythm that guides your hands.

You need to taste her. Starting at her collarbone, you press your lips to her skin. Salt and sweetness and expensive perfume fill your senses. She sighs, her head falling back to give you better access. You work your way across her shoulder, down her arm, learning the texture of her skin with your mouth.

When you reach her breast, you feel her whole body tense in anticipation. The skin here is softer, more delicate. You circle her nipple with your tongue, feeling it harden further. Your hand finds her other breast, thumb rolling over the stiff peak.

"Oh my god," she moans when you take her nipple into your mouth. Her back arches, pushing more of her into your face. The taste of her skin goes straight to your head like strong liquor. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with each breath.

Your free hand slides down her stomach, fingers spread wide to feel as much of her as possible. You trace the edge of her panties, feeling the lace against your fingertips. She rocks against your hand, seeking more pressure. You cup her between her legs, feeling the heat and dampness through the thin fabric. Jennie gasps, her thighs trembling as you press your palm firmly against her covered pussy.

"Fuck," she breathes, grinding down on your hand. Her fingers tighten in your hair, pulling hard enough to make your scalp tingle. The slight pain only makes you harder.

You move to her neck, dragging your teeth along the sensitive skin below her ear. When you bite down - not hard enough to mark, but enough to make her feel it - she whimpers, her whole body shuddering. Your thumb makes slow circles against her covered clit while your teeth work at her neck, finding the spots that make her grip your shoulders.

"I forgot how good you feel," you say against her skin, your voice rough with wanting.

"I want to feel you too," she says, eyes locked on yours. Her pupils are blown wide with desire. Her hand traces up your arm, across your shoulder, around to your back. Her nails dig into your skin, leaving trails of sensation. She tugs at your shirt, impatient now. You let her pull it over your head.

Her hands are everywhere at once, exploring your chest, your shoulders, your back. Her touch starts gentle but quickly turns hungry. She leans down to kiss your neck, her lips hot against your pulse point. Her teeth graze your skin, just hard enough to make you hiss.

As her mouth works its way down your chest, a thought flickers through your mind - does she do this with him? Does she make these same sounds, move in these same ways? The thought knifes through the pleasure for a split second before her touch pulls you back.

Nothing exists outside this room. Not her boyfriend. Not your tour. Just her hands on your skin and her breath in your ear.

"Fuck! I need your dick in my mouth," Jennie says, her voice thick with desire. She slides from your lap in one fluid motion, her body moving with practiced grace. She settles between your legs, her knees pressed against the hotel carpet, thighs spread slightly apart. Her hair falls forward, framing her face as she looks up at you through her lashes.

In the half-light, she's a vision – lips parted and swollen from kissing, chest flushed and rising with quick breaths, her breasts full and nipples still hard from your attention. The garter and stockings against her bare skin create a contrast that makes your mouth go dry.

She runs her hands up your thighs, fingers pressing into your muscles. Her red nails stand out against your skin as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. There's something almost reverential in how she tugs them down – slowly at first, then with growing urgency. Her eyes never leave yours, even as she licks her lower lip in anticipation.

The fabric slides past your hips, and your cock springs free, hard and aching. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth as she takes you in. She leans closer, her breath warm against your sensitive skin. When she finally looks up at you, her eyes are dark pools of hunger and something deeper – a look that's always been reserved just for you.

"You can have it tonight," you say, your voice rough as her hands wrap around your cock.

"All of it?" Jennie asks with a smile that's pure trouble. Her eyes don't leave yours. You nod, unable to form words.

She leans closer, parts her lips, and lets a strand of spit fall onto the tip. The warm wetness makes you twitch. She uses her fingers to spread it down your length, coating you. Her hand starts moving in slow strokes that make your breath catch.

Jennie sweeps her hair to one side, giving you a clear view. She doesn't break eye contact as she moves closer. Her breath hits you first, warm against sensitive skin. Then her tongue, wet and soft, circles the head of your cock. Your hands grip the couch cushions.

When she takes you into her mouth, the heat is shocking. Her lips stretch around you as she slides down, taking you deeper than you expected. Her tongue works against the underside, finding spots that make your thighs tense. The wet sounds fill the quiet room.

She pulls back, only keeping the tip in her mouth. Her tongue swirls around it, teasing the sensitive spot just underneath. Then she moves down again, a little deeper this time. The rhythm is maddening – not enough to get you there, just enough to keep you desperate for more.

Jennie pulls off completely, her hand still working you in slow strokes. She looks up, studying your reaction. Her free hand moves to your balls, cupping them gently, then rolling them between her fingers. The touch is unexpectedly tender compared to the hunger in her eyes.

"You like that?" she asks, knowing the answer. Her thumb traces circles at the base of your cock while her other hand continues its exploration. "You always did."

She leans down and runs her tongue from base to tip in one long, wet stroke. Then does it again on the underside, where you're most sensitive. Your hips lift off the couch involuntarily. She smiles at your reaction, clearly enjoying the power she has over you.

Jennie takes her time, alternating between her mouth and her hands. Sometimes she focuses just on the head, sucking gently while her hand works the shaft. Other times she takes you deep, then pulls back to circle the tip with her tongue. There's no pattern to follow, nothing to prepare you for what comes next.

Her hand slides lower, massaging your balls again before moving even further back. The unexpected pressure makes your whole body tense. She watches your reaction with dark, knowing eyes.

"Hold my hair," she says, pulling off for a moment. She grabs your hands and places them on either side of her head. "I want you to watch."

With your hands holding her hair back, you have a perfect view of her face, of her lips as they stretch around you again. She takes you deeper this time, her eyes watering slightly at the corners. The sight alone nearly pushes you over the edge.

She pulls off but keeps stroking you with her hand, tight and slick with spit. With her hair pulled back, you can see everything – her flushed cheeks, her bare shoulders, the tops of her breasts rising and falling with each breath. She looks like something from a dream you've had too many times.

"You just can't stay away, can you?" she says, her voice low and teasing. Her hand never stops moving on you. "Always calling me back. Always wanting one more night."

She takes you back into her mouth, just the tip, sucking hard before releasing you with a pop.

"You think about this when you're with other girls?" She speeds up her strokes, twisting her wrist in a way that makes your vision blur. "Bet you do. Bet none of them do it like I do."

Her words hit something deep inside you – a truth you don't want to admit. You tighten your grip on her hair, pulling just enough to make her eyes flash. She smiles, knowing she's struck a nerve.

"That's why you keep coming back," she continues, dropping her head to lick a slow circle around the base of your cock. She moves lower, taking one of your balls into her mouth, sucking gently while her hand keeps working your shaft. The dual sensation makes your legs shake.

When she looks up again, there's challenge in her eyes. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Before you can answer, she takes you deep into her mouth again, all the way until you hit the back of her throat. She holds there, swallowing around you, her eyes never leaving yours. The sensation is overwhelming – wet heat and pressure and the sight of her taking all of you.

"Fuck," is all you can manage, and she hums in satisfaction around you.

Jennie works you with perfect focus. Sometimes she takes you deep, her nose nearly touching your stomach, staying there until she needs to breathe. Other times she pulls back to use her hand with her mouth, twisting her wrist in a way that makes spots dance behind your eyes.

Every few strokes she pulls off completely, gathering more spit, making everything wetter, messier. Saliva coats your cock and her chin now, catching the dim light. It should be gross but it's the hottest thing you've ever seen.

Time stretches and blurs. It could be minutes or hours. There's just Jennie's mouth, her hands, the heat building at the base of your spine.

She changes her approach, focusing just on the head, sucking harder while her hand works the shaft in quick, tight strokes. The new sensation makes your leg muscles jump. You feel yourself getting close.

"Fuck, Jennie, I'm—" you try to warn her, reaching to pull her head back. You want to make this last, to feel more of her tonight.

She slaps your hand away, hard enough to sting.

"You're giving this to me now," she says, voice raspy from having you in her throat. "And you're giving me more later." Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Jennie doubles down, moving with new determination. One hand squeezes the base while her mouth works the rest. Her other hand slides between your legs, fingernails lightly scratching your inner thigh. The unexpected touch makes you gasp.

She takes you deeper again, moaning around you like she's enjoying this as much as you are. The vibration, the suction, the sight of her – it all becomes too much.

The orgasm hits you like a punch. Your vision blurs at the edges as waves of pleasure roll through you. Jennie doesn't pull away, keeping perfect suction as you come. She swallows around you, the motion extending your pleasure until you're gripping her shoulders to stay upright.

She keeps going until you're too sensitive, until you have to gently push at her shoulders. Only then does she finally release you, looking up with satisfaction in her eyes. A small drop of white clings to her bottom lip before her tongue darts out to catch it.

She reaches for your discarded shirt and wipes her mouth and hands, casual as if she'd just finished a meal. The sight of her using your clothes like this only adds to the intimacy.

Jennie rises to her feet in one fluid motion, her body unfolding before you. She's petite but perfectly proportioned - slim waist, delicate shoulders, toned legs that seem to go on forever despite her height. Standing there in just her knee-high socks and garter, her small, perky breasts catch the dim light. Her skin has a golden glow against the darkness of the room.

She steps between your legs, looking down at you with hooded eyes. Her slender fingers reach for your chin, tilting your face up to meet hers. The gesture is possessive, almost commanding. She leans down, her straight dark hair falling forward to frame both your faces, creating a private world. Her lips find yours, softer now but still hungry. You taste yourself on her tongue, salt and skin.

"I'm not done with you," she whispers against your lips. "You brought me here. We're gonna make the most of it." Her fingertips trace your jawline before she steps back, grabbing your hand to pull you toward the bed.

As you follow her across the room, the city sounds filter through the windows – car horns, distant music, the constant hum of life that never stops. The soft lighting catches on her skin, giving it a warm glow that makes you want to touch her all over again.

As you follow her across the room, the city sounds filter through the windows – car horns, distant music, the constant hum of life that never stops. The soft lighting catches on her skin, giving it a warm glow that makes you want to touch her all over again.

Jennie moves onto the bed with natural grace. The curve of her spine draws your eye down to where her waist narrows before flaring into her hips. The small black thong she still wears cuts across her skin, the thin fabric disappearing between her cheeks in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

She positions herself in the center of the bed, her movements deliberate and unhurried. She folds her legs into a 'W' shape, showcasing their length despite her petite frame. The knee-high socks create a striking contrast against her bare thighs. The entire pose is an invitation you could never refuse.

Her hands begin to move across her own body, touching herself with slow confidence. She traces circles around her small breasts, fingers dancing across her skin with a self-assurance that's hypnotic to watch. In the dim light, every movement feels like it's meant just for you.

You notice how different she looks now compared to when she arrived at your door. Her carefully applied makeup is smudged around her eyes. Her hair, once smooth and perfect, is wild from your hands. She looks beautifully undone, more real somehow, and even more stunning for it.

She runs a finger across her lips, still swollen from taking you in her mouth. Then trails it down her neck and over her chest, drawing your eye along the path.

"Come here," she says, her voice low but commanding. She rolls onto her back, her body a landscape of curves and shadows in the half-light.

Though still wearing her thong, the thin black fabric does little to hide what's underneath. As you move closer to the bed, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband and slides it down her legs with deliberate slowness. The last barrier between you disappears as she kicks it aside.

With the same unhurried confidence, Jennie reaches down and uses her fingers to part herself. The gesture is both vulnerable and bold – showing you exactly what you've been missing all these months. Even in the dim light, you can see how wet she is, glistening with want.

You climb onto the bed, feeling the expensive sheets against your palms. The fabric is cool and smooth, a stark contrast to the heat building between you. The mattress gives slightly under your weight as you move between her legs.

Jennie is breathtaking beneath you. Her skin has a slight sheen in the low light, catching the glow from the bedside lamp. Her dark hair fans out against the white pillows, framing a face that's haunted your dreams for months. Her chest rises and falls with quickening breaths, her small breasts topped with hardened nipples that beg for your touch.

But you're not rushing this. Not after all these months apart.

You start at her ankles, where the knee-high socks still cling to her calves. Your lips press against the delicate bone there, feeling her pulse beneath the skin. She watches you through half-lidded eyes as you work your way higher, placing open-mouthed kisses up her calf.

When you reach the top of her sock, you peel it down slowly, revealing more of her skin inch by inch. The newly exposed flesh gets special attention – your lips, your tongue, even the gentle scrape of teeth that makes her shiver.

"What are you doing?" she asks, but there's no impatience in her voice, just wonder.

"Appreciating the view," you murmur against her knee. "Been thinking about this body for months."

You move to her other leg, giving it the same treatment – slow, deliberate kisses that make her skin prickle with goosebumps. Your hands slide up her thighs as your mouth follows, feeling the muscles tense and relax under your touch.

Her inner thighs are softer, more sensitive. When your tongue traces the crease where leg meets hip, she gasps, her fingers flexing against the sheets. The scent of her arousal is stronger here, making your mouth water.

You detour, moving up to kiss her stomach, the dip of her navel, the subtle ridges of her ribs. Each breath she takes makes her abdomen rise and fall beneath your lips. You work your way to her breasts, taking your time with each one – circling the nipple with your tongue before sucking it into your mouth, feeling it harden further.

"Owen," she sighs, arching into your touch.

Your hands never stop moving, exploring every inch of her like you're memorizing her by touch alone. The curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the softness of her sides – all of it perfect, all of it Jennie.

You make your way back down, leaving a trail of kisses from her sternum to her stomach. Her breathing quickens as you move lower, anticipation making her shift restlessly beneath you. When you reach the neat strip of dark hair between her legs, you pause, looking up to meet her eyes.

"You're fucking beautiful," you say, your voice rougher than intended.

Her eyes soften for just a moment before that familiar challenge returns. "Are you going to stare all night, or are you going to do something about it?"

You answer by settling between her legs, pushing her thighs wider. You can't help but stare at the view before you. There's something almost reverent in how you look at her – taking in every detail, every curve and shadow. Her thighs part further, an invitation that needs no words. Between her legs, you notice she's not completely bare – a neat, dark landing strip of hair points down like an arrow, the contrast of it against her skin making your mouth water.

The scent of her hits you first – warm and musky and distinctly Jennie. You breathe her in, letting it flood your senses and cloud your thoughts. Nothing exists but this bed, this woman, this moment.

You lower your head slowly, maintaining eye contact until the last possible second. The first broad stroke of your tongue makes her gasp. You take your time, exploring her with long, flat licks that cover her entirely. Her taste is familiar yet new – sweet and tangy and addictive. You could drown here and die happy.

"Fuck," she breathes, her hips already lifting slightly to meet your mouth.

You switch to softer, more focused touches, tracing her folds with the tip of your tongue. Each pass draws different sounds from her – soft sighs that gradually build to more urgent moans. You map her with your mouth, relearning what makes her breath catch, what makes her thighs shake.

When you find her clit, you circle it slowly, teasingly, not giving her the direct pressure you know she craves. Her fingers find your hair, tightening in frustration.

"Don't tease me," she warns, but there's no real threat in her voice – just desire strained to its breaking point.

You smile against her before giving in, wrapping your lips around her clit and sucking gently. The reaction is immediate – her back arches off the bed, a strangled curse falling from her lips.

Your free hand slides up her body, finding the toned plane of her stomach. You press down firmly, holding her in place as your mouth works against her. The contrast of your hand on her abs while your tongue explores her most sensitive areas makes her writhe beneath you.

She's getting wetter, her arousal coating your chin as you work. You move your tongue in circles, then switch to quick flicks across her clit that make her thighs tremble. Each change in pressure or rhythm pulls new sounds from her throat.

"Oh god, right there," she gasps when you find a particularly sensitive spot.

You slip a finger inside her, feeling her heat clench around you immediately. She's impossibly tight and wet, her body welcoming the intrusion. You curl your finger to find that spot that always drove her crazy. When you find it, her whole body jerks like she's been shocked.

"Right there," she gasps. "Don't stop."

You add a second finger, stretching her gently while continuing to work her clit with your mouth. The combination makes her hips buck wildly against your face. Her hands tighten in your hair, pulling almost painfully.

With each thrust of your fingers, you quicken the tempo, driving deeper into her. Her muscles clench around you rhythmically, like she's trying to pull you further in. Your tongue never stops its assault on her clit, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention.

"Owen," she moans, her voice breaking. "I'm so close."

You pull back just enough to look up at her, your fingers still working inside her. "You still think about this when you're with him?" The question slips out before you can stop it. Your thumb replaces your tongue, circling her clit as you watch her face.

She glares down at you, but her body betrays her, clenching around your fingers. "You're such a dick."

"But you're here anyway," you say, curling your fingers against that spot that makes her whole body jerk. "In my bed, not his."

Her breath catches. "Shut up."

You lower your head again, sucking her clit between your lips while adding a third finger. The stretch makes her gasp, her back arching. You can feel her getting closer – her thighs tensing, her breathing becoming irregular. Her entire body is flushed with heat, a thin sheen of sweat making her skin glow in the dim light.

You establish a relentless rhythm – fingers pumping while your tongue works her clit. The wet sounds of your movements fill the room, mixing with her increasingly desperate moans.

Just as she's about to peak, you ease back, slowing down just enough to keep her on the edge.

"Tell me you missed this," you say against her inner thigh, your breath hot on her wet skin.

"Don't stop," she pleads, hips lifting to chase your mouth.

You stay just out of reach. "Tell me no one does this like I do."

Her hands tighten in your hair, trying to force you back down. "I hate you," she says, but there's no conviction in it.

"No, you don't." You circle her entrance with your fingers, teasing but not pushing in. "Say it, Jennie."

She fights it for a moment, pride warring with desire. Then breaks. "No one does it like you do. Now please—" her voice cracks with need, "please don't stop."

The desperation in her voice sends heat through your entire body. You give her what she wants, diving back in with renewed hunger. Your tongue circles her clit rapidly while your fingers press firmly against that sweet spot inside her. The dual sensations push her toward the edge fast.

Her legs wrap around your head, thighs clamping against your ears as her body tenses. Your free hand reaches up to find her breast, pinching her nipple between your fingers. The added stimulation makes her cry out, her voice cracking with pleasure.

"Owen," she warns, her voice tight and strained. "I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," you command, increasing the pressure, the speed, giving her exactly what she needs.

Her breathing turns ragged, her moans more frantic. The muscles in her stomach tense under your hand as her body coils tight, ready to snap. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around your fingers, the first tremors of her orgasm beginning.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—" Her words dissolve into a broken cry as it hits her. Her back arches high off the bed, her body going rigid. Her thighs shake violently around your head as waves of pleasure crash through her.

"Oh my God!" The words tear from her throat as her fingers pull painfully at your hair. Her body convulses beneath your mouth, wave after wave of pleasure washing over her. "You're so good at that, Owen."

She bites her lower lip hard, her neck straining as her hips jerk uncontrollably against your face. You don't let up, working her through the peak, extending her pleasure until she's gasping and writhing from the intensity.

The aftershocks ripple through her body like tremors, her skin flushed and damp with sweat. Only when she weakly pushes at your head, too sensitive to take any more, do you finally ease back. You place one last gentle kiss against her before resting your cheek on her inner thigh, looking up at her wrecked expression.

Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath, her eyes closed, lips parted. She looks utterly spent, flushed and beautiful in her satisfaction.

After a moment, Jennie gathers herself, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She looks down at you, her gaze dropping to your obvious arousal. Without a word, she reaches forward and spits on it, her saliva glistening as she begins to stroke you. You groan at the contact, your body responding instantly to her touch. You don't let up, working her through the orgasm, only easing the pressure when her hand pushes weakly against your head, oversensitive.

You place one last gentle kiss against her before resting your cheek on her inner thigh, looking up at her flushed face. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath, her eyes closed, lips parted. She looks wrecked in the best possible way.

After a moment, Jennie gathers herself, her breathing slowly returning to normal. She looks up at you, a predatory gleam replacing the post-orgasm haze in her eyes. Without warning, she reaches for your cock and spits on it, her saliva mixing with the wetness still coating her lips from going down on you earlier.

"Now," she says, voice raspy and demanding, "I'm going to fuck you."

She doesn't wait for your response, just straddles your hips and positions herself above you. Her thighs flex as she hovers, teasing you with the heat of her center just inches away from where you need it.

"Tell me how bad you want this," she demands, one hand flat against your chest for balance.

"Just get on my dick already," you growl, grabbing her hips to pull her down.

She resists, maintaining control. "Say please," she taunts, her eyes challenging you.

You nearly laugh. "Fuck you."

"That's the idea," she says with a wicked smile, then finally sinks down in one swift movement, taking you to the hilt.

"Jesus fucking Christ," you hiss as her heat surrounds you. She's impossibly tight after her orgasm, still pulsing slightly from the aftershocks.

"You're so fucking big," she gasps, adjusting to the stretch. There's no sweetness in her voice – just raw appreciation for how you fill her.

Jennie starts to move, not with gentle rises and falls but with demanding, forceful motions. Her thighs flex powerfully as she lifts herself almost completely off before slamming back down. Each drop makes a slapping sound that fills the room, punctuated by her sharp gasps.

The sight of her riding you is mesmerizing. Her small breasts bounce with each movement, nipples hard and dark against her golden skin. Her stomach muscles visibly tighten with each rise and fall, showing off the definition in her abs that she works so hard for. Her hair, now completely wild from your hands, whips around her shoulders as she moves.

"Touch my tits," she commands, grabbing your hands and placing them on her chest.

You squeeze roughly, pinching her nipples the way you remember she likes. Her head falls back, exposing the elegant column of her throat, a string of curses falling from her lips.

"Fucking hell, your cock feels so good," she says, grinding down hard. "Tell me you've missed this pussy."

"Every fucking day," you admit, thrusting up to meet her movements. The force of it nearly bounces her off you, but she adjusts her balance, her strong thighs gripping your sides.

She leans forward, her hands braced on your chest. The new angle lets her grind her clit against your pubic bone with each thrust. Her nails dig into your skin, leaving crescent marks that burn. Her face hovers above yours, her hair creating a curtain around you both. Sweat beads along her hairline, one drop sliding down her temple to her jaw.

"No one fucks me like you do," she admits, the words sounding torn from her. "No one."

With a surge of need, you move between her thighs, pressing her into the mattress. Her legs wrap around your waist, drawing you closer. Your eyes lock as you drive into her, taking control of the pace.

"Fuck, I missed this tight pussy," you growl, watching her eyes flash at your words.

"Shut up and fuck me harder," she snaps back, digging her heels into your lower back.

You slam into her, setting a brutal pace that has the headboard cracking against the wall. Each thrust jolts her body up the bed, her hair splaying across the pillows like spilled ink. Her small breasts bounce with the impact, nipples hard and begging for attention.

Your hands move to her waist, fingers nearly meeting around her small frame. The contrast of your large hands against her tiny waist makes your head spin. You can feel her hip bones under your thumbs, the delicate architecture of her body beneath your palms.

"Like that? This how you want it?" Your voice is rough, almost unrecognizable with need.

"Yes—don't fucking stop," she gasps, her nails raking down your back hard enough to leave welts.

You lean down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss. Your tongues battle for dominance as your bodies slam together. The taste of her—sweet with a hint of salt from her sweat—fills your senses. You break away to trail bites down her neck, leaving marks that will remind her of this night long after you're gone.

She arches into you, offering more of herself. You take advantage, moving to her shoulder, then her arm, leaving a trail of bites and kisses along her skin. The salt of her sweat makes your head spin. When you reach the sensitive skin of her inner arm, she lets out a surprised gasp that turns into a deep moan.

"Oh fuck, don't stop," she pants as you run your tongue along the delicate skin of her armpit, tasting the most primal part of her.

In this position, you can see everything—her face contorting with each thrust, the way her stomach muscles tighten when you hit deep, how her lips part on silent screams when you find the perfect angle. Her hair sticks to her temples with sweat, dark strands clinging to her flushed skin.

Sweat makes your bodies slide together, the hotel room filling with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin. You grip her thigh, pushing it higher, opening her wider. The position stretches her leg up toward her chest, showing off the flexibility from her years of dance training.

"Harder," she demands, her voice breaking as you comply. "Fucking wreck me."

You reach down, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at you as you pound into her. Her eyes are wild, pupils blown with arousal. "This what you came here for? This what you needed?"

Her breathing changes, becoming more ragged. You recognize the signs—she's close again. You adjust your position slightly, hitting that spot inside her that you know drives her wild.

"There!" she cries out, her nails digging crescents into your shoulders.

You maintain the angle, the rhythm, watching her face as pleasure builds. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Her body tenses beneath you, on the edge but not quite there.

"Let go," you urge, your thumb finding her clit. "Come for me again."

She shakes her head. "Not yet—not without you."

Something snaps in you at her words. Without warning, you pull out completely and flip her over in one rough motion. She gasps, surprised by the sudden movement as you manhandle her onto her hands and knees. Your hand lands hard on her ass, leaving a bright red handprint on her skin.

"Fuck!" she cries out, more in arousal than pain.

You grab a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back as you position yourself behind her. Sweat drips down your chest, landing on her back as you line yourself up. You can hear her panting, waiting, her thighs trembling slightly in anticipation.

"This what you want?" you growl against her ear, your chest pressed to her back, cock teasing her entrance.

"Yes," she hisses. "Give it to me."

You slam into her without further warning, burying yourself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The sound she makes is primal—half scream, half moan. Her arms nearly buckle under the force, but you hold her up with your grip on her hair.

"Fuck!" she cries out, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

You establish a punishing rhythm, each thrust making her entire body jerk forward. Her hair is wrapped tight around your fist like a leash, forcing her back to arch at a severe angle. Sweat makes your bodies slide together, your skin slapping against hers with obscene wet sounds. The musky scent of sex fills the air, heavy and intoxicating.

"Look at you taking it," you say, giving her ass another sharp slap that leaves a fresh handprint. "Always said you were made for this."

She looks back over her shoulder, her face a perfect picture of pleasure-pain, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. "Fuck you," she pants, but pushes back harder against you, contradicting her words.

The sight of her is overwhelming – her narrow waist flaring out to perfectly rounded hips, the elegant curve of her spine dipping then rising, her hair tangled in your fist. From this angle, you can see everything – the way her back hollows out, how her ass bounces against your hips, the glistening evidence of her arousal coating you both.

You lean forward, running your free hand up her side to roughly grab her breast. The position pushes you deeper, making her gasp. Your fingers find her nipple, pinching hard as you maintain your relentless pace.

"Oh god," she moans, her arms shaking from supporting her weight. "Don't stop."

Her body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, making her skin glow in the dim light. You can see the muscles in her back shifting beneath her skin with each impact, the way her shoulder blades move as she braces against your thrusts.

"Owen," she warns, voice strained with need. "I'm so close."

Her words push you closer to the edge. You increase your pace, chasing both her pleasure and your own. Each thrust now has purpose, driving deeper, harder. You can feel the pressure building at the base of your spine, your control slipping with every sound she makes.

"I'm close too," you admit, rhythm becoming erratic. "I'm gonna cum."

Her body tenses beneath you, muscles tightening as she approaches her peak. You can feel it building—the way she clenches around you, the trembling in her thighs, her increasingly desperate sounds.

"Oh my God, Owen!" she cries out, her voice breaking on your name. "Fill me up!"

Her orgasm crashes through her—you feel it in the way her body convulses, in how she rhythmically tightens around you, in the broken sounds that escape her throat. The sensation of her pulsing around you pushes you over the edge.

Your release hits with an intensity that whites out your vision—powerful, overwhelming, unstoppable. You empty yourself inside her, every pulse accompanied by a wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Her body milks you, drawing out every last sensation until you're both trembling from the force of it.

As the intensity fades, you collapse beside her on the bed, pulling her close against you. Your arm wraps around her waist as you press gentle kisses to her neck and shoulder. Her body still trembles with small aftershocks, her breathing gradually slowing to normal.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The only sounds in the room are your labored breathing and the distant city noise filtering through the windows. Sweat cools on your skin, making you shiver slightly. Despite the roughness of what just happened, she turns toward you with unexpected tenderness, her small hand coming up to cup your cheek.

She presses her forehead against yours, eyes closed, just breathing you in. A small, almost inaudible snort escapes her as she tries to catch her breath – a startlingly human sound that cuts through the haze of post-sex euphoria. It makes her seem more real somehow, more Jennie than the polished celebrity the world knows.

Her chest still rises and falls rapidly, her heartbeat a quick rhythm you can feel where your bodies press together. Her fingers trace idle patterns on your skin, moving from your chest to your shoulder and back again. It's these quiet moments that always feel more dangerous than the sex – this gentle intimacy that makes you think of what could have been.

"Shit," she finally whispers, a small laugh bubbling up. She looks slightly dazed, her makeup completely ruined, hair a tangled mess. "I forgot how good we are at that."

You brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. The gesture is too tender for what this is supposed to be, but you can't help yourself. "Some things you don't forget."

She looks into your eyes and you see a complex mix of satisfaction and something deeper—a longing that mirrors your own. Her hair sticks to her face in damp strands, her skin flushed and glowing in the dim light. Even like this—especially like this—she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

As she lies in your arms, her breathing gradually steadying, you can't help but think about what might have been between you in another life—one where you could stay instead of always leaving. One where "one night only" wasn't all you ever had.

---

Hours later, once you’re sure she’s asleep, you slip out of the bed. The sheets make a soft sound as you untangle yourself from her limbs. She doesn't stir.

The hotel room feels different at 3 AM. Quieter. The luxury that seemed impressive earlier now feels hollow, just expensive emptiness. You find your sweatpants on the floor where she pulled them off you hours ago.

The balcony door slides open with a whisper. Thirty floors up, the city spreads out like someone spilled light across black velvet. You light a cigarette, cupping your hand against the wind even though there's no one here to see the brief flare of your lighter.

Inside, Jennie sleeps. Her small body barely disturbs the white sheets. In the dim light filtering from the bathroom, you can see the marks you left on her neck, her shoulders. Evidence that you were here. That this happened.

She belongs to someone else now. The thought should bother you more than it does. Maybe you're just used to it - this pattern of coming together briefly, then separating again. Maybe you've convinced yourself it's better this way.

You take a deep drag, feeling the burn in your lungs. It's cold out here in just sweatpants, but the chill feels necessary after the heat of her body against yours for hours.

You've never been good at staying. It's not a point of pride, just a fact, like your height or the sound of your voice. Commitment feels like drowning to you, always has. You've tried to explain this to her before. She said she understood, but the way she looked at you afterward told a different story.

Below, taxis crawl along streets like yellow insects. People spill out of late-night bars, laughing too loud. The city that never sleeps. You'll be gone from it tomorrow. Another show, another hotel room indistinguishable from this one.

You wonder if her boyfriend knows where she is tonight. If he senses something when she slips back into their shared life tomorrow. If he can somehow smell you on her skin despite the shower she'll take before going home.

The cigarette burns down to your fingers. You flick it over the edge, watching its orange tip tumble into darkness.

Jennie knows you better than anyone. This is the thought that keeps you up at night in cities whose names you sometimes forget. She knows your body, your sounds, the things that make you come undone. Worse, she knows the parts of yourself you try to hide from everyone else.

A melody forms in your head. Something slow and hazy, like smoke curling off a cigarette. Words follow naturally - about being in town just for one night. About needing her. About the room you got for just the two of you.

You mouth the words silently, testing how they feel:

I'm in town for one night,

one night only

I came around to put it down, for one night only

Your fans will think it's just another song about sex. They won't know about the way Jennie looked at you when she came. How her body felt like coming home. How you're already planning when you can see her again, even as you tell yourself this was the last time.

Just one night

Got a room for me and you, for one night only

You wanna ride for a lifetime, this is one night only

The song takes shape in your mind, already feeling like a hit. Your producer will love it. Your label will push it. No one will know it's about her. No one except Jennie, if she ever hears it.

The city is turning blue at the edges when you finally go back inside. Morning approaching. Soon you'll have to leave for the airport, for the next city, the next crowd.

Jennie hasn't moved. You slide in beside her, your skin cold from the night air. She makes a small sound in her sleep and shifts toward your body heat, instinctively seeking you out. Her hand finds your chest, rests over your heart.

You wonder what she'd say if you asked her to come with you to Toronto. You won't ask. You both know the routine by now.

One night only. It's never enough. It's all you can handle.

END.

[mrsfancyferrari]

More Kisses?

Summary: LN4 + “One kiss is just never enough.”

Song: Mitski – My Love Mine All Mine

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The moment you stepped into your shared apartment, the weight of your decision to impose a "kiss ban" hung heavily in the air. You had just returned from spending time with Lando’s family, a chaotic gathering full of laughter, inside jokes, and the unmistakable warmth of family love.

It was delightful, but you couldn't shake off the feeling that Lando’s relentless affection was bordering on overwhelming, even if it was sweetly intoxicating.

“Babe! I’m home!” you called out, hoping to summon him from whatever corner of the apartment he was in.

You heard a loud crash and then a string of colorful curses that made you stifle a laugh. He really should have been more careful. A moment later, Lando appeared, looking slightly disheveled, his tousled hair more charming than ever.

“Baby! You’re back!” he exclaimed, his green eyes lighting up. He rushed over, arms outstretched for a hug, but you placed a gentle hand on his chest, stopping him just short of closing the distance.

“Wait,” you said, your tone firm yet soft, feeling the butterflies in your stomach flit around. “We need to talk.”

Lando's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Talk? About what?” He leaned in closer, the teasing smile on his face betraying his eagerness to press his lips against yours.

You sighed, taking a step back to put some distance between you. “About the kissing,” you said, trying to keep your expression serious despite the laughter bubbling inside you. “I think we need a ban.”

“A ban? A ban on what?” he asked, incredulity creeping into his voice.

“Kissing,” you clarified, your heart racing as you felt his gaze bore into you, almost as if he was trying to understand the madness that was your idea.

He chuckled, tilting his head as he tried to gauge whether you were joking. “Are you serious right now? You want to ban kisses? How does that even work?”

You crossed your arms, trying to maintain your composure. “Oscar suggested it. He said he’s tired of watching us kiss shamelessly in front of him. And honestly, it’s getting a bit out of hand, don’t you think?”

Lando’s expression shifted from amusement to genuine concern. “But I can’t help it! One kiss is just never enough!” He took a small step toward you, his playful demeanor shifting into something more sincere. “You know I just love being close to you, right?”

You felt the warmth creeping up your cheeks, the sincerity of his words hitting you like a wave. “I know, and I love that about you, but we can’t just… kiss every second. We need some boundaries. Maybe we can focus on other ways to express our love, like words or…” You trailed off, searching for a distraction. “Cooking together?”

Lando’s brows furrowed deeper, and he chuckled again, albeit a bit resigned this time. “Cooking? Really? You think that’s a fair substitute for kisses?”

“I mean,” you shrugged, trying to sound casual, “it’s definitely less distracting. Plus, I make a mean spaghetti.”

He shook his head, a smile breaking through his mock frustration. “You know I can’t resist your spaghetti. But can’t we do both? Kiss and cook?”

You tried to suppress a giggle. “See! That’s exactly what I mean! You can’t even think about anything else but kissing!”

“Guilty as charged,” he replied, smirking. “But only when it comes to you. It’s like every time I look at you, I just… I want to kiss you. You’re irresistible.”

A flutter of warmth settled in your chest at his admission, but you had to stay strong. “So, no kisses until further notice,” you said, attempting to sound authoritative, though the twinkle in your eyes gave away your struggle.

Lando sighed dramatically, flopping onto the couch with mock despair. “This is a dark day in history. My heart feels like it’s been put in a cage.”

You laughed, the tension dissipating slightly. “It’s just a temporary ban! We can revisit this later. For now, let’s focus on some quality time without the kisses.”

He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Fine, but if I’m going to be tortured with this ban, you’d better be the one to cook.”

“Deal,” you said, walking into the kitchen, still smiling. You could hear him mumbling exaggeratedly about the cruelty of your ban as he followed you.

As you began to gather the ingredients for spaghetti, Lando leaned against the counter, watching you with a fond expression that made your heart race. “You know,” he said, “I can’t believe you actually put a ban on kissing. It’s like trying to stop a wildfire with a bucket of water.”

“I just want to enjoy our time together without feeling like I’m constantly on guard against your lips,” you replied, trying to stay focused on the task at hand.

“On guard? You make it sound like I’m some sort of villain, lurking in the shadows, waiting to steal a kiss,” he laughed, and you could see the mischief brewing in his eyes.

You turned to face him, hands on your hips. “You kind of are! Always sneaking up on me when I least expect it.”

His grin widened. “Okay, fair point. But can I at least get a kiss before we start cooking? Just one? A tiny one?”

You shook your head, fighting back a smile. “Nope! That’s against the rules!”

He pouted, an exaggerated look of disappointment crossing his face. “This is torture, and here I thought we could enjoy a peaceful evening together. How can we have peace without kisses?”

“We can enjoy each other’s company! We can talk, laugh, and maybe even—”

“Cook,” he finished, his voice dripping with faux resignation. “Right. The not-kissing evening.”

Despite the ban, the energy between you felt electric, even with the kitchen separating you. You busied yourself with chopping vegetables, trying to ignore the way Lando was still watching you, as if you were the only thing in the world.

Suddenly, he took a step closer, his tone shifting to something more playful. “You know, I’m still going to try to sneak in a kiss, right?”

You glanced up, your heart racing. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Oh, I would! The ban may be in effect, but I’m nothing if not persistent.”

You shook your head, a laugh escaping your lips. “You are impossible!”

“And yet you love me for it.” He leaned against the kitchen island, a smug grin on his face.

“Maybe,” you said, rolling your eyes. “But you might just make me regret this decision.”

“Challenge accepted!” he declared, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

As the evening unfolded, you both settled into a rhythm, laughing and talking as you cooked together. It felt nice, invigorating even, to focus on something other than the usual frenzy of kisses.

You could see the effort Lando was making to respect the ban, though every now and then, he would inch closer to you, his lips parting as if to tease.

When dinner was finally ready, you plated the spaghetti and sat across from each other at the small dining table. As you took your first bite,

Lando leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, a mischievous glint still in his eyes. “I have to say, this is pretty good, but it would be better with a kiss.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “You are relentless!”

“It’s a gift,” he said, winking at you. “Just think of me as your charming little devil.”

By the time dessert came around, a rich chocolate cake that you had made for the occasion, the kiss ban had become a playful game between you two.

Lando would swoop in close, pretending to lean in for a kiss, and you would laugh and pull away, your heart racing at the prospect of breaking the ban.

But as the evening wore on and you both sunk into comfortable conversation, you found yourself forgetting about the kiss ban, enjoying his presence more than you thought possible. And despite the kisses you both were missing, the connection felt even more profound.

Eventually, you both settled back on the couch, empty plates pushed aside. Lando pulled you against him, his warmth enveloping you. “Okay, I admit it,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “This wasn’t so bad.”

You smiled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I agree. Maybe we can keep this up a little longer, at least until we get better at cooking together.”

He chuckled, “So no kisses for the rest of the week?”

“Let’s see how we do,” you replied, your heart fluttering.

Lando paused, his expression turning serious as he looked into your eyes. “But you know, as much as I love our cooking time, I might just have to break that ban. Because even if we can’t kiss, I don’t think I can ever stop wanting to.”

And just like that, the air shifted. The warmth between you felt different now—full of unspoken promises and an electrifying tension that made your pulse quicken.

With a sly smile, he added, “And besides, we both know that one kiss is never enough.”

You laughed, your resolve crumbling as he pulled you closer, and despite the ban, you felt drawn to him.

You laugh, a nervous sound that betrays the flutter in your stomach. “No, Lando,” you tease, a hint of desperation in your tone. “You know the rules.”

He pouts dramatically, his bottom lip jutting out. “But rules are made to be broken, right?”

“Not these rules,” you reply, shaking your head, though your resolve is crumbling under the weight of his gaze.

The air was electric at the paddock, filled with the buzzing excitement of race day. You watched as cars sped around the track, the sound of engines roaring sending adrenaline coursing through your veins.

It was a familiar thrill, one that you had grown to love, but today your attention was focused on someone else entirely—Lando Norris, your boyfriend.

You felt a playful smile creep onto your lips as you caught sight of him in his racing gear, deep in conversation with Oscar Piastri. Lando had always been a charismatic figure, effortlessly charming those around him, but today he looked particularly grumpy.

His brow was furrowed, and every so often, he would steal a glance in your direction, his emerald green eyes narrowing as if he were assessing a challenge.

The ban on kissing had been Oscar's idea, a playful experiment to see how long you could go without stealing a kiss from each other. The previous night, you had both agreed to limit your displays of affection, only allowing cheek kisses.

But as the hours passed, you found yourself relishing in the way Lando's frustration grew with each passing moment. You couldn't help but tease him a little, especially since you had applied a fresh coat of cherry-red lip gloss before leaving your hotel room.

“Why do you keep putting that on?” he had grumbled earlier, eyes glued to your lips as you made a show of smoothing the glossy layer over your mouth.

“Just a little something to brighten my day,” you had replied, your smile as sweet as the gloss itself.

It was hard to suppress your laughter as you saw him trying to sneak in a kiss whenever he thought you were distracted. You caught him several times, his lips almost brushing against yours before you playfully swatted him away.

“Lando, no! You know the rules!” you giggled, feeling slightly bad for how much fun you were having at his expense.

Now, as you walked through the paddock, you could sense Lando's irritation radiating off him in waves. You caught Oscar giving Lando a concerned look, and it made you chuckle softly.

“Why is he mad all of a sudden?” Oscar asked, clearly confused, as Lando shot him a pointed glare.

“Oh, nothing,” you said innocently, crossing your arms and feigning ignorance. “He’s just mad that you suggested a kiss ban.”

Oscar blinked a few times, and then a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Serves him right for traumatizing me for so long,” he replied, clearly enjoying the banter.

Lando rolled his eyes dramatically, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward as if he were fighting a smile. “You guys are hilarious,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Really, I’m just having the time of my life.”

You felt a pang of guilt at his obvious frustration, but the way his eyes sparkled with annoyance made it hard to take him seriously. It was cute how he managed to look both adorable and sulky at the same time.

“C’mon, Lando! Lighten up! It’s just a kiss ban,” you teased, leaning closer, knowing full well how that would drive him even more wild. “You’re not really mad, are you?”

“Yes! I am!” he shot back, but the way his voice wavered made it evident that he was only half-serious.

“You know you love it,” you replied, your voice softening a little. “It’s like a game.”

“More like a punishment,” he huffed, crossing his arms tightly across his chest as if he were warding off a chill.

“Let me ask you this—what’s the worst that could happen?” you challenged, relishing the chance to push his buttons just a little more.

“The worst? I could explode from all the pent-up affection,” he shot back, his expression playful yet pained. “Or, I could just look at your lips all day and die of frustration!”

“Drama queen!” you laughed, clearly enjoying the effect you had on him.

“Whatever,” he mumbled, but the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

Oscar, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, couldn’t help but chime in again. “So, you’re telling me that if I suggested a kiss ban for you two, Lando would actually listen?”

“Oh, he’s definitely listening,” you replied, suppressing another laugh as you saw Lando squirm.

He rolled his eyes dramatically but couldn’t hide the glimmer of amusement in his gaze. “A kiss ban? Really? What’s next, a no-hug policy?” His tone was light, but you could see that he was slightly intrigued.

“You know how competitive you can get,” you said, your tone playful yet sincere. “I thought it might be fun to see if you can keep your lips to yourself for an entire week.”

“Challenge accepted,” he said with mock seriousness, crossing his arms defiantly.

Oscar chuckled. “Good luck with that, Lando. I’ll be impressed if you manage it.”

“Please,” Lando retorted, feigning confidence. “I could go a month without kissing her if I wanted to.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a laugh. “Oh really? Is that a promise or a threat?”

He stepped closer, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Let’s just say it’s a motivational tactic. No kisses means more energy for the track. I’m going to be unbeatable.”

You pretended to think for a moment, placing a finger on your chin. “Or you could just use the energy you gain from kissing me. That might work too.”

Oscar, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, couldn’t help but chime in again. “I don’t know, it sounds like a pretty solid strategy, Lando. Maybe you should reconsider this kiss ban.”

“Please,” Lando replied, waving his hand dismissively. “I’m fine. I’m focused. Kisses are overrated.”

You smirked, enjoying the banter. “Sure they are. Keep telling yourself that.”

Just then, Lando's team principal called him into a meeting. He glanced back at you, a slight frown on his face. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go forgetting how much you’ll miss me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you replied, trying to sound indifferent, though your heart raced.

As Lando walked away, Oscar turned to you, shaking his head with a smile. “You’re really going to keep him like this the whole week?”

“Absolutely,” you replied confidently. “Consider it an experiment.”

“I’ll be curious to see how it goes. You might just find out that he’s a lot more disciplined than he looks.”

“Right,” you said with a scoff, leaning against the wall. “He’s as disciplined as a puppy in a room full of chew toys.”

Oscar laughed, then said, “Well, I have to run. I’m meeting my girlfriend. Just try and keep him like this the whole week, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” you promised, waving goodbye as he walked away.

With a determined grin, you headed back to the hospitality suite, a perfect plan forming in your mind. Lando was competitive, and if you challenged him like this, he would rise to the occasion.

By day three, it was a different story. The ban became a tangible presence in the room, and Lando was unmistakably more restless, his eyes often drifting to your lips.

You couldn’t help but smirk at his struggle, fully aware of how the ban was eating at him.

Lando lay sprawled on the couch, his head resting on your lap, looking up at you with those playful eyes that were now filled with a hint of desperation.

“You know, I could break the ban if you’re just addicted to kissing,” you said, running your fingers through his hair, relishing the way he sighed contentedly at your touch.

“Not a chance,” he replied, his voice low, eyes narrowing with playful determination. “Nope, I’ll win this challenge.”

“Are you sure? Because I feel like you’re going to kiss me now,” you teased, leaning in slightly, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, your lips tantalizingly close.

Lando’s gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips, and you could see the battle raging within him. “If you keep doing that, I might lose my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick with longing.

“Good! That’s the idea,” you said, biting your lip, thoroughly enjoying this little game.

“Seriously, though,” he said, sitting up and shifting closer, “you’re being cruel. I didn’t think you were capable of this level of torture.”

You laughed, a sound that echoed through the room, and you shifted away slightly, just to watch his expression shift from determination to pure yearning. “I’m just testing your willpower, my love. Think of it as a character-building exercise.”

“A character-building exercise? I’m going to come out of this a complete wreck,” he retorted, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the couch, trying to appear indifferent.

You smirked. “You have no idea how much fun I’m having right now.”

“Just wait until I find a way to get you to kiss me,” he said, his voice dripping with playful confidence.

“Oh, please. You think you can outsmart me?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Lando leaned forward, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Just watch me.”

And so the days rolled on. Each moment was a delightful mix of tension and playful banter. You found yourself glancing at Lando more often, his lips pulling you in like a moth to a flame.

You reveled in the way he tried to distract you, often resorting to exaggerated stories about his day or silly impressions that made you laugh until your sides hurt.

But all the while, his eyes would betray him, flickering down to your lips, his desire barely contained.

On the morning of the fourth day, the atmosphere had shifted. Lando entered the kitchen, his usual buoyancy replaced by a grumpy pout. “This ban is ridiculous,” he grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

You looked up from your spot at the table, a mischievous smile spreading across your face. “What’s wrong? Can’t handle the heat?”

“I think I’m going to combust if I don’t kiss you soon,” he replied, his voice laced with frustration as he leaned against the counter, looking positively adorable in his grumpiness.

“Ah, but that’s the challenge, isn’t it?” you teased, savoring the power of the moment.

“Challenge or torture?” he shot back, running a hand through his messy hair. “Because I’m starting to think it’s the latter.”

“Keep it up, and you might get a reward,” you said, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Reward?” he echoed, his interest piqued. “What kind of reward?”

You stood up, moving closer to him, your heart racing as you sensed his breath hitch in response. “A kiss, of course,” you whispered, inching even closer.

He leaned in, eyes darkening with longing. “You’re such a tease,” he breathed, his lips almost brushing against yours.

“Maybe I am,” you admitted, your pulse quickening as the distance between you closed. “But you love it.”

“I hate it,” he said, but you could see the cracks forming in his resolve. “Okay, I hate that I love it.”

And then he was right there, his lips hovering tantalizingly close, and you knew the kiss ban was on the verge of breaking.

“Just one little kiss,” he urged, his voice low and pleading, a hint of desperation coloring his tone.

You felt your resolve crumbling, but you couldn’t let him win so easily. “No, not yet,” you said, stepping back, savoring the way his eyes widened in disbelief.

“Why do you do this to me?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in mock frustration. “You’re driving me insane!”

You laughed, a melodic sound that echoed in the kitchen. “That’s the point, love. Remember, this is about restraint!”

With a dramatic sigh, Lando rolled his eyes, but you could see the challenge in his smile. “Fine. I’ll hold out. But you’d better prepare for the consequences of this little ban once it’s over.”

“Oh? And what are the consequences?” you asked, feigning innocence.

He stepped closer again, his gaze locked onto yours, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “I’ll make you regret every single second you made me wait. Trust me; it’ll be worth it.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt the thrill of anticipation surge through you. “I’m looking forward to it,” you said, your heart racing.

The days stretched on, each filled with the electricity of desire, laughter, and playful banter, but also with the sweet ache of longing.

You knew that the end of the kiss ban was near, and the tension between you was growing thicker with each passing moment.

You had managed to keep it up for a week, but now, as the sun peeked through the clouds on race day, the ban was set to lift. You had concocted a plan to reward Lando after his race if he performed well.

Little did he know, it was the last day of the kiss ban, and you were ready to make it worth the wait.

The moment you stepped into the paddock, hand in hand with him, you felt a surge of excitement. Lando was starting in pole position today, and you could tell he was nervous.

He had that familiar furrow in his brow, his eyes darting around, and you couldn’t help but smile at how cute he looked when he was deep in thought.

“Don’t worry,” you said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine. Just remember to breathe. And if you do really good, you might get something you’ve wanted,” you added, trying to keep your gaze forward as you teased him.

Lando stopped in his tracks, turning to you with wide eyes. “Really?” he muttered, disbelief lacing his voice.

You nodded, a mischievous grin spreading across your lips. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

As you walked into his garage, the tension was palpable. Lando’s team members were bustling about, making final adjustments to his car, while you took a moment to admire the way he carried himself, radiating determination and focus.

But you weren’t going to let him off easy. You had chosen a dress today that hugged your curves perfectly, knowing it would drive him wild.

“Hey,” you said, leaning against the garage wall, your dress swirling around your legs. “You know, I’ve always thought pole position looked good on you.”

He shot you a sidelong glance, a hint of a smile breaking through his serious facade. “And I’ve always thought that dress looks even better on you.”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you playfully rolled your eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Norris.”

“Come on!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You know I can’t resist a compliment.”

The race was getting closer, and Lando’s focus sharpened. You knew he needed to concentrate, but you couldn't help but want to poke a little fun at him.

Every time he leaned in to give you a kiss, you’d push him away playfully, teasingly. He’d groan in frustration, and the sound sent shivers down your spine.

“You know, if you want to kiss me, you could just ask,” you said, pretending to ponder deeply.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend here!” he huffed, running a hand through his hair, making it even more tousled. “But it’s hard when you keep pushing me away!”

“Maybe I like watching you squirm,” you teased, stepping closer just to see the way his eyes darkened with desire. “Aren’t you the one who said patience is a virtue?”

“Not when it comes to you!” he exclaimed, leaning in again, but this time you sidestepped him, letting out a laugh that echoed through the garage.

“Focus on the race!” you instructed, trying to catch your breath from giggling. “I want to see you win, remember?”

“Right,” he said, eyes narrowing playfully. “Just you wait. After I win this race, I’m going to claim that kiss whether you like it or not.”

You smirked, knowing that he was already thinking about the celebration. “Big talk for someone who still needs to get through the race. Now go on, do your thing!”

With that, Lando stepped into the car, the world around him fading as he prepared for the race. You took your position on the sidelines, heart racing as the engines roared to life.

You could see the determination etched on his face through the visor, and you couldn’t help but cheer him on, your heart swelling with pride.

As the race unfolded, every turn and pit stop was a thrill. Lando maneuvered through the track with skill, your voice mingling with the cheers of the crowd as you called out his name, urging him on.

Every lap that went by, you felt the tension build—not just for the race, but for what awaited you both afterward.

When the checkered flag waved, and Lando crossed the finish line first, a scream of excitement escaped your lips. The crowd erupted into cheers, and Lando’s team surrounded him in jubilation.

He climbed out of the car, his face flushed with adrenaline and happiness, but you noticed something else in his eyes—an eagerness that had been brewing all day.

He spotted you among the crowd and sprinted over, pulling you into a tight embrace, his excitement wrapping around you like a warm blanket. “I did it!” he exclaimed, breathless and grinning.

“I knew you could!” you cheered, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “You were amazing!”

“Now, about that reward…” he said, his voice low and teasing, his eyes glinting with mischief.

You laughed, a sound that mingled with the cheering crowd. “I suppose I owe you something for your incredible performance.”

His smile widened, and you could see the flicker of hope in his gaze. “So, are you saying the kiss ban is officially over?”

You nodded, feeling a wave of anticipation wash over you. The moment felt electric, charged with the unspoken promise of what was to come.

“Good, because I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he said, taking a step closer, the crowd fading into a blur around you.

With a teasing glint in his eye, he leaned in, capturing your lips with his. The kiss was intense and fiery, expressing raw desire and strong emotion, as if all the days of restraint melted away in that one shared moment.

When you pulled back, breathless, he grinned down at you, his gaze unwavering.

“There’s more where that came from,” he said, voice laced with a hint of playful challenge.

Before you could respond, he had to leave you to celebrate with his team, ready to bask in the glory of his victory. As he walked away, you could still feel the heat of his kiss lingering on your lips, a sweet reminder of the moment.

You watched him interact with his team, the way they lifted him in excitement, the way they all celebrated together.

You felt proud, not just of his victory on the track but of the man he was—the kind, passionate, and fiercely dedicated individual you had fallen for.

You lean against the wall of Lando's driver room, the scent of motor oil and sweat mingling in the air, a stark reminder of the adrenaline that pulsed through the circuit just hours earlier.

 You glance at your phone for the umpteenth time, the clock ticking slowly, each passing minute amplifying your anticipation and the thrill of waiting.

Finally, the door creaks open, and you straighten up, a smile breaking across your face. "Congratulations, champ!" you exclaim, clapping your hands together. The thrill of his victory races through you like the engines outside.

Lando steps in, still clad in his race suit, sweat glistening on his brow, his eyes bright with triumph. But instead of the celebratory embrace you expect, he surprises you by quietly locking the door behind him.

In an instant, he crosses the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours, hard and urgent.

Your breath hitches as you lean into him, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer against the wall. It feels like the entire world outside has faded away, leaving just the two of you in this charged moment, hearts pounding in sync.

But just as quickly as he kissed you, he pulls away, a smirk creeping onto his lips. “What if I want a kiss ban, love? I want to tease you too.” His grin is too wide, stupid and cocky and beautiful.

“Lando, please,” you beg, aware of how desperate your voice sounds. The kiss ban affects you as much as it affects him; you’ve tried not to show it, but the tension is electric, and every moment apart feels agonizing.

He laughs softly, a sound that resonates in the small room, yet his eyes twinkle with mischief. “Okay, okay.” He leans closer, brushing his lips against yours again, but stopping just short, leaving you longing for more.

“Stop teasing me!” you complain, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “I thought the kiss ban was supposed to be fun, but it’s just torture.”

“Isn’t that the point?” he counters, his voice low and playful. His fingers trail along your bare skin, igniting tiny sparks wherever they touch. You shiver at the contact, unable to suppress a soft moan.

“Lando,” you whine, your hands finding their way into his soft hair, pulling him closer as if that might close the distance between your lips.

His breath quickens, and you can see the effect you have on him—his eyes darkening, his focus entirely on you. “Okay, I’ll give you a little something,” he murmurs, lips nibbling at yours, teasing but never fully committing.

You can feel the weight of the moment building, an undeniable tension that thrums through you both.

“More, please,” you plead, leaning into him. “You can’t just do this and not follow through.”

He chuckles, and the sound sends a thrill down your spine. “And what if I don’t want to? What if I want to see just how far I can push you?” His teasing words only heighten the desire coursing through you.

“Is that really what you want?” you ask, biting your lip. “To make me crazy?”

“Absolutely,” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You’re far too serious sometimes. This is just a bit of fun, love.”

“Fun? This is more like torture,” you respond, rolling your eyes playfully but unable to hide the smile creeping onto your lips.

“Ah, but isn’t it thrilling? The way you’re practically trembling for me right now? I could get used to this,” he replies, leaning in just enough to brush his lips against yours once more.

Your heart races, and you let out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut as you lean into the touch. You want more—need more. “Lando,” you breathe, feeling utterly exposed yet exhilarated. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he replies, his voice a low whisper as he continues to tease you, brushing his lips against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw. “But you love it.”

“Maybe I do,” you admit, arching your neck, giving him more access as you melt against the wall. Your skin tingles where he touches you, and every brush of his lips sends shivers racing through you.

He pulls back slightly, his breath mingling with yours, and the moment feels electric. “I love how you crave me, how you can’t get enough,” he says, his gaze intense, searching yours for the truth in your confession.

“Lando…” you whisper, unable to contain the longing in your voice.

“Shh,” he hushes, finally closing the distance and kissing you deeply. The world melts away once more, and you lose yourself in the warmth and passion of his lips.

His hands move to your back, holding you tightly as you both surrender to the kiss, hearts racing, breath mingling, bodies pressing together in the warmth of the moment. . . .

[savanir]

DP x DC prompt [11]

Vlad is planning something big, something powerful and he’s using his wealth and connections to make it happen. Danny realizes that his parents' tech and his friend's aid isn’t going to cut it, and brute forcing the matter as Phantom is just going to ruin his reputation permanently.

What he needs is another different fruitloop, and thankfully for him the world is pretty damn full of them.

but he needs a very specific fruitloop, the one with a big company, advanced high end tech, so much money they don’t really know what to do with it and preferably they gotta be an absent figure, because Danny is on a mission, he’s not looking to get a new parent (he has his own)

and after some searching he finds his guy

Oliver Queen

Now he just needs to get in on that, and he decides to do that by using what little he managed to remember from Vlad’s “you will be the heir of Dalv,co” rants and Sam’s ideas on environmentalism. cause Queen apparently cares a lot about giving back to the little guy.

Which is great! very important, even if his business kinda suffers from how he goes about it (but Danny can help with that! somehow! he’ll figure it out, can’t be that hard) 

We can’t all be Brucie Wayne, but we certainly can try.  

So anyway, shouldn’t be too hard, he’s got some history in the field of environment stuff what with the whole purple back gorilla thing.

and Ollie takes one good look at this smart enthusiastic black haired blue eyed teen and is like, “oh neat! my very own Tim Drake Wayne” and he just goes with it.

Danny’s hidden power of drawing in rich people is truly something to behold…

Oliver is more than happy to just let Danny do whatever he wants as long as it doesn’t break the law or look bad on him, and no drugs, he was very clear on that.

and Danny is like great, I can now work on undermining Vlad and ruin his plans!

but then… Dinah…

“Oliver Jonas Queen!”

oh shit, full named…

“You are not going to do a repeat of Roy!”

Dinah is very effective, and the whole thing starts small enough.

Oliver personally shows him around in the company, makes sure to introduce him to the important folks.

that evolves into occasionally checking up on him, making sure he takes the appropriate amount of breaks.

then he takes him to a baseball match, he had multiple tickets… would have been a waste to refuse.

Then Dinah insists he tags along for dinner in a restaurant (there were some others, it was actually not awkward at all somehow, quite nice really), this grows into dinner at the penthouse.

It's when Oliver expresses the desire to teach Danny archery, telling him there are a lot of things in the sport that are also applicable to business stuff that Danny comes to a sudden and violent realization.

He's being parented!

[nebularsung]

birthday mayhem | l.dh

chaotic boyfriend!haechan x birthday girl!reader

❝ on your birthday, haechan messed up the delivery address and had to race across the city to get your gifts back. meanwhile, he sent you on a sweet treasure hunt with help from his friends, each giving you cute clues and little surprises. you visited your favorite spots, laughed a lot, and felt how much he really cares. in the end, you found him—tired, messy, and holding your cake and flowers—just before he got down on one knee to propose. ❞

genre. fluff & crack ⭑ word count. 7.5k + 9 screenshots

content. birthday chaos... a lot!, haechan, as always, dragging the boys into his mess, down bad!haechan, fluff fluff fluff, haechan is super dedicated and you're his queen

“No, you’re messing with me!” Haechan let out a strangled laugh, though there was no humor behind it—only rising panic curdling in his chest.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lee, but we delivered to the address you provided,” the delivery man replied, voice steady and professional—completely indifferent to the full-blown crisis Haechan was having on the other end.

He gritted his teeth, fighting to stay calm. “Fine! Then give me the address. I’ll fix this myself.” His free hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into his palm.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t disclose—”

“Mark, I’m gonna lose my mind—” Haechan hissed, shoving the phone into Mark’s hands before he did something regrettable, like throw it across the room.

Mark sighed and took over the call, already negotiating with the delivery guy while Haechan paced the living room like a man possessed.

How could he screw up something this important?

He double-checked everything!

Triple-checked!

And now—God—your gifts, your birthday surprise… everything he had spent weeks planning was falling apart.

The ring.

His heart dropped to his stomach.

That stupidly expensive, carefully chosen ring that was supposed to slip onto your pretty finger tonight—gone, sitting somewhere across town in the hands of complete strangers.

He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing under his breath.

He needed to fix this.

Fast.

“Okay, good news and bad news,” Mark said, turning around, holding the phone in one hand, his expression a strange mix of sympathy and amusement. “Which do you want first?”

Haechan was already sitting on the floor, his arms locked tightly around his knees, bouncing slightly like a stressed-out child. His face was crumpled with panic.

“Good first. Please. I need something good,” he muttered into the fabric of his jeans.

“Good news: he gave me the address.” Mark waved the phone triumphantly. “Bad news: it's on the complete opposite side of the city.”

The words hit Haechan like a punch to the gut. He actually winced, clutching his knees tighter. He could swear he heard a crack somewhere inside his heart.

“Oh my God…” he whimpered. “I’m the worst boyfriend in history…” His voice cracked pitifully as he buried his face between his knees. His shoulders sagged as he felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes.

Mark stared at him in disbelief. “Dude, I’m starting to think you care more about her birthday than she does.” He crouched down next to Haechan, who looked genuinely on the verge of collapse.

“Of course I do! The day my beloved queen, my goddess, the meaning of my whole existence was born. How could I not?” He said in a dramatic tone, hyperventilating.

Mark rubbed his temple. “Okay, listen. What if we distract her? Y'know, plan something while you run around picking up her gifts?"

A muffled sniff came from Haechan. “Like what…” His voice was hoarse and small, barely audible against his jeans.

Mark paused, searching his brain for something—anything—that wouldn’t result in Haechan combusting from stress. “Didn't you say once that you wanted to do a treasure hunt with her?” he offered cautiously. “Maybe… this is the perfect time? Make it feel intentional?”

He winced a little, expecting the suggestion to somehow make things worse.

But Haechan slowly lifted his head, wide brown eyes gleaming—not just from unshed tears, but from the unmistakable spark of an idea taking root.

A dangerous spark.

“Oh, no. You’re thinking too hard—” Mark muttered, but it was too late.

That mischievous glint was back.

The same one Haechan always got before dragging everyone into his wild, extra ideas.

A crooked, teary smile spread across Haechan’s face. “This is perfect.”

Mark groaned, getting to his feet, scrubbing a hand over his face in defeat. Still, he couldn't help the fondness tugging at his mouth.

“Gross, dude. Your nose is running.” He tossed a crumpled napkin from the kitchen counter at Haechan’s head, wrinkling his nose dramatically.

Haechan laughed weakly, wiping his face, then shot Mark a crooked grin—bright and boyish despite the chaos around him.

And just like that, the mission was back on.

Haechan bounced to his feet, buzzing with frantic energy, grabbing his phone and firing off frantic texts to the group chat.

They were doing this.

He was getting your gifts back.

He was making this the best, most unforgettable birthday of your life.

The soft golden morning light streamed gently through the sheer curtains of your bedroom, casting warm patterns across the walls. You stirred beneath the covers, blinking away sleep as your eyes adjusted to the brightness. The quiet hum of the city outside drifted in faintly through the window, grounding you in the gentle hush of a new day.

You sat up slowly, hands running through your hair as you stretched your arms above your head with a sleepy yawn. There was a certain stillness to the room—a kind that felt like a held breath.

Then, the scent hit you.

Warm, buttery toast. The sweetness of strawberries. A faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Your chest fluttered with soft recognition.

Of course he was here.

It was your birthday. There was no way Lee Donghyuck—your chaotic, loving, occasionally over-the-top boyfriend—was going to let you wake up alone.

A smile tugged at your lips as you slid out of bed and padded across the cool floor, drawn like a magnet to the source of the scent.

And there he was.

In the kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of the morning light, Haechan stood by the table, carefully placing down two plates like they were fragile glass. He was wearing your favorite hoodie of his—slightly oversized, sleeves pushed up haphazardly. His hair was a little messy, like he'd barely run his fingers through it. But his expression… it was focused. Delicate. Like he was setting up a tiny celebration in your honor with the tenderness it deserved.

He didn’t notice you right away. Not until you leaned against the doorway, your voice still touched with sleep.

“Hyuck…”

His head snapped up.

His whole face lit up—instantly. That boyish grin bloomed like sunrise, and his eyes softened like they always did when they looked at you.

“You’re awake!” he grinned, already crossing the room to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Happy birthday, sleepyhead.”

You wrapped your arms around his middle, melting into the warmth of his hoodie and the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat. He swayed with you a little, resting his chin on top of your head.

“You made breakfast?” you mumbled into his chest, your smile hidden against the fabric.

“Of course,” he said proudly, pulling away just enough to look into your eyes. “Only the best for the birthday royalty.”

You laughed softly, and he looked so proud of himself that your heart swelled.

The table was beautiful.

Pancakes with strawberries and powdered sugar. Toast with a tiny heart cut into it. A cup of your favorite coffee, made just how you liked it. And even a tiny candle stuck into a single croissant.

You sat down together, sharing soft bites, laughs between sips, kisses peppered on your face, and his pinky brushing yours like a quiet promise.

But after a while, you noticed him glance at the clock—twice. And his knee bounced under the table just a little.

“Hey,” you said gently, setting your fork down. “Is everything okay?”

He blinked, then gave you a sheepish smile. “Yeah—yeah, everything’s perfect. I just…”

He reached for your hand, warm and slightly calloused from guitar strings he plays so often. His thumb rubbed soft circles into your knuckles.

“I actually need to head out soon,” he said carefully, eyes watching your reaction. “But you don’t need to do anything yet. Just… stay in your cute pajamas and wait by the door, okay?”

You tilted your head, suspicious. “Why?”

He grinned, squeezing your hand. “Because Mark’s coming to pick you up.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “Mark?”

“Yep. And no, I’m not telling you what he’s doing,” he said before you could ask more. “All I’ll say is—it’s part of your birthday surprise. And I need you to trust me, alright?”

You pouted, and he groaned.

“Don’t give me that face, babe. It’s already hard enough to leave you when you’re sitting here looking all pretty and pouty.”

He stood up, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then your lips—quick, fluttering little pecks that made you giggle.

“Be ready when he arrives,” he said softly, brushing a hand down your arm. “You’re gonna have the best birthday ever. I promise.”

And with one last smile—wide and warm and so Haechan—he grabbed his keys and left with a wink.

And you?

You were left smiling into your coffee, already wondering what chaos he’d planned with his ridiculous, beautiful heart.

You didn’t have to wait long. Barely an hour after Haechan left, your phone buzzed with a message from Mark:

[10:03 AM] Mark Lee 🚗: “Get that pretty birthday self outside. Your knight in slightly wrinkled armor awaits.”

Laughing to yourself, you headed to your bedroom, threw on something cute but comfy—something you knew Haechan would love to see you in later—and stepped out the door.

Mark was leaning against his car in a hoodie and jeans, holding out a bouquet of mismatched wildflowers with a dramatic flourish.

“M’lady,” he said with an exaggerated bow.

“You’re such a dork.”

“It’s my birthday job,” he grinned, opening the passenger door. “Get in. Phase one awaits.”

You buckled in, still smiling as he pulled into traffic. The ride was filled with Mark’s usual nonsense—playlist shuffles between R&B and some chaotic EDM, his one-man commentary show about the drivers around him, and the occasional side-eye when you asked where you were going.

“You’ll see,” he’d say with a wink.

Eventually, you recognized the streets. Your eyes widened as he turned a familiar corner.

The café.

Your café.

The cozy little spot you and Haechan always visited. The one where the baristas already knew your favorite orders and where you'd spent countless rainy afternoons sharing pastries and playful banter in the back booth. The one where one of the baristas had become one of your best friends.

Mark parked and turned off the engine, grinning at you.

“Alright,” he said, turning to face you. “Go inside. They’re expecting you. Oh—” he reached into his jacket and handed you a small envelope, “—take this. You’ll need it after.”

Your heart was already fluttering as you pushed open the café door.

The familiar scent of roasted beans and sugar rushed over you. And waiting behind the counter was Jaemin, flashing you a mischievous smile. You hadn’t even realized he worked today.

“Happy birthday,” he said smoothly, handing you a small pastry box tied with a ribbon.

You blinked. “Wait—did you bake me something?”

“No,” he snorted, already wiping down the counter. “Haechan would fight me.”

You opened the box carefully—and inside was a tiny tart, your favorite. Nestled beside it was a folded note and a small square Polaroid.

Your heart squeezed.

It was a photo of you and Haechan—candid and warm, taken from a slight angle. You were laughing, hand half-raised like you were trying to block the shot, and he was kissing your cheek with his eyes scrunched shut in mock exaggeration.

You swallowed around the emotion in your throat and opened the note.

Clue #1: “Where we first danced in public, remember? I made a fool of myself, and you said it was the best thing you’d ever seen. Renjun’s waiting with your next surprise. P.S. Tell Jaemin he’s not allowed to flirt with you today. Birthday rule.”

You burst out laughing, folding the note as Jaemin raised his eyebrows.

“Tell him I said that’s boring,” Jaemin called out with a smirk.

“I’m telling him you said that,” you shot back, walking out with the Polaroid pressed to your chest, heart already glowing.

Mark was waiting by the car, biting into a croissant like this was the most normal day ever.

“Next stop?” you asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

He gave you a playful look.

“Let’s go see how good your memory is.”

And with that, the adventure continued—your heart racing with excitement and warmth, wondering what Haechan had planned next.

The car ride to the bookstore was filled with the kind of warm anticipation that buzzed quietly beneath your skin. You were holding the Polaroid in your hands still, glancing at it every so often like it might hold some secret code. Mark noticed, but didn’t say anything—he just smiled to himself, clearly enjoying the mystery as much as you were.

Eventually, he pulled up in front of the small independent bookstore tucked between a florist and a vintage clothing shop. You knew this place. You and Haechan had stumbled upon it during a rainy weekend stroll months ago, when you’d ducked inside to avoid the downpour and ended up dancing clumsily between the aisles while soft jazz played overhead.

It was the first time Haechan danced with you in public—a silly, half-spun waltz right by the poetry section.

Mark unlocked your seatbelt with an exaggerated click. “Your next prince is inside. I’ll wait in the car so you don’t feel like you’re being followed by a reality show.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately and pushed open the glass door, a small bell jingling above your head. Inside, the world smelled of old pages, leather bindings, and something sweet—like cinnamon tea.

You looked around slowly. The sunlight poured through the wide windows in gentle streaks, casting golden lines across the hardwood floor and dust particles that danced in the air like little bits of magic.

And there he was—Renjun—standing by the poetry section with a small book in his hand, flipping through it with exaggerated elegance. He glanced up the moment you entered, his lips twitching with the faintest smile like he’d been waiting longer than he’d admit.

“Took you long enough,” he said, slipping the book shut and tucking it neatly back onto the shelf. “I was starting to recite sonnets to myself just to stay awake.”

You laughed softly, walking over. “Please. You love this place more than your apartment.”

He gave you a playful side-eye. “I do, but I don’t love standing around like some enchanted librarian while Haechan plays romantic scavenger hero.”

“Enchanted librarian suits you, though.”

Renjun pretended to gag, but his smile broke through anyway. “Okay, okay. Enough stalling. I’ve got something for you.”

He stepped aside and motioned to a display table behind him. “He told me to pick a book for you. Said it had to be meaningful. I had like… a crisis about it.”

You walked over and found the table set with a single wrapped gift—book-shaped, of course. Beside it was another Polaroid, this time of you and Haechan sitting in this very bookstore, sharing a drink while he dramatically read poetry to you from a worn-out book. Your face was blurry from laughter, mid-giggle, and Haechan’s mouth was wide open mid-line, one hand over his heart.

You smiled, heart swelling.

“Go on,” Renjun urged. “Open it.”

You peeled the wrapping back carefully. Inside was a copy of your favorite childhood novel—the very edition you once told Haechan your mom used to read to you from. He had remembered.

Pressed inside the front cover was another note in his handwriting:

Clue #2: “You always said music speaks when words can't. So I figured your next stop should be somewhere full of voices—even if they’re not saying anything at all. There’s a boy there with headphones always around his neck and the softest smile I’ve ever been jealous of. He’s got your next gift. P.S. Don’t let him be too cool! Don’t look too much, love!”

Renjun snorted behind you. “He called me at 1am crying because the first book he picked had a tragic ending.”

You laughed so hard you had to sit on the edge of the table for a moment, wiping at your eyes.

Before you left, Renjun pulled you into a rare hug, squeezing you a bit and kissing your temple.

“Happy birthday, idiot. He really put his whole soul into this.”

You clutched the book to your chest and headed out with another layer of joy wrapped around your heart.

Mark was already pulling a U-turn when you slid back into the passenger seat.

“Next?”

“The music shop,” you said, smiling.

The bell above the music shop door jingled softly as you stepped inside, a familiar scent of wood, old sheet music, and something slightly metallic greeting you. The cozy space was dimly lit with warm lights, and for a second, it seemed quiet—until, suddenly:

Strum.

A sharp, playful chord echoed across the shop, followed by another. Then—

“Baaaabe!” Jeno’s voice rang out dramatically as he slid into view on his knees, electric guitar in hand, strumming a short, silly but somehow impressive solo. He ended the riff with an exaggerated flourish, grinning like a kid at a talent show.

“You’re finally here!” he said, still kneeling like he’d just performed at a sold-out arena. “And yes, I have been practicing that move for an hour waiting for you, thanks for asking.”

You giggled, unable to help it, covering your face briefly as your cheeks warmed. Jeno chuckled, slinging the guitar behind his back and getting up to dust himself off.

“Alright, alright, now that I’ve thoroughly embarrassed myself,” he said, stepping behind the counter. “Time for the real reason you’re here.”

He pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper, worn at the corners like he’d read it a hundred times. “Donghyuck told me to give you this only after I properly welcomed you, rockstar-style.”

You reached for the page with curious fingers, and when you unfolded it, your heart skipped.

It was a handwritten song—one Haechan had written himself. His unique scrawl filled the page in black ink, little hearts dotting the i’s, and a few musical notes dancing in the margins. The lyrics were gentle, full of intimate lines about quiet mornings, soft laughter, and the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking. One particular line stood out:

"You are the chorus to every love song I never dared to sing out loud—until now."

Jeno leaned against the counter, watching you with a quiet smile as you read. “He really put his heart into that. Even recorded a demo, but I wasn’t allowed to show you. ‘Too cringey,’ he said.”

You were already biting your lip to fight the smile threatening to stretch across your face. Your eyes watered slightly—overwhelmed, touched, and just incredibly in love.

“Oh, and before I forget,” Jeno added, pulling another paper from his back pocket with a dramatic flourish. “Clue number three. You’re getting close.”

You took it, still holding Haechan’s lyrics carefully in the other hand.

Clue #3: “He says he doesn’t like sunshine, but you’ve seen the way he smiles when the light hits the trees just right. He’s waiting where the trees hum with wind, and kids run free—the park, of course. Your next gift is with Jaemin. P.S. Ask him about the time I challenged him to a cartwheel contest. I pulled something I didn’t know I had.”

Jeno gave you a playful wink. “Good luck, birthday girl. And give Jaemin my regards—but don’t believe anything he tells you about that cartwheel contest.”

You laughed, clutching the song to your chest and heading back out, already wondering what Jaemin—and your boyfriend—had planned next.

Getting back to the car, you slid into the backseat, looking at Mark in the rearview.

“He really outdid himself this time, huh?” you asked, still glancing at the song.

“I fear he did…” he chuckled, shaking his head. “This man loves you more than anything on Earth… You should’ve been used to it by now,” he started the engine, finishing his sentence. “And better be ready for the next birthday, because I’m sure he’ll prepare something even bigger.”

You laughed, knowing this will be true. “This man is only making me worry about his birthday…” you pouted, thinking about how you could do something that big for his birthday.

“Let’s be for real… you’re the only gift he needs, dude.” Mark turned at you. “May I know where we are going next?”

“The Park, my knight in slightly wrinkled armor.” you grinned mockingly as he laughed. “With Jaemin…?”

“Don’t mention it, but he forgot his stop. He wasn’t supposed to be at the café… It’s his day off…” he tells, a hint of embarrassment in his tone while you just laughed.

Yeah, your friends were really sweet.

While you were off following beautifully crafted clues, laughing with his best friends, and slowly unraveling the love-wrapped puzzle he’d orchestrated…

Haechan was sprinting across the city like a man possessed.

The sun beat down on his back as he power-walked through the second apartment complex he’d been to that day. His hair clung to his forehead, cheeks pink from heat and sheer stress. In one hand, he clutched his phone with the cursed email from the delivery service confirming the wrong address he’d given, and in the other hand, he held the bouquet that he’d already fought for at stop number one.

He had retrieved the flowers from a confused elderly neighbor who was more interested in his “soft cheeks” and “nice thighs” than the actual explanation of why he was there. She’d patted his face twice before letting go of the bouquet, claiming he reminded her of her second husband.

It was traumatizing.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part stood in front of him now—arms crossed, hip cocked to the side, sunglasses sliding down her nose. An immaculately dressed woman in heels and a silk robe, tapping her foot as she leaned against her doorframe.

Haechan had survived a lot in his twenty-something years of life. Awkward first dates. A shattered ankle during a dance rehearsal. Once, a bird flew into his open window and pecked his ear. But none of it—none—compared to this.

His heart thundered in his chest as he climbed the creaky stairs to apartment 3C, flowers crushed slightly in his grip and sweat trailing down his spine. He’d been to the florist. And now only one mission remained:

The Ring.

His final boss battle.

He knocked.

The door opened halfway, chain still latched. She peeked through—a woman in her mid-thirties, glowing skin, silk robe, fresh blowout. Sunglasses on indoors. She looked like the type who had a glass of wine with breakfast and named her dog something like Versace.

“Yes?” she said, lifting an arched brow.

Haechan offered the friendliest, tightest, most obviously-fake smile he’d ever forced. “Hi! Good afternoon. I’m really sorry to bother you, but there’s been a huge mistake with a package I ordered. The address was wrong, and the delivery was sent here instead of my apartment. And the package—it’s, um… it’s really important. It’s a ring.”

She didn’t blink. “I received a ring, yes.”

“Oh thank God, okay—” Haechan said again, for the third time, panting like he’d just run a marathon. “But that ring is not for you, ma’am.”

She huffed, raising an eyebrow like a queen being addressed by a peasant. “The label had my address.”

“Yes, because I messed it up!” he pleaded, gesturing to himself in wild frustration. “I’m the idiot here! That doesn’t mean the ring’s yours!”

“I assumed it was from my husband,” she cut him off, nails clicking against the wood of the door. “He travels often. Sends me gifts. I thought he was making up for last week.”

“What happened last week?”

“He told me I shouldn’t buy a second blender.”

Haechan blinked. “I—okay, yeah, anyway, that ring? Not from him.”

“You don’t know that,” she said, already starting to close the door.

“You don’t even know if he’s your husband?!”

She pouted. “You’re very aggressive.”

“I’m in love!” Haechan exploded. “Do you understand?! I am in love with a woman who makes me want to write songs and cook pancakes at 2am and—and commit federal crimes if someone doesn’t give me her ring back!”

That caught her attention. She tilted her head, intrigued. “...Federal crimes?”

“Ma’am,” he said, clutching his chest like he’d been shot, “that ring was custom-made. Do you know how many hours I spent choosing the band? The diamond? I was gonna give it to her during her birthday dinner. With the cake! That you also have, by the way! I made it myself! It has pink frosting and tiny letters that spell out her nickname!”

She tilted her head. “Hmm…”

Haechan threw a hand against it, heart pounding. “Please. Look, I’m begging you. It was meant for my girlfriend. It’s her birthday today. I’ve been running all over the city fixing this mess because I got the address wrong and I can’t—I won’t let her think I forgot, or didn’t care, or didn’t plan everything. I’ve got her friends helping me create this whole treasure hunt, and she’s following clues right now with the biggest smile on her face and—and the ring’s the last one. It has to be perfect.”

“Please,” he added, softly now. “It’s not just a ring. It’s her dream ring. I saved for months. I memorized her Pinterest board. It’s got this little wave etched inside because she said once that I reminded her of the ocean. I’ve never given someone something so important in my life.”

There was a long pause. She tapped her chin thoughtfully, eyeing him up and down.

“I see,” she said. “Well… that’s very romantic.”

“It is,” Haechan said with a breath of relief.

“But also,” she added, folding her arms, “how do I know you’re telling the truth? For all I know, you could be a con artist trying to steal gifts off people’s porches.”

“I look like I run a scam Etsy page, not a crime ring!” he sputtered.

She didn’t move. Instead, she reached for her phone.

“I’m calling my husband.”

“Oh, come on—” he complained exasperated.

“No. If it’s not from him, I’ll return it. If it is, I’m keeping it.”

As she dialed, Haechan paced in circles outside her door, muttering dramatic curses to himself.

“Hello, babe,” she said sweetly into the phone, turning away slightly. “Did you send me a ring?”

Pause.

“No? Are you sure?”

Pause.

“A white gold band with a small sapphire detail inside.”

Longer pause.

“…No, don’t be mad, I thought it was from you!”

Haechan grinned.

Victory.

But then—

“What do you mean ‘give it back’?! It’s already in my jewelry box!”

Haechan’s head snapped up. He could hear the muffled voice on the other end, rising in pitch. She pulled the phone away from her ear, face souring.

Then she turned back to Haechan.

“Fine. I’ll return it. But you owe me.”

He blinked. “Owe you?”

“You interrupted my facial. I was mid-serum.”

“I—I can Venmo you ten bucks and a sorry emoji?”

She stared.

“…And I’ll leave a five-star Yelp review for your building?” he offered.

Finally, she huffed, disappeared inside, and returned with a sleek velvet ring box in one hand and the crumpled bakery box in the other.

“It’s not gluten-free, by the way,” she said, handing him the cake. “I checked.”

“I know.”

“But it’s really good,” she added. “Your girlfriend’s lucky.”

He took the box gently, like it was made of glass. The ring sat nestled inside, shining softly in the light.

“…So am I,” he murmured.

With a grateful bow, a muttered thank you, and a spin on his heel, Haechan bolted out of the building like a man on a mission.

Because now, finally—ring in hand, cake secured, though slightly violated, flowers salvaged—he was ready for the final reveal.

And nothing, nothing, could stop him now.

The soft breeze rustled through the trees as you made your way toward the wide-open park. Children’s laughter echoed in the air, mingling with the distant bark of a dog and the faint melody of someone playing guitar nearby. The path was lined with golden light, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the grass as it dipped closer to the horizon.

You didn’t have to search long.

There he was—Na Jaemin, leaning back lazily against a picnic table bench, hair glowing in the sun, a ridiculous birthday sash over his hoodie that read: “Agent of Love Delivery #4” in sparkly gold letters.

You couldn’t help but smile.

He spotted you, stood up immediately, and with a dramatic bow, held out his arms like a game show host. “You’ve made it, birthday girl!”

“Oh my god, Jaemin…” you laughed. “What are you wearing?”

“Haechan made me. He said it was either this or a banana costume. So if anything, I chose dignity.”

You snorted.

On the table behind him was a little box wrapped in peach paper and tied with a silver ribbon. Next to it, a mason jar filled with wildflowers and one of those tiny Polaroid prints—it was a shot of you and Haechan under a café umbrella, rain misting behind you. He had his arm around you, cheeks squished against yours, both your eyes crinkled with laughter.

“Okay, that’s cheating,” you whispered, already clutching the photo to your chest.

“Yeah, I know,” Jaemin smiled, sitting down beside you on the bench. “He kinda stacked the deck with that one.”

You opened the box next. Inside was a pair of matching beaded bracelets—simple, homemade, with tiny letter charms. Yours had the initials H + (Y) in tiny silver, and his had your name’s first letter alongside his. It was the kind of sweet that punched you in the chest a little.

Jaemin leaned his elbows on the table, watching your expression. “You like them?”

You nodded, biting your lip, a soft warmth blooming in your chest. “He made these?”

Jaemin nodded. “Stayed up till like four a.m. muttering about bead sizes and knot strength. It was like watching someone lose a game of Tetris in real life.”

You laughed, eyes still fixed on the bracelets.

“He really loves you, you know,” Jaemin added, gentler now. “Like, the mushy, ridiculous, ‘I’ll challenge my friends to public cartwheel contests’ kind of love.”

You blinked. “He what?”

Jaemin smirked, rubbing the back of his neck. “He was here this morning. Said the park was a ‘critical love station’ and dared me to a cartwheel contest to ‘fill the air with romantic energy.’ I think he pulled something, but refused to admit it.”

You laughed so hard you had to lean into the table. “Please tell me you won.”

“Barely,” Jaemin grinned. “I’ve got a trick knee. But I had something to prove.”

The two of you sat in the sunlight for a moment longer—you, sipping water Jaemin had thoughtfully brought, him watching the clouds like he was trying to spot hidden heart shapes.

Then he turned toward you with a glint in his eye.

“Ready for your next mission?”

You nodded, excited again.

Jaemin reached into his jacket pocket and handed you a folded envelope. Inside, a hand-drawn doodle of Haechan in stick-figure form, holding a giant tray of chicken nuggets like a trophy.

You read the clue aloud:

Clue #4 "Every birthday queen deserves a royal feast. A place with fries, shakes, and room to breathe. Two noisy gremlins await your arrival— One sings too loud, one eats like a rival. They’ve got your last clue and a sugary bite. Meet them at the mall, under the neon light."

“Chenle and Jisung?” you guessed, grinning.

Jaemin nodded. “Good luck getting a word in between them.”

You slipped the envelope into your bag, already eager to see what chaos awaited you next—and what Haechan had planned for the final surprise.

The mall was buzzing—kids darted around with ice cream cones, couples shared trays of fries under glowing fast-food signs, and the distant echo of someone playing piano on the lower level added a strangely dramatic soundtrack to your search.

But you had a mission.

You scanned the food court until you saw them: Chenle and Jisung, sitting at a table with a comically large balloon bouquet tied to it, one of which had your name spelled wrong on purpose (“HBD Y/N 🐸❤️”)—a Haechan joke if you ever saw one.

Jisung spotted you first. “She’s here!” he shouted, mouth half-full of fries, earning a scolding swat on the arm from Chenle.

“Swallow first, you trash goblin!” Chenle hissed, then turned to you with a blinding smile. “Happy Birthday, Birthday Girl!”

You reached them, immediately greeted by a cupcake shoved toward you with a plastic tiara balanced on top.

“You have to wear this,” Chenle grinned, holding up the tiara. “Haechan’s orders. He said if you didn’t, the whole thing would be null and void.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and placed the tiara on your head. Jisung clapped like you’d won an award.

“Now, before we give you the final clue…” Chenle paused dramatically. “You must pass…”

“…THE BIRTHDAY INTERROGATION!” Jisung declared, pounding the table.

“Oh god.” you murmured to yourself, expecting the worst ever from these two.

“Question one,” Chenle leaned in like a talk show host. “How annoying is Haechan on a scale from 1 to ‘I fear for his safety around sharp objects’?”

You snorted. “Solid eight and a half. But in an endearing way.”

“Respectable answer,” Jisung nodded solemnly, handing you a chicken nugget like it was a prize.

Chenle grinned. “Question two: Do you like cheesy love songs?”

You blinked. “I mean, yeah?”

“Good,” Chenle stood up, dusting off his hands like he’d just completed a job. “Because he wrote you a whole damn EP and plans to sing half of it in falsetto when you walk in.”

You laughed, covering your face with your hands. “You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Jisung said. “We’ve heard rehearsals. It’s… passionate.”

“And loud,” Chenle added, handing you a small velvet pouch. Inside, tucked carefully, was a delicate key charm necklace—a symbol for the next stop.

Attached to the pouch was a final envelope. You unfolded it, heart skipping.

Final Clue “You’ve danced through laughter, photos, crumbs, and clues, Now it’s time to find the one who planned it all for you. Not a prince, but a loud-mouthed fool in love, Waiting where stars shine through the ceiling above. Penthouse suite, the view’s a delight— Come find me, my love. We’ll end the night right. 💛 — Your forever idiot, Haechan”

You held the note close to your chest, heart full.

“Ready?” Chenle grinned.

“Let’s go get your idiot,” Jisung added, wiggling his brows.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the top floor of Haechan’s penthouse—and right in the center of the room stood your boyfriend, panting like he’d just outrun a bus.

And maybe he had.

His shirt was wrinkled and half-untucked, his hair disheveled and clinging to his forehead with sweat. In one hand, he clutched a sad-looking bouquet, the flowers clearly once beautiful but now crumpled from their journey—one was bent sideways like it had tried to escape. In the other hand was a slice of cake on a plastic plate, frosting sliding precariously off the side. Written in shaky red icing, clearly done in a moving car or under duress, were the words:

"HAPPY BRITHDAY (Y/N)"

He looked like a romantic wreck—disastrous but devoted, with the most relieved expression breaking over his face the second he saw you.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice raspy from the chaos of the day, “Surprise?”

You didn’t laugh at the misspelled cake. You didn’t point out the crushed petals or the fact that he looked like he’d been mugged by the wind.

You just ran straight into his arms, nearly knocking the plate to the floor as he caught you in a tight, sweaty, messy hug.

“I missed you so much today,” you murmured against his shoulder.

“I missed you more,” he whispered back, arms locking around your waist. “I swear I fought off at least two minor gods to get your cake back.”

“Oh my GOD, finally!” Chenle shouted from the couch. “You look like a wet dog, Lee Donghyuck.”

“I told you we should’ve wiped him down at the door,” Jisung added, wincing at the sight of Haechan’s ruined shirt.

“I think the cake’s bleeding,” Jaemin observed, poking the sagging icing with the end of a fork.

“Shut up!” Haechan barked over your shoulder, too tired to glare properly. “It’s romantic suffering, okay?!”

Mark walked over with a clean towel and patted Haechan’s face like a doting grandmother. “There, there. You did your best, champ.”

“I got the ring back,” Haechan mumbled into your hair, breath still fast. “That crazy lady tried to pretend it was hers—her husband chased me with a slipper, babe, I was nearly a crime statistic—”

“But you’re here,” you said gently, pulling back to look at him with a soft smile. “And you’re mine. And I love you.”

He stared at you for a second—dazed, overwhelmed, completely undone—and then gave you the most Haechan smile of all: crooked, tired, but absolutely bursting with affection.

“I love you more,” he said. “And next time, I’m triple-checking the delivery address.”

The boys groaned.

“You better!” Jeno called out, raising a soda can in mock salute. “Because none of us are doing this scavenger mission again!”

“Speak for yourself,” Jaemin said, smirking. “I got free cartwheels and cake out of it.”

“And I got to eat half the second cake,” Chenle added smugly.

“Wait, what—FIRST cake?” Renjun gawked.

But you were already pulling him by the hand toward the cozy setup at the balcony—a table full of candles, soft music, photos of your relationship strung like stars, and your friends shouting and laughing like they were born to make noise.

And amid the beautiful mess of the evening, you looked at Haechan—your ridiculous, stubborn, chaotic soulmate—and realized this was perfect.

Laughter still echoed from the living room—Chenle shouting over Jaemin about cake crumbs on the couch, Jeno and Jisung in a mock fight over the last soda, and Mark trying to get everyone to just sit down for one second.

But you and Haechan were out on the penthouse balcony, the door shut behind you, blocking out the noise.

It was quiet out here.

You leaned against the cool glass railing, the night breeze brushing your skin. Behind you, Haechan stood a step away, his hands stuffed in his pockets, face still flushed from the whirlwind of the day.

“Hey,” he said gently.

You turned, catching the way the city lights reflected in his eyes—warm, full of unspoken things.

He stepped closer, not saying anything for a beat. Just watching you. His breath slower now, but you could feel the tension humming beneath his skin, like something big was about to happen. Something he had been thinking about for a long time.

“I was gonna do this earlier,” he admitted softly, “but, you know… ring fiasco, stolen cake, getting chased with a slipper…” he rolled his eyes.

You laughed lightly, but your heart beat a little faster.

“But now…” Haechan exhaled and reached into his jacket pocket. Slowly. Carefully. His fingers shook a little as he pulled out a small velvet box—not in perfect condition, slightly dented from the day’s chaos, but clearly loved and protected.

He opened it with trembling hands. Inside sat the most beautiful ring—simple, elegant, glowing in the warm light of the city behind you.

“I bought this months ago,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “I practiced speeches. Even wrote a dumb poem about it. Thought I’d have this perfect moment, you know? But today was anything but perfect.”

He laughed at himself, a soft, breathless sound. Then, his voice grew steadier. Lower. More serious.

“But I realized… I don’t care about perfect. I care about you. And I’d do this in a thunderstorm or while hanging from a helicopter if that’s what it took.”

He dropped to one knee, and suddenly the world around you fell completely silent.

Your breath caught.

His eyes were wide and shining, vulnerable in a way you’d only seen when he was really, truly open with you.

“I would chase down every wrong delivery, run across the city, fight a hundred angry husbands—hell, I’d go to the moon and back to bring you the stupidest plushie if it made you smile. Because you make my life feel like the best kind of chaos. The kind I want forever.”

He held the ring up to you with both hands, almost like an offering.

“Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in your eyes, heart thrumming wildly against your ribs.

And in that second, it didn’t matter that the cake was a disaster, or the flowers were half-dead, or that Haechan was still wearing mismatched socks.

Because here he was—yours, messy and beautiful and completely sincere.

“Yes,” you breathed, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Of course I will.”

He let out the loudest, happiest laugh—the kind that crinkled his whole face—before standing up and wrapping you in the tightest hug, spinning you around with such giddy energy you forgot your feet ever touched the ground.

Behind the glass door, a chorus of cheering exploded. You glanced back to see your friends pressed against the windows, jumping and shouting and slapping each other’s backs.

“HE IS ENGAGED!” Chenle screamed.

“Who’s baking the wedding cake?!” Jaemin yelled.

“I CALL BEST MAN!” Jisung cried, while Mark smacked him on the head.

But all you heard was Haechan’s voice, close to your ear, whispering:

“You just made me the happiest idiot on Earth.”

The penthouse had finally quieted.

After all the shouting, teasing, cake-smearing, and an impromptu dance battle that involved Jeno trying to moonwalk in socks and almost breaking a vase—everyone had left, or crashed in the guest rooms.

But Haechan stayed wide awake.

You found him in the living room after your shower, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a blanket around his shoulders, hair still slightly damp from when Jisung tried to pour soda over him "in celebration." He was scrolling through the photos from the day on his phone—zooming into your reactions, his friends’ dumb expressions, and a few blurry moments that somehow felt more special than the perfectly framed ones.

He looked up when you entered, and his face softened like it always did when it was just you two.

“Hey,” he murmured, holding his hand out to you.

You walked over, taking it, and he immediately tugged you into his lap, wrapping both arms around you tightly, like he needed to feel every part of this was real.

You leaned back against his chest, his heartbeat thudding steady and warm under your ear.

It was quiet. Safe.

After a long moment, he whispered, “You really said yes.”

You smiled softly, fingers tracing over the fabric of his shirt. “I really did.”

“Even after I showed up panting like a dog, with half a cake and flowers that looked like roadkill?”

You laughed, your head tilting to look at him. “Especially after that.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, but they were glassy—emotions still high, the weight of the day slowly settling into him.

He pressed his lips against your temple, lingering there. “I wanted it to be perfect,” he said again, barely above a whisper. “I wanted everything to go right.”

“But it did,” you said, shifting to look at him fully now. “Because I got you at the end of it. A little sweaty, mildly traumatized, but still you.”

Haechan grinned, a breathy sound escaping him—part laugh, part disbelief.

“I think I love you more than I’m supposed to,” he said suddenly. “Like… dangerously. Like, I’d sell my liver on the black market if it meant getting you a second ring just to match the first.”

You snorted. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re marrying me,” he teased, eyes gleaming.

He brought your hand up to his lips and kissed the ring now resting there. Carefully. Reverently. Like it was a secret only you two shared.

After a long pause, he murmured, “I know I joke a lot. I mess up. I say dumb stuff all the time. But this…” His voice caught a little. “This is the most serious thing I’ve ever felt. I want to build something with you. A life. A forever. Even if we mess it up a little.”

You tilted his chin toward you, brushing your nose against his. “I don’t want perfect. I want you. Just like this.”

He kissed you—slow and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say with words. And when you pulled away, the grin returned, softer this time.

“Okay,” he said, tugging the blanket higher around both of you. “Then let’s mess up the world together.”

That night, you fell asleep curled into Haechan’s arms, your ring hand resting on his chest, the city lights painting lazy patterns on the ceiling. And for the first time in your life, the future didn’t feel like a question mark.

It felt like home.

BONUS:

☆ masterlist + notes. this one goes to my pretty @vanesycho my lovely birthday girl! hope you like it baby! i had so much fun writing it!!

★ @lyvhie @spacejip @zhapire @onriyuview @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce

[dreamersparacosm]

i want jealous jungkook too...but do you know who i want him to be jealous of? BAM. I WANT OC AND BAM I WANT THEM

tpod!jungkook would absolutely be jealous of a dog. like he already fought to have you, now he has to fight with his own dog?? what kind of world is this?

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 1!

prompt ; in which jungkook’s biggest competition isn’t a man, but his own doberman.

warnings ; none!

Here’s the thing about Jeon Jungkook: when you’re in Korea, he simply forgets how to function like a normal human being.

Sure, he could go to rehearsals. He could hang out with the boys, lift heavy things at the gym, play with Bam at the dog park until one of them drops dead from exhaustion. He could — and does — have a life outside of you.

But unfortunately, that’s impossible to uphold currently. Because Jungkook, in all his stubbornness, has decided that when you are in Korea, you are his life.

So he waits, with the particular blend of patience and agitation that only the hopelessly devoted can manage.

He waits while you sit through endless meetings in the Seoul office where he assumes you're probably reshaping the course of fashion history. Meanwhile, he — professional idol, household name, literal global phenomenon — spends his entire afternoon fluttering around the house like an overgrown golden retriever preparing for your arrival back.

When you finally do appear, hours later than you promised (”just a quick check-in meeting,” you said, like a liar), he’s orchestrated the perfect welcome. There’s even some of your candles lit that you got from the market the other afternoon.

He made sure to put on that stupid grey hoodie you once said you liked, the one that makes him look especially ‘boyfriend-coded’ which is insane because he is your boyfriend, but whatever, he’s trying to a better man for you.

There he stands in the entryway as your keys jiggle in the lock, heart metaphorically cupped in his hands like an anxious teenager, waiting for the moment your eyes find him after a day at work.

The door swings open with comedic timing.

You enter, still clad in your professional clothes, designer bag hanging from your shoulder. Your gaze performs a quick sweep of the space, a radar searching for something that’s not him.

Somehow, impossibly, you miss the tall international superstar practically vibrating with anticipation directly in your line of sight.

It’s too late; your attention has already locked, with laser-guided precision, onto what is apparently the actual love of your life.

"Bam!" You gasp, the name ripping from your throat with the same intensity usually reserved for reunion scenes in war movies. His dog doesn’t fight it, just wags his tail and pants excitedly when he realizes you’re home.

Just like that, Jungkook experiences the unique displeasure of watching himself become irrelevant.

He stands, a bewildered expression on his face, as you drop your bag, drop your coat, drop your body at Bam’s unsuspecting feet. Within seconds, you've transformed from fashion industry powerhouse to someone talkimg in a baby voice to a dog on his entryway floor. “Oh my god, Look at you, you handsome boy! Did you miss me? I missed you so much, mwah!”

You're now kissing the dog. Not polite little pecks, but full-on, emotionally-invested mouth kisses, as if you've spent your entire day in meetings plotting how to most effectively transfer your affection to this four-legged creature while breaking his owner's heart.

Jungkook watches this betrayal unfold, holding a spatula, like he’s someone who's just realized he's accidentally enrolled in the world's most elaborate third-wheel masterclass.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He clears his throat once.

Nothing.

He shifts his weight to his other foot.

Still… nothing. No passing glance.

Sprawled on his floor in complete surrender, you’re essentially involved in an impromptu romance with his pet. Jungkook — who has spent the last three hours committing culinary crimes against rice and desperately channeling his mother's cooking spirit — stands frozen.

It’s fine. Completely fine. Absolutely, one hundred percent acceptable.

Except for the tiny detail that he’s mentally drafting adoption papers for Bam.

He clears his throat again, louder this time and pointedly.

Finally, as if emerging from a trance, you glance up. “Hi, baby," You chirp, lips puckering in his direction, clearly expecting him to bridge the gap.

As if he's some lovesick sitcom husband whose entire world revolves around whatever affection you decide to toss his way. (Which…alright. Maybe he is. But acknowledging that would undermine his current position.)

Jungkook stares back at you, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a flat line.

Your eyebrows furrow, lips still suspended mid-pucker. When his statue holds firm, you slowly lower your mouth into a frown.

"...Hello?" You venture from your position on the floor, blinking up at him.

"Hi," He returns.

You narrow your eyes into little slits, hands still rubbing Bam’s head. "Come here."

"No."

"Why?"

"You kissed the dog," He announces petulantly.

You blink again. And then, because you are exactly the kind of woman who built a million-dollar career off smelling blood in the water, you grin.

“Oh my god,” you say, already laughing. “Are you—?”

You dramatically disengage from Bam, remaining on your knees but pressing both hands to your chest in a theatrical gesture. “Are you jealous? Of Bam?"

Jungkook's jaw flexes. He glares at some fascinating invisible point approximately six inches to the left of your head.

“I'm not jealous," He mutters, hands clasped behind his back as he avoids your gaze. (Which is exactly what someone jealous would say.)

"You're jealous of your own dog," You whisper, tone faux sympathy.

You shift your weight back, settling onto your heels, craning your neck to study him like he's a fascinating psychological case study.

Bam, however, is blissfully unaware of his central role in this drama. He wags his tail so hard that his whole butt is moving side to side like a windshield wiper.

"I leave for a couple of hours," you observe with fascination, "and you've already picked a fight with a literal puppy."

"He's not even a puppy anymore," Jungkook snaps back instantly, as if the classification of his ‘competitor’ is somehow the most pressing issue in this standoff.

You gasp, one hand flying to clutch at imaginary pearls. “Oh my god. You're calling him old? You're losing it, Jeon."

"I'm not losing it," He grumbles defensively.

The evidence suggests otherwise.

You rise to your feet slowly and saunter over to him. He stands there, arms still crossed, watching you approach with a suspicious squint.

You stop inches in front of him. Looking up through your lashes with innocence that wouldn't fool a toddler (but still somehow works on global superstars), you deploy your sweetest, most saccharine tone: "Baby," you murmur, "Love of my life."

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers toying with the neckline of his hoodie. The very one he selected for your approval, now weaponized against him.

"Don't tell me you're scared," you whisper with mock concern, eyes wide. "That Bam's gonna steal me away?"

His response surpasses non-verbal communication: silence paired with a scowl.

You grin evilly, and you lean forward until your lips brush against the shell of his ear. “He does have better hair than you," you tease.

Jungkook jerks back like he’s been electrocuted, mouth falling open in outrage.

"I knew it," he declares. "I knew you liked him better!"

Your laughter echoes throughout the whole room. His expression remains fixed in accusation, still treating your interaction with Bam — who has now abandoned you two to roll on his back in blissful oblivion — as a mortal enemy who must be defeated.

You wipe under your eyes dramatically, pulling yourself together with exaggerated effort before tilting your head.

"It's okay, baby," you console with insincerity. "Some men just can't handle the competition."

The scowl on his face deepens.

You nod solemnly, caressing his bicep. "Maybe you should work on your wagging. And your fur. I mean, Bam's coat? Impeccable."

Jungkook's mouth drops open again in shock.

You heave a long-suffering sigh, the sound of someone burdened with the great responsibility of being with a ridiculous man.

“God,” you roll your eyes, stepping into his space and grabbing a fistful of the front of his hoodie. “You’re so dramatic.”

And before he can launch into another argument, you yank him down and press your lips to his. Firm, no-nonsense, entirely fed up, but still soft because, unfortunately, you’re obsessed with him. (But he’s obsessed with you right back.)

He smiles against your lips, the ones that taste like some coconut lip balm you always wear.

Of course, though, he can’t leave it alone. Has to get the last word in, even when his hands are sliding up your sides and his chest is rumbling with happiness.

“You taste like dog,” He mumbles into your mouth and when you pull back to glare at him, he grins wider, looking downright pleased with himself.

masterlist + request

[joeloverture]

girl next door tongue fucks dilfs ass | pervy!dbf!joel x f!reader

masterlist | notifs blog | tlou & palestine

pairing: pervy!dbf!joel x f!reader summary: a mix-up leads to joel finding your search history. turns out he wants a starring role in making the cheesy pornos you watch a reality. warnings: (18+ mdni) same joel as fair's fair, but you don't need to read that fic for context, age gap, porn without plot tbh, smut, degradation, humiliation, porn mentions, rimming/ass eating, exhibitionism mentions, f!masturbation, jerking joel off, joel calls reader kiddo, i wrote this in 2 days and had a blasst, asshole!joel gets his asshole eaten, cheesy title based on porn (sorry) word count: 5.2k a/n: was not expecting my last ass eating fic to be so divisive. sorry for writing another — it will happen again <3 thank you to @lovesickonmybed for curating the moodboard, sitting on the doc with me, and being wonderful in general. @ovaryacted & @joelsdagger for being ENABLERS. hope y'all like this <3 mwah mwah mwah. if there r any typos pls ignore i proofread a bit but im wiped out.

You’ve never been known for virtuosity. Growing up in the south, many of your classmates were raised with pewter purity rings beneath their knuckles and Mary Janes glued to their feet. You were the one all the sweet Catholic girls were forbidden to be around, as if your presence would ignite the Lord’s distaste. You never grasped why you were excluded from their birthday parties, never invited to playdates, or always talked about as a miscreant — but now, you think you might have a hunch.

Maybe those WASP moms could see through to the version of yourself that you are right now, taking full advantage of your time home alone. Phone in one hand, with your other shoved haphazardly beneath your lacy waistband to flick at your slippery clit. You whimper, hips rutting against the pads of your fingers, eyes fluttering. Heat ribbons through your veins and around your spine. You eye the trashy porn currently playing out behind your cracked screen protector — VIRGIN SLUT DEVOURS DILF’S ASS. You try to tell yourself it’s because the ‘virgin slut’ in question has your body type, but the DILF in question is… topical.

Three short days ago, Joel, your dad’s infamously perverted best friend, had finally taken the initiative to make things sexual with you. As much as he’d been smacking your ass lately and not-so-subtly eyeing you up, none of that cold hold a needle to the time he’d cupped the back of your head and shoved you face first into his armpit. You’d licked and sniffed at his musk until you’d come completely untouched. Later, you’d watched him fuck his own fist, back arching off of his mattress, and that’d been that.

Except… it really wasn’t just that. You’ve been glued to your phone watching the nastiest, raunchiest stuff you didn’t used to be into — until you’d imagined Joel being the one to do them to you. (Hell, you didn’t know wedgies and tickling were kinks. But you’d sure as shit stumbled across the pornstars making a living off of them.)

Rimming is the most recent of your fascinations. The star of this video, a beefy middle-aged man with thick thighs and a plump ass, is just as domineering as Joel had been. He’s on his knees with his ass up, body braced on one folded elbow while his other hand cups the back of the woman’s head. He holds her down as she whines, tongue circling around his asshole. The camera zooms in, capturing the little smatterings of hair along his cheeks. “Just like that. Get in there good, girl,” the DILF says. You whimper, closing your eyes and imagining it’s Joel saying that. Joel’s skin on your tongue. His hips hitching under your mouth. His thighs tensing as he paints his belly with cum.

A new surge of slick rushes down your fingers and you whine as your stomach tightens into a double knot of pleasure. You’re so close, teetering over that precious edg–

The doorbell rings.

Your dad wasn’t supposed to be home until five. It is midnight.

With a frustrated groan, you chuck your phone facedown and scrub your hand along your face. You tug your hand out of your soaked panties, breath still sawing in and out of you as you wipe your juices off your hand with a tissue from your nightstand. The doorbell rings again. “Jesus, I’m coming!” you shout. You should be coming. You shove your phone in your pocket and head downstairs. 

You unlock the door between cluttered grumbles and yank it open. “You should have a key by now, dude,” you start telling your dad. Except it’s not your dad’s figure blocking the doorway, eclipsing the simmering Texan sun. It’s the very object of your degenerate fantasies — Joel Miller himself.

Joel had tried everything to avoid going to your place. He couldn’t even bring himself to look at your house, only able to think of the moment you two had shared in the garage. When he’d defiled you, right underneath your father’s roof. His eyes feel gritty from the thought, how all those degrading words had rolled off of his tongue like they belonged there. His best buddy’s little girl, licking and nipping at his fucking armpit. He squashed that thought quickly. The memory makes his blood rush south all over again.

When his phone ran out of juice as he was putting in a request for supplies he needed ASAP, he’d grabbed his charger. Except after he plugged it in, the battery only sporadically caught a charge. It made that irritating pinging noise repeatedly. He adjusted the angle enough times that he felt like he was taking measurements on a job site before giving up.

He prowled around Sarah’s room for a spare, except she must’ve stuffed hers in her duffel bag for her sleepover at Emma’s house tonight. After that dead end, he unplugged her galaxy light. It wasn’t the same shape. Port. Contact. Whatever the hell it is. He remembers vividly three years back when Sarah had seen some sort of viral video about making a charger out of a potato. She didn’t shut up about it for a week until he came home with two potatoes. One ended up as a failed charger, and the other had been dinner. With no spare wires in this house, Sarah at Emma’s, and every single store within fifteen miles closed for the night, it’s looking like he’ll have to wait for the morning.

Except he’s got a packed week. The prissy nepo baby’s ‘dream house’ he’s working on wants everything done quickly and well. She had them install the tiles for her kitchen only to decide when they were halfway through with the marble tiles that she wanted rose quartz. God forbid she throw another fucking temper tantrum.

Joel looked at the potatoes on the counter, then to your bedroom window. The lamp was on. He sighed.

He had never before wished potatoes could emit electricity, but he was now. Then, he’d toed on his Crocs and shuffled next door. He rang the bell, waiting with bated breath.

“Jus’ take your sweet time,” he says to your porch as he hears you thunking down the stairs. “Ain’t like the skeeters ain’t eatin’ me alive out here,” he grumbles.

“—should have a key by now, dude,” you say as you tug the door. You blink at him several times. He can see your shock through the screen door in the furrow of your brows. “Fuck are you doing here?”

“Real warm welcome for a neighbor,” Joel says, shouldering past the screen door. He scratches at the back of his neck, swallowing. He eyes the soft curve of your lips and the squint of your eyes. In the porch light, your sweat-slick complexion shimmers. You’re panting. Must’ve run a hell of a marathon to get down here, even if you were slower than a turtle. Unless–

No. He’s gotta get his brain outta the gutter, which seems to be his dick’s place of residence. 

“My charger’s busted. Needa do some work stuff. Was hopin’ I could snag yours.”

“Well what if I’m charging my phone?”

Joel points to the suspiciously phone-shaped outline in your pocket. “Chargin’ your phone my ass. C’mon, do me a solid, I’ll owe ya.”

“You already owe me.”

“Yeah, for what?”

“That time I tutored Sarah when she had a C in–”

“Alright, alright. I’ll owe ya twice, how ‘bout that?” You roll your eyes and turn, already heading back for the stairs. “Wait,” Joel says, snagging you by your wrist. A week ago, he would have snapped your bra strap against your skin to get your attention. Now he feels nauseous at the idea. He’d already disrespected you so wholly once before. It’s not as if he has any further left to go. “Could I borrow yours in the meantime? Y’know… mine kinda takes a second to get some juice. I want to get a jump on looking for what my client needs.”

“That washed up producer’s daughter with five thousand Spotify listens per month? Yeah, dad told me about her. I’ll let you. But only ‘cause I pit you. She sounds like a nightmare.” You fish around for your phone, type in the pin, and smack it against his palm. “No snooping,” you say, holding a finger in front of his face.

“‘Course not,” he says. “Thanks, kiddo.”

You pull a face at that. Before he can apologize, you’re already halfway up the stairs.

Joel resists the urge to kick himself the entire way to the couch. He curls up against the arm rest. He hears you kicking and rifling about upstairs as he searches your phone for any sort of search engine. He wishes he would’ve brought his readers over, too, but that much foresight had been lost on him. Settling for squinting at the glowing screen, he taps on Chrome. A tab whooshes open. Immediately, Joel’s bombarded with artificial, keening moans, the ragged coaxing of, ‘C’mon, honey, doing so well for me’ blurring out of the speakers. His eyes widen as he scrambles to lower the volume. He’s about to slam the phone down and never make eye contact with you ever again when he spies the title of this particular porno.

VIRGIN SLUT DEVOURS DILF’S ASS.

Heat wobbles up his face, ripening his cheeks. His thighs warm and stir, enough to harden his far too attentive cock. Jesus Christ. 

Did you mean to do this? No — you don’t have that kinda foresight. You’re crafty and a goddamn temptress, but that doesn’t make you some sort of mastermind who’s scheming to get back into his pants. If you were, though — this would be a good way of doing it. You must’ve been right there before he’d shown up on your doorstep. You had still been panting. His head hadn’t been in the gutter. He’d been right. Nasty little slut.

His eyes land on the woman who’s advertised as a ‘virgin slut’ but is about 100 videos past virginity if her channel bio is telling the truth. She’s built a lot like you — has the same shoulders, same hips. Her tongue hungrily swirls between the DILF’S cheeks. He’s pretty sure he knows who you’re imagining that to be. 

They share the same skin tone, the same bow in their backs, the same scattered patches of hair along the backs of their thighs and cheeks. He envisions you with a hand stuffed in your dangerously tight shorts, rutting against it. Tongue lolling out as you imagine rimming him. He smothers a groan at the thought.

The video keeps rolling as he stares in disbelief. The man groans, spreading his cheeks wider and pushes back onto the woman’s face. She slurps his asshole. Joel imagines holding your head in place, stroking your jaw as you work your tongue on him. Your lips, your tongue, doing exactly what he just watched, but to him. His cock twitches at the thought of you between his legs, licking, sucking, wanting.

All his attempts to shut you out of his brain come bursting out of the floodgates. A dam breaking, fattening his cock. 

Joel’s eyes flick to the stairs. He can still hear you rummaging around. Curiosity kills the cat as he presses your history button.

Naughty whore punished with ass eating humiliation. girl next door tongue fucks dilfs ass. DESPERATE BITCH BEGS TO EAT ASS. 

It shouldn’t surprise him. After you’d finished licking his pits, you had a geyser in your panties they’d only found in Yellowstone before. You’re a fucking freak, and goddamn if it doesn’t make the gears in his head turn.

Joel adjusts his bulge, raging tight against his boxers. He swallows the newly formed lump in his throat. His stomach burns. The things he could do to you, if he were to let himself. You’re practically fucking begging for it. If he were to slip his hand along your abdomen, past the gusset of your panties, and cup your mound, would you already be ready for him? The way he’s ready for you?

Upstairs, he hears a loud bang, followed by a resounding “FUCK!”

After wrestling with your extension cord, you’d finally grabbed your charger for Joel to borrow. Not without escaping unscathed. A swollen pit throbs on your head, and you rub it absently with the heel of your palm as you trudge downstairs. “The shit I do for you,” you remark under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. You plod across the living room, tossing your charger Joel’s way. “Can I have my phone back yet, Miller?”

He quirks a brow at you. “If you answer me a question.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms, planting your feet. This dick. “You usually get off watchin’ shitty three-star pornos?”

Cold slithers around your gut as you stare blankly at him. Oh fuck. Shit. Son of a– “Excuse me?” You’re an idiot. All hat, no cattle. Lights on, nobody home. Joel had seen–

“‘Virgin slut devours DILF’s ass’,” Joel reads out in a monotonous voice. He wolf-whistles. “A little on the nose, ain’t it? But hey, whatever gets ya goin’.”

“G-get the hell out,” you say, snatching your charger off of his lap. Your eyes stall on his straining, blatant hard-on. A new wave of slick spills out of you. You have to bite your tongue not to lick your lips. “You’re a fucking… pervert. Nasty. You’re nasty, Joel.”

“And you ain’t? Got a whole waterfall in those britches of yours, I bet. I mean, this guy looks a whole lot like me, don’t he? Got the DILF thing going on too. Yeah, you’d be into older men. Look at ya,” he all but croons.

You look down at yourself, gesturing at nothing in frustration. “I told you no snooping. Guess your selectively hearing ass heard go snooping.” You swing in close to snatch your phone, but he holds it out of reach.

“Answer the question, kiddo. You like watching porn all the time, or just when you’re tryna imagine your daddy’s buddy?” He smirks up at you. You make another grab for your phone, and you’re not sure why. The damage is already done. But Joel — Joel makes you feel so, so out of control.

“You’re being an asshole, Joel,” you say, too exasperated to police your word choice.

“Yeah, but you like eatin’ ‘em. Don’t you, sweetheart?” You sputter, dragging your hands down your face. As if letting him debase you in the garage, no matter how good it felt, wasn’t enough. This is ten thousand times worse. “Gotta say. You’re a ‘lil sick in the head for that….” He tuts at you, clicking his tongue.

“Not as sick in the head as you. Going through my search history. Taunting me about it. And— and— the whole pitcident.”

“Pitcident?” he asks, raising an amused brow. “Thas’ a new one.”

“Would you rather I say the whole thing? That you held your buddy’s daughter down against your musky ass armpit and made me lick it clean? That you liked it so much that you jerked yourself off after knowing I was getting an eyeful of it?”

His throat bobs. He seems to think about it for a moment before he tilts his head at you. “Kiddo, you woulda creamed all over me if I took a breath in the direction of your swollen little clit. Didn’t even have to do that to get that pussy droolin’ for me. Bet it’s doin’ it now.” He gets up, dropping your phone onto the couch cushion. It bounces before sliding against a throw pillow. “Tell me,” he says, voice low. “You touch yourself to this shit, honey?”

“Why?” you ask, holding eye contact with him in defiance.

“Seems like a waste… when you could be gettin’ the real thing.”

Your mouth goes dry. Uncontrollably, your cunt pulses between your legs. “Jesus, Joel–”

“Been wonderin’ since you put your mouth on my pit how your tongue would feel on my cock. On my ass…. Same thoughts as you, I’d bet. Yeah?”

You swallow, forcing breaths back into your too-tight lungs. “Yeah,” you say. “I… fuck.”

“Ask nicely, kiddo. I’ll consider indulging you.”

“Seriously?”

“‘S that what you want, kiddo? Want your pretty face between my cheeks while I laugh at you for how desperate ya are for it?” Your vision swims. Joel is heady, alluring. You can’t pry your eyes away from him. It’s easy to remember how you bent to his whims last time. “Yeah, thought so,” he hums. “Already in this habit ‘a mouthin’ off at me. Ought show some respect. Could be a whole lot meaner to ya. Or we could do this the easy way, sugar. Your call.”

Your face feels scalding hot, eyes watering with something like arousal. Your thighs clamp together, squeezing in attempts to get some friction on your neglected, weeping cunt. “Please,” you rasp, voice more animalistically needy than you’d expected.

Joel rolls his eyes. “You askin’ for the table salt or to lick my ass, kiddo?”

“Jesus Christ, you’re picky. Okay, your royal highness. Please, can I lick your perfect, majestic, incredible ass?”

Joel reaches out and grabs your chin. You whimper as skin prickles under his calloused touch. He presses his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks, teeth shelving against the insides of your mouth. “Like I said. Mouthy. I’ll fix that, kiddo. Probably won’t ever wanna open your mouth again after you get what you wish for.” He gives your face a light slap, hardly enough to feel the thud of his palm against your skin. Still, your head rings.

Joel grabs you by the back of your neck and shoves you down onto your knees. You grunt at the whirlpool of colors blurring around your head, at the wood grains of the floor meshing into your kneecaps. He stands, facing the back of the suede couch. “Go ‘head, kid. If ya want it so bad.” 

You balk, staring at what you’re now face-to-face with. Joel’s ass, plump and thick and covered by his boxers and a thin layer of sleep shorts. He shuffles, sticking his ass out a bit.

“Don’t be chicken. Put your money where your mouth is.” He taps the back of your neck, urging you on. You tug at the stretchy waistband of his shorts and let them slide down to his ankles.

You scrutinize his choice of footwear. “Crocs? Really?”

“Do what you’re good for and kiss. My. Ass,” Joel says.

You probably should’ve expected that.

You lure his boxers down, breath hitching when you see how his cheeks come together. He’s warm, with a physique made for worship. Your mouth works as you swallow, mouth watering at the thought of getting your tongue in there. Instead of going for the throat, you start slowly.

You plant a kiss where his left cheek meets his thigh, tongue peeking out to stir at the soft patch of skin there. You press sloppy little kisses along the globes of his ass. One here, one there, a couple nearing his cleft. The very tip of your tongue pokes out of your lips to do a sweep of the inside of his right cheek. At this, Joel lets a breathy sigh out. 

“Got a perfect fuckin’ mouth.”

“I know,” you quip. You lean in and take a deep breath of a scent that’s so undeniably Joel. He’s cleaner this time, not fresh off of the lawn mower. He smells more like the Dr. Squatch soap you’d usually find in a Walmart aisle. You know from visiting his house that his bathrooms are stocked with the stuff. It’s woodsy and outdoorsy, a gingery pine aroma that wafts up your nostrils. You sigh and nuzzle into his skin.

“Ain’t a Bath and Body Works.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you grumble.

“Like I said. Sick in the head, likin’ all this odd shit.”

You spit into your palm and reach around, giving his cock a quick pump. It twitches in your head. His head tips forward, groaning and shoving his ass closer to your face. You smother a laugh. “You like it too, old man.” As you tug your hand down, you give his balls a generous squeeze. Then, you reach to spread him proper.

You damn near get heart eyes as you eye his pucker. Tan and blending into the rest of his skin, wrinkled and in dire need of attention. You lean in and throw him into the deep end with a broad stroke of your tongue along his hole. His hips jerk, a stunned noise ripping out of his lips.

“Fuck. Yeah, attagirl.” You groan into him, starting to swirl your tongue around. It whorls around his hole. You sweep softly along the inside of each of his cheeks, spit dribbling down his skin and along his taint. “Knew you’d make a good ass wipe. ‘S what you’re good for. Cleanin’ me up…”

You whimper, legs squeezing together needily. Your tongue swoops along the bend of his hole. Your thumbs dig into the insides of his cheeks so you can really nudge your tongue in there. Shallowly, you fuck your tongue in and out of his hole. Joel groans, hips thrusting against your face. “Goddamn,” he says through a hiss. He looks over his shoulder at you. Your eyes are needy and lidded, tongue hanging out as you work it against him. “Look atcha. There ya go, kiddo. Needy ‘lil slut for me…”

You hum in agreement as you flick your tongue up and down, left and right. You bob your head, determined to work him up properly. You slobber all over him. Little whines and whimpers hitch out of your mouth as you slurp and suck on his asshole. “Oughta keep you down there all day. Fuck, looks like it’s right where ya belong. Nose squished under my balls, breathin’ in my musk while you drool all over my ass. Be nice, havin’ a little cushion while I watch some ball games, do my work.” He cuts off into a strangled moan when you thrust your tongue inside of him properly, swirling it as deep inside of him as you can get it. 

You reach up to cup his balls, work your grip along his length, but he snatches your wrist when it’s halfway there. “Nuh uh, sweetie. Ain’t deservin’ of this cock. Gotta earn that privilege back after bein’ a naughty whore. Watchin’ all that porn. On your daddy’s WiFi. Got no shame, hm?”

“N-not my fault you left me high and dry–” you stammer out between kitten licks at his hole.

“Didn’t leave ya dry. Left you wetter than a fire hydrant. And if you wanna be high, I’m sure I could get a sex swing off ‘a Facebook Marketpla–”

“Jesus Christ, shut up and let me eat your ass.” He laughs, head hanging low towards the couch. You keep your palms splayed along his cheeks, baring him to you so you can pleasure him in a way that has long been foreign to both of you. He makes a choked noise as you purposefully twist and flutter the point of your tongue into his opening. His hips jerk, holer quivering around you.

“Goddamn, kiddo— shit, thas’ good…” he tapers off into a frayed moan.

Your thighs, spread against the floorboards, heat like furnaces. Slick drools out from your pussy lips, twitching and aching, needing so badly for him to fill you. You whine an unintelligible curse into his skin, hand fumbling past the elastic band of your shorts. Your fingers nudge past your panties, finding your clit wet and wanting from your interrupted session earlier. Your fingers work a slippery circle onto your puffy clit. A moan bends out of your lips as they work and suckle at his hole.

Joel cranes his neck over his shoulder, dark, half-closed eyes tracing your pathetic figure. You’re shrunken down on the floor as you serve him, so zeroed in on his pleasure. Yours is an afterthought, but your hips still chase after your wandering, fleeting touches. “Can’t believe this gets you off. Touchin’ yourself…. Does my ass really get ya this worked up?” He groans, grasping the back of your head and holding you into his cheeks. As if you’d ever pull away.  “Someone’s gotta–” he exhales. “gotta get you a fuckin’ vibrator. Gonna rub that sweet pussy raw.”

You whine at the thought, tongue traveling lower to give his taint some attention too. “Shit. Thereeeee ya go. Embarrassin’ kinda kink to have, y’know? Oughta get you an audience. Some folks from work… Tommy too, maybe. Bet you’d come twice as fast and twice as hard.” 

You nod in agreement, swiping your tongue all along his hole. Fingers snapping along your clit, a moan is drawn out of you. Languid strokes steadily quicken into sweeping jabs that leave his hips stuttering against the air, cock dripping pearls of precum onto the floor. “Hngh,” you whine into him, putting your full neck, head, and tongue into your efforts. Joel rocks back against you, rolling his asshole along your exposed tongue. You whimper, reaching up for his cock again with your spare hand. This time, you meet no resistance. You wrap your hand around him properly, stroking him in time with the circles you draw along your clit.

A flurry of curses sling off of his tongue, sharp and stunned by your vigor to bring him to the edge. Your lips lock around his asshole, sucking him, getting him there. Your thumb brushes along his twitching tip as your tongue slides in and out of his clenching hole. “This what you been wantin’?” he taunts, gripping the back of your neck. You keen in response, the noise vibrating along his ass. “‘Course it is. Pretty slut like you… meant to be on her knees with ass in her face.” His other hand slips back too, one around your nape and the other at the back of your skull, urging you to lick deeper, faster, more.

You whisk your tongue hungrily along his pucker, whining into him. Your fingers tweak at your clit, hips grinding into your hand with each upward stroke of your tongue. 

“Shit, kiddo. Gettin’ me close–” he rasps. Your hand slips down to squeeze at his balls, middle finger slipping along his shaft. You let out a high-pitched whimper as your hips roll down to meet your hand. “Fuck, I ain’t the only one. You really gonna come from this?” he hisses, digging his fingers harder into your skin. You let out a piercing, whetted moan. “Embarrassing. Thought it’d take mo–” He cuts himself off with a moan. “Goddammit, more. But I shoulda known you’d be easy. Came just from grindin’ on your inseam last time. Jus’ call you a slut and let you lick me clean and your panties are done for.”

Your eyes water with humiliated arousal. You drip all down your fingers, feeling wetness leak down between your legs. “Joel,” you moan into him through gasping breaths and slithery licks. Your clit twitches against the pads of your fingers. Your pelvis jerks. With each clench, your cunt salivates along your fingers, wanting. All you can taste, feel, hear, is him. His musk on your tongue, his skin under your hands and his cock between your fingers, his moans ringing in the air like a song. 

Joel grinds down your face. You lick up between his cheeks, landing another sloppy kiss on his hole. With a determined thrust, you twirl your tongue inside of him at the same time your hand twists around his cock. You know he’s coming from his sounds alone, something you’d been deprived of from just watching him across the street. You never would’ve taken Joel Miller to be loud in bed, but you are glad you are wrong. His whines and grunts heave out into the emptiness of the living room. “Fuck, hngh — good slut. Yeah. That’s my girl. Good ‘lil ass kisser. Gonna cream those fuckin’ panties for me like those girls do in your videos, aren’t ya? ‘S alright, kiddo. Come for me. Go ‘head.”

 Your tongue works him over diligently, fingers scuffing along your clit until it damn near chafes. His noises, the way he grinds, his words are enough to send you plummeting over that edge. You’re suspended on the precipice of your climax as you hover in time, but then the pestle of your fingers presses against your cunt. You’re done for, spiraling as juices leak out of you. Tiny, hitching moans hiccup out of you. You repeat his name like a mantra, “Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel,” hand still wrapped around his softening cock. Your tongue hangs out, forehead pressed against his cheek. Panting in the comedown, in that warm-lit afterglow of release, you slump back onto your haunches. Your chest heaves, stomach unknotting from that peak of pleasure. 

“Fuck,” you say articulately, looking up at him with glazed-over eyes.

“Fuck,” Joel says, in an entirely different tone. You follow his gaze to the back of the couch, splattered with pearly ropes of cum. Unable to stop yourself, you smother a giggle into the back of your hand. His panicked look only makes you giggle more before you burst into an entire laughing fit, clutching your gut as you wheeze at him.

Instead of fussing, Joel laughs too, shaking his head. “Goddamn, kid. You’re trouble.” He reaches down and squeezes your shoulder anyway. He bends down and tugs his shorts up, groaning as some of his bones snick from all of the bending. “Your dad keep any shock around?”

“Under the sink,” you say through your giggles, bracing yourself on your elbows. It takes until Joel comes back with an orange spray bottle and a rag that you manage to pull yourself up, dusting yourself off. You can still taste him on your tongue, a lingering musk that sits on your tongue. The bottle squeaks as it sprays foaming cleaner along the couch. You cross your arms and toe the ground, waiting for him to finish up.

“All that,” he says as he runs the rag under the faucet. “and we didn’t even plug my phone in.”

“Keep the charger,” you say. “I… think I have a spare. Somewhere. Besides. Won’t need to do another late-night viewing tonight.”

“Yeah,” Joel says with a content nod. “Guess you won’t.” He toes back on his Crocs that had come off somewhere in the fray. He runs a hand back through his hair. “Well, kiddo. Sleep well,” he says. “And get better taste in porn. You’re better than the cheap shit.”

You roll your eyes and wave him off. “Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Joel.”

“Night,” he says, voice a tad stilted as he slips out of the house to go back next door.

Your eyes chase him down the sidewalk into his front door, then follow his silhouette upstairs until his lamp flickers off. When you head to bed, it’s with an entirely different type of video playing in your head — one starring you.

[blairenqs]

୨୧ HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT ✧ SPENCER REID

───── IN WHICH 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋’𝗌 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗒 𝖽𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗆, 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗀 !

𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍 𝖻𝖿!𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝓍 𝒻! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝟣.𝟥𝖪 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖽𝗎𝗆𝖻, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ♡ ⎯⎯ 𝖠𝖱𝖢𝖧𝒾𝖵𝖤

IT WAS A RAINY EARLY MORNING, the worst kind of morning when you had an early briefing at the bau.

you sat at the round conference table, cold hands collecting warmth from the steaming hot cup of coffee.

across the table, jj and garcia were deep in conversation about some celebrity drama you could care less about in the moment, quite literally just wanting to be swallowed by your fluffy blankets.

their voices were a comforting background as you waited for your brain to catch up with the rest of you.

it was too early—so painfully early, and you were already debating a second cup of coffee when morgan walked in.

and there it was—that familiar gleam in his eye that immediately set off warning bells. he looked far too happy for this hour of the day, and that smirk plastered on his face had trouble written all over it.

he made his way to the rounded table and clapped his hands once, the sharp sound startling you as it echoed through the room and drew everyone’s attention. —READ MORE!

“alright guys,” he said, leaning forward against the table with an exaggerated flair that always meant he had a story to tell. “you’re not gonna believe what i just found out.”

garcia’s eyes lit up instantly, and she immediately turned towards him like a cat spotting a mouse. “ooh, morning gossip? don’t leave me hanging now!”

jj leaned back in her chair, eyebrows raised in curiosity. even rossi looked intrigued, though he didn’t say anything, opting in to sip his coffee with an amused expression instead.

morgan’s eyes landed on you briefly, and for a second, his grin faltered. “uh… sorry kid,” he said with a shrug, almost like he genuinely meant it.

you frowned at his words, instantly suspicious. “sorry for what… what did you do?” morgan put a hand to his chest, feigning innocence. “why do you always assume i did something?”

“because you always do,” you said dryly with a sigh, placing your now luke-warm cup down. emily chuckled softly, nodding in agreement. “she’s got a point, derek.”

“okay, okay, fair,” he armpits, holding his hands up in mock surrender—then, his smirk returned as he leaned in closer. “but i’m telling you, i didn’t do anything this time. i just… observed something very interesting.”

garcia gasped dramatically, leaning forward with her hands up under her chin. “spill it already, or so help me—i’ll hack into your google account and leak your search history.”

morgan chuckled, clearly enjoying the anticipation. “alright—fine. here’s the deal, i was walking past reid earlier—”

“oh god,” you whispered with a groan, already dreading where this was going. “—and i just happened to glance over his shoulder while he was texting.”

“derek!” emily scolded, although there was no real offence behind her words.

“what? it’s not like i meant to!” he said, holding up his hands defensively. “but listen—this is where it gets good.”

rossi raised an eyebrow. “get on with it then, geez.”

morgan looked around the table, clearly enjoying the suspense he was building. “the contact name was ‘my love.’” garcia gasped so loudly you nearly flinched out of your seat. “oh my god!”

“and—” morgan continued, raising his voice to be heard over her exclamation, “—he wrote, ‘i love you.’ i saw it plain as day before he closed the app.”

jj’s eyes went wide as she turned to look at you, sympathy practically oozing from her expression. “oh no,” she whispered, her tone soft and full of concern.

you blinked, confused by the sudden emotional shift in energy of the room. “what? why are you guys looking at me like that?”

jj reached out like she wanted to engulf you in a hug. “sweetheart, i’m so sorry. we didn’t know he was… seeing someone.”

“what?” you said, your voice practically a shriek.

garcia scooted her seat closer to you, her face full of maternal concern. “it’s okay honey,” she said reassuringly. “we know how you feel about reid. and honestly? i don’t blame you, it makes sense. he’s sweet and smart, and who wouldn’t fall for that? but—” she gave your hand a little squeeze. “you deserve someone who’s going to feel the same way about you.”

your brain felt like it had been electrocuted. “wait—pen—no, you’ve got it all wrong. i don’t—”

“it’s okay to admit it,” emily interrupted, her voice empathizing. “we’ve all seen the way you look at him. there’s no shame in having feelings for someone.”

“i—what—no!” you stammered, your face growing hotter by the second. “you guys are completely off base!”

“denial is a river in egypt,” garcia said with an upside-down grin, nodding like she just dropped some profound wisdom.

morgan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. “hey—no judgment here. it’s tough when your crush is dating someone else. but you’ll bounce back, you’re strong.”

your mouth opened and closed, trying to form a response that would shut this entire conversation down without spilling the truth—because the truth was, spencer wasn’t dating someone else. he was dating you.

he had been for months.

you barely had time to gather your scrambled thoughts before the door to the conference room swung open, and in walked spencer, the man of the hour—coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

he looked as endearingly disheveled as ever, looking the same as you left him in the morning—his tie slightly crooked, his hair falling into his eyes—and your heart did the stupid fluttery thing it always did when he was around.

“morning,” he greeted, his voice soft as he glanced around the room. then, his gaze landed on you, you who looked as if you had just seen a ghost, and his brow furrowed slightly. “what’s going on?”

everyone froze—their eyes darting to you.

“nothing!” garcia shrieked, far too loudly.

“yeah, nothing alright,” morgan repeated, though his smirk said otherwise.

spencer tilted his head—clearly unconvinced, but before he could push again, the door opened, and hotch strode in with his usual workaholic presence.

“let’s get started,” hotch said, not sparing a glance to the lingering awkwardness that seems to be in the air today.

the briefing began, thankfully putting an end to the antagonizing conversation. but throughout the meeting—you could feel spencer’s eyes on you, his gaze filled with a quiet concern.

when the briefing ended, the team quickly separated to gather their essentials for the flight. you hung back, pretending to check something in your bag, but really just waiting for the room to empty. as the last of them walked out, spencer approached..

“you okay?” he asked, his voice laced with the familiar worried tone.

you barely had time to answer before his arms slipped around you, pulling you into a hug. it was gentle and comforting, but when you relaxed against his embrace, his grip tightened, his warmth seeping into you.

you laughed softly, resting your forehead against his chest. “spence, someone might walk in.”

“i don’t care,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your hair. “you seemed tense earlier. did something happen?”

you hesitated, not sure how to even explain the bizarre situation— so instead, you tilted your head up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

his eyes widened in surprise, but they softened almost immediately. “what was that for, love?” he asked, his voice warm with curiosity.

“i’ll tell you about it at home,” you said quietly, brushing a hand over his tie to straighten it. he sighed but didn’t let go, his forehead resting against yours. “you promise?”

“i promise,” you whispered with one last kiss to his nose, smiling up at him.

he finally loosened his hold reluctantly, letting you pull away, though his hands lingered on your waist.

his sheepish smile was so full of affection it made your chest ache in the best way possible. as you grabbed your bag and headed towards the door, he followed close behind, his hand brushing against yours as you walked.

whatever misunderstanding the team had, it could wait. for now, you and spencer had each other, and you suppose you can handle the ‘broken heart’ allegations for a little while longer.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

© blairenqs 2025 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

✧ 𝑓. tysm for 200 followers !! 🥹🫶 i’m so grateful oh m gee <3 i’m currently on spring break and i have no social life whatsoever & i was in the trenches of depression but this made my whole month. THANK YOUU ! spencer brainrotting my way thru life 🕺

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[moonlight-prose]

this one from the touch-starved prompt list w logan 😩🫶:

when the other holds onto their waist briefly as they're passing by and it just send chills down their spine

don't mind me

a/n: i need you to know this is pure softness and i am swooning at the thought of how sweet it is. logan is such a gentlemen (cue his words in the wolverine about being old fashioned) and just this thought of him being gentle with the reader, but also respectful. i'm dead. i'm also attached af to this dynamic and would be so open to exploring more with these two. i see the logan here as dofp!logan (especially at the end with that shirt).

summary: you refused to admit that you were smitten with the man who melted your otherwise intelligent mind. you were however...horrible with subtlety. luckily the same could be said for him.

pairing: logan howlett x reader

word count: 1k

warnings: none, fluff, logan howlett is a tease, blossoming of a relationship.

Chaos remained the baseline state when it came to life at the mansion. You couldn't find a way to escape something so natural—a piece of your existence that settled in close to your heart. You liked hearing the children's voices raise in pitch the more excited they got. You liked being showered in hellos as you passed through the halls.

You'd even grown fond of the way you always somehow found yourself stuck in this particular situation. Standing in the kitchen, searching for food, as Logan attempted to make his way through the busy environment.

Few things made you smile the way seeing him in the mornings did. Mussed hair, eyes glazed in partial drowsiness, as he sought for the largest mug tucked in the back of the cabinets. A gag gift from Scott with the claim that the Wolverine needed a cup that could handle him.

(Neither of them would admit it, but the gift remained Logan's favorite piece in the house. A staple in his usual rushed breakfast.)

"Have a nice night?" you asked, attempting to keep your gaze from dropping to his chest.

The white beater he wore never seemed to get old; you absolutely didn't mind seeing him in it at the start of your days.

He grinned, polite and gentlemanly and never anything more. There came days where you wondered if the tension you felt hanging in the air was merely a figment of your imagination. Possibly a delusion to help you cope with such early time slots and late night papers to grade.

"I heard you down here last night."

A grunt rumbled from deep in his chest as he took a sip of coffee large enough to scald his mouth. Screams filtered in through the open doors, quickly followed by a group of kids ready to rummage in the cabinets you both occupied. Which meant your short allotted time with him would soon come to an end, forcing you to pick it up tomorrow morning.

"You want something to eat?" Nodding to the stove with a pan coated in leftover burnt bacon (Scott's attempt at cooking for the kids), you watched Logan's face screw up slightly.

Who could blame him. You wouldn't eat it either.

"Coffee's fine," he mumbled, pouring another helping before small hands were shoving open the door to a variety of cereal. "Gotta get to my class."

You nodded. "History. Right."

He hummed, entirely aware of what occurred inside your chest. How you fidgeted slightly with the watch on your wrist, your eyes unable to remain stuck on his for longer than a few seconds at a time. Logan wasn't an idiot. He understood the tells long before you would dare to admit them out loud.

Clearing your throat, you set your now empty mug in the sink—shifting out of the way to give the students more room. Though the mornings began with enough chaos to keep you on your toes, it was seeing Logan that put you on edge.

The emotions that rifled through your mind mere moments after stepping into his proximity. You began to wonder if there was a way to fix this. Put a stop to how you pined (rather pathetically) over a man who clearly held no interest. You had half a mind to ask Charles for assistance—knowing full well you'd never get over the sheer mortification.

He might laugh—ask if you were in your right mind—but he'd never hold it over you like the others.

But that predicament would have to be settled at a later time. As of two minutes ago...you were late for your first class. The lecture notes were still buried in a stack on your desk; you made a mental note to pick them up on the way.

"Have a good class." Offering a smile, you moved to step out of his way.

Only for the timing (and quite possibly the universe itself) to lead towards you stumbling back from three students barreling towards the kitchen.

His hands latched onto your waist, steadying your movements with a soft grunt, and you tried your best not to choke on your spit. That sound. His touch. You wouldn't make it through the day without those small aspects of him entering your mind—distracting any viable insights you might have had on astronomy as a whole.

Did he have any clue what he did to you?

Or was he merely toying with you on purpose?

Glancing over your shoulder, you caught the small grin that appeared on his face. Barely there yet bright enough to punch a hole right through your chest. He stood tall behind you. A wall you could very well fall into without any worries. That alone left you clutching for some bits of your sanity—whatever remained now sparse enough to be considered laughable.

You tried not to think about the skin you caught small glimpses of in training last week. The sight haunted you for a week—fraying the edges of your mind and turning you to mush. For fucks sake you were a professor. You held enough intelligence to keep Charles Xavier on his toes when wrapped in conversation.

Yet Logan fucking Howlett managed to undo everything that made you the person you were before him now. He muddled what aptitude you had and rendered you entirely dumb.

Some days it left you seething—desperate for a chance to get back at him.

Other days you longed for its familiar warmth.

"You alright there bub?" he rasped, hands still pressed to your hips.

Fighting against your own mind, you plastered a smile on your lips—hoping he might ignore the flutter of your heart. "I'm fine! Thanks for that."

"Have a good day," he replied, his palm brushing the base of your spine as he stepped around you.

Chills clashed with a bewildering heat and curled around your stomach, teasing you with the prospect of his touch somewhere else. You watched his grin deepen, eyes dark with something you'd never before witness from the Wolverine. Want.

"Yeah..." You sucked in a breath, flustered beyond what you could contain in your own body. "You too."

He ducked out towards the hallway long before you had a chance to melt into the floor. A small chuckle resounding in the small confines of the kitchen. Slamming into your chest with enough power to leave you winded.

On your rush to the classroom you finalized your decision.

You'd make that meeting with Charles after all.

[charliegyrth]

Hello from Charlie Gyrth!

A Brief Introduction (and Links!)

Hello, Tumblr! My name’s Charlie. I’ve been writing (and reading) gainer fiction for years, and I finally have the confidence to start posting. My goal is to publish one story or chapter every day for the rest of 2025.

Here’s what I have so far:

Long Stories:

Nightly Feedings - 4 parts (ebook) A Milkshake a Day - 4 parts (ebook) My Former Best Friend - 5 parts (ebook) Go with the Flow - 9 parts (ebook) Fatter for the Wedding - 12 parts (ebook) Alex Gets Soft - 22 parts (ebook)

Short Stories:

Chicken Shack Fatties Improving Myself Final Destination: Obesity Three Roommates Scooter Hangry Search History Back from the Oil Rig Good Memories Tiny Tim and Small Sam You Ruin Your Perfect Body Metabolism Blockers Sliding Doors, Changing Waistlines I Really Want You to Like Me Liam's Sweet Tooth Are You Happy? My Best Friend Comes Back The Writer's Retreat Halloween Before and After Marriage Body Mark Wears the Pants Two Fat Guys on a Blind Date Giving In (2 parts) Fat Camp Reunion (2 parts) The Lottery Winner (2 parts) I'm Too Fat for My In-Laws (2 parts) Speedos (2 parts) Fat Blind Date (2 parts) The Hottest Guy in Town (2 parts)

And here’s a bit about me:

I love writing about positive, supportive male couples who embrace the joys of gaining, feeding, encouraging, stuffing, and belly play. I don’t write about force-feeding (unless it’s consensual) or revenge fattening. I read those kinds of stories sometimes, but as a writer, I want to explore the healthier sides to gaining.

I find fat beautiful, so I kind of get lost in describing it sometimes. I love the sheer variety of plus-sized body types, so I try to reflect that in my stories. Not every fat guy is destined to grow a big, round beer gut (although those are great, of course).

I typically stay away from magical plots or instant weight gain. That usually doesn’t do it for me.

I will never use AI in my writing. I like creating these stories myself. (I have a day job as a full-time writer/editor, so this stuff is sort of a release for me.)

I try to be realistic with how quickly my characters gain, but sometimes I get a little ahead of myself and stretch reality. Just go with it.

I've started to publish some of these stories as ebooks. They will always be available for free on Tumblr, but one of my goals in life is to make gainer fiction more accepted in the literary world. We need to get more of this stuff out there. I don't expect gainer fiction to ever become mainstream, but there's no reason why it isn't as mainstream as, say, werewolf shifter erotica or other niche subgenres.

Probably not important, but I'm a redhead, so if you're wondering why there's an overrepresentation of red-haired characters in my stories, now you know.

I’m a gainer in my personal life, but I’m terrible at it. I always get up to about 210 or so and then chicken out. These stories are a way to help me process some of those feelings so that I can eventually have the confidence to keep going. We’ll see. (196 as of today!)

And I think that’s about it. Thanks so much for checking out my Tumblr! And happy eating!