#not a single misstep

[hellowoolf]

strawberry cream

synopsis: your remote internship at gojo enterprises is going rather well, or you think so, anyway. you sort of relish in how incapable your wildly successful boss is with technology, and at every turn you’re there, prompt and available on slack: his sweet IT intern who pushes her hours to help.

it's all very professional…right?

pairing: ceo!satoru gojo x intern fem!reader

tags: modern au, keeping secrets, SMUT!!, thigh riding, unprotected piv, oral (m!receiving), face fucking (who said that?), sorta rough sex but not really, dirty talk, an overall foulmouthed satoru gojo, creampie, semi-public sex, inappropriate workplace conduct...and one extra tag that i won't say cause it'll ruin the surprise ;)

wc: 11k

a/n: um...so actually what happened was...um...uhhhh

masterlist

18+! mdni <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Satoru Gojo 5:27pm Still not working.

the message blinks at you from your computer screen. 

you really do enjoy your job. you like both of them, actually.

your internship with gojo enterprises came up sort of serendipitously, happening upon a listing for a paid remote IT intern right as you found a truly beautiful apartment on the outskirts of shibuya. you needed more income to cover the rent, and it wasn’t like your other workplace required that you use your degree.

and you’ve found there is something delightful about putting your college years into practice, particularly because it seemed for so long like you never would. rummaging through the backend of one of the most affluent corporations in the country thrills you a little bit, as silly at it sounds. curled up in your duvet and splayed about in silk pajamas, you pry open the metaphorical breakers of an economic giant and fiddle with the wires.

you suppose, as different as this line of work is from your other job on the face of things, it appeals to the same sort of animal in your belly that drew you to nightlife. you like feeling in control, enjoy the subversion of being so pretty and young and self assured.

you are delighted, too, by how often satoru gojo needs your help.

he has lost his email password at least three times in the last two months, accidentally deleted his own profile from the internal website, and filed his income tax forms in the shared google drive. 

each time you have been there, fingers flying over your keyboard in your slack dms as you sort through his technological missteps. it’s only made more entertaining by how intelligent he clearly is—you are under no illusion—it seems simply his single blind spot rests securely over your area of expertise.

he is…not what you expected. he seems to respect you far more than you had anticipated a CEO to respect his remote intern. he knows that, as it relates to IT, you know better. there is no denial of his mistakes, no shame, only a brief request sent your way with a hint of playful self-deprecation. you like him. 

this most recent problem has spanned almost all afternoon. he’s been locked out of his internal account, it seems. you bite back a smile as you respond to him.

You 5:27pm Hmm. I’ve scanned backend three times now, and everything seems to be working. What’s the error message exactly?

Satoru Gojo 5:28pm Says I don’t have permissions.

now you really are smiling, responding immediately.

You 5:28pm Oh, well I can fix that here, but that’s something another admin could have done, too. Probably not a system error. It says here the other admin is Suguru Geto. Would he have changed permissions for some reason?

he drafts a few responses to that before going silent. suguru geto has never needed your help and is thus wholly enigmatic to you, though you know he is satoru’s CFO; you also know—certainly not because you poked around in their personal slack messages—that they are close childhood friends. it wouldn’t be the first time one had attempted a practical joke on the other, the workplace often caught in the middle, though you commend geto for his foresight to humiliate gojo in the only way gojo couldn’t fix himself.

after a few minutes you see him typing again.

Satoru Gojo 5:34pm Yeah ok it was him. He just did it to mess with me. I’m sorry to have bothered you! :/

your laugh rings through your apartment.

You 5:34pm No worries!

and this should be the end of it, really. but the part of you that you reckon satoru gojo shares—a joy in flagrant pettiness—compels you to keep your computer open. your digital landscape is quiet for a few moments, your dms empty. you stretch your arms over your head and yawn.

ping!

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm On second thought, can I get your help with one more thing?

You 5:37pm Of course

Satoru Gojo 5:37pm You’re too sweet for your own good. Your shift ended 7 minutes ago.

you enjoy this, too. rare moments when his personality bares itself in the way he writes to you: the sort of harmless flirtation that you doubt he even notices as he types it.

you’ve known enough womanizers to know he’s harmless. still, you bask in fleeting moments of his digital attention.

You 5:38pm What can I help you with?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm Can you make his launch button this link?

Satoru Gojo 5:39pm DON’T OPEN IT

you open it immediately.

oh.

oh.

your bottom lip gets caught under your teeth. of course you knew vaguely what gojo looks like, you had sufficiently googled the company when you first came upon the job listing.

and there are pictures of him everywhere, pretty face splashed under headlines like BILLIONAIRE CEO TURNED PLAYBOY?—that article made you laugh, some ten thousand words about a blurry photo taken outside a nightclub, a white head of hair in motion walking out—but still, in all of them he is pressed perfectly into well-tailored suits, hair brushed through and facial expressed tempered, even trained. he looks so professional, so proper, so terribly handsome, but not quite your type. or, really, a stage before your interest.

you like when men like that are disheveled, hair mussed and skin tacky with sweat.

though this photo he’s attached isn’t all that far off.

something stirs, shakes awake between your legs looking at it. you grin with something devious and awful before responding.

You 5:40pm I have to open it if you want me to use it.

Satoru Gojo 5:41pm Is that true?

no.

You 5:42pm Yes?

Satoru Gojo 5:43pm Did you already look?

You 5:43pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 5:44pm You’re fired

You 5:45pm No I’m not.

Satoru Gojo 5:45pm No, you’re not.

with a giddy little grin you do as he asks. it is entirely unprofessional, you know, but you are surely exempt from blame when doing the bidding of the CEO, right?

you link suguru’s login button to the photo, laughing to yourself lightly.

You 5:50pm I did it. 

You 5:51pm I have to admit I’m sort of surprised you’d ask me to do something so childish on your behalf.

Satoru Gojo 5:51pm He started it

You 5:52pm Aren’t you a CEO?

Satoru Gojo 5:52pm Aren’t you my intern?

You 5:53pm My shift ended 23 minutes ago.

Satoru Gojo 5:54pm So then you’ve committed this “childish act” for me out of the kindness of your heart?

You 5:55pm No, actually. I get paid double for overtime.

Satoru Gojo logged off 5:55pm

your heartbeat rings lightly in your ears, you feel like you might have rattled him a little and that delights you to no end.

you wonder what he imagines you look like. surely he could have searched your name, though any photos of your face wouldn’t be attached there. 

there are, of course, ample photos of your face across the internet, most of them behind a paywall, though some of the tamer ones are available for free. but all of them are under a different name.

you had chosen tsukiko, meaning moon child, as your stage name initially as something of a joke. she isn’t an alter ego so much as an exaggerated caricaturization of your femininity, one who feeds on starlight and slinks about in the dark. you delegate the hungrier parts of yourself, the parts that ache and need for things, to her.

your manager at club cabal had spotted you first at a stoplight waiting to cross the street, pin striped pencil skirt down to your knees and shiny black pumps in each hand. you had been looking for months for a full time job, but the market was so saturated by then with IT workers that there seemed to be no space for you. you remember leaning your forehead against the cool metal of the stoplight pole, surely infected with some fifty diseases but you weren’t in a place to mind, when an enormous and glamorously dressed woman approached you. 

you remember so clearly what she said to you, the words cutting through your delirium and sinking sense of defeat: you look absolutely riveting in business clothes.

you barely had the wherewithal to lift your head but nonetheless you had, assessing all six feet of her, draped in fine furs and silk gloves. the whole getup would have looked like a costume on anyone else but she wore it all with such purpose that it looked like the most natural outfit in the world. 

you still cringe thinking about the tactless way you’d simply replied: “huh?”

she had laughed at you, but there was no humiliation in it, she almost seemed endeared to you, amused and halfway pleased by the bleary look on your face. she had handed you an ivory business card, embossed and shiny with her name and her place of work.

長澤長子 (nagasawa hisako)

CLUB CABAL MANAGER

“come to see me if you’d like to make some real money,” she offered, not waiting for your reply before strutting back down the block, coat fluttering in the evening wind like a cloak.

when your savings dipped into the single digits a week later you paid her a visit.

working at the most exclusive hostess bar in tokyo fits you stunningly well. your clients are disallowed from propositioning you, serving you alcohol, offering you drugs, and, most importantly, touching you. you spend your weekday evenings in clothes that could pass as business formal if they were longer—tiny miniskirts and button-ups that urged the plush of your tits to spill out—and entertain the most wealthy business people of the tokyo metropolitan area.

all of them just want someone to talk to, you have come to learn. it helps, naturally, that you arrive to them dripping in sex appeal, but most of your returning clients seem to remember first and foremost the way you speak to them. 

after two years collecting a rather well-to-do roster of exclusive clientele, hisako began operating you out of a private room. 

and there are real, tangible things you have learned from catering to top performers in all fields. you might have majored in math and CS but you know now, too, about the global economy, about agriculture, about the intricacies of factory-owning. 

and you flare bright, a star in spinning orbit, in that subtle performance under the moody lighting of the club. every hand gesture, every curl of your lips, it all means something, and the fine precision has come to excite you. you are untouchable there, a coveted thing, paid to see.

speaking of which, you think, it’s about time to get ready.

you have very few reservations tonight, though you don’t mind much now that you have your own space. you extend your legs across the couch, stilettos hanging off each foot as you tap them to the humming bass of the music. your room sits right off the main hallway, just big enough for a plush, navy couch and a coffee table, wiped shiny between clients. lanterns hang golden and coy at each corner, illuminating your face just enough to provoke your visitors to lean in closer.

you can hear the distinct click of hisako’s heels as they approach your door, and you turn your head on the armrest with a smile to greet her.

“hi baby,” she coos. you sit up and cross one leg over the other, lest she have a client in tow.

“good evening,” you reply with a smile. she leans on the threshold with a conspiratorial grin.

“i have a new client for you. a real big hitter. can you handle him?”

you tilt your head. “are you really asking me that?”

she laughs, full-bodied. “i guess not,” she muses, turning back to send him in. you pull a chilled bottle of sake from a small fridge at one end of the couch and place a glass next to it on the coffee table.

there are about 30 seconds as a client approaches your door when you learn some of the most vital things about them. the weight of their shoes, the sound their clothes make as they walk, whether they make conversation with the other hostesses passing by, all of it is catalogued as you listen. 

the so-called big hitter makes his way towards your door with purpose, though he is in no rush. his footsteps fall deliberately, a hair’s breadth away from heavy but not quite, just fast enough to sound intentional, just slow enough to keep from missing your door. 

the face they make when they enter matters, too. how they assess you, where they look, you cater your posture to their tastes. an interested man is an honest man, you have found, and you learn the most when they want you. 

the door swings open.

fuck.

fuck.

he is so tall he takes up almost the entire doorway, weight leaned on one hip like he’s waiting to be invited in, though surely confident enough to know you will. his suit is bespoke, you can tell from the way it sits just so on his shoulders, and he’s loosened his tie a centimeter or two. he’s one of the most attractive young men you’ve ever seen in your life, which would typically excite you. you love beautiful clients. 

but blinking at you from a few feet away is satoru gojo.

your boss.

satoru gojo.

is at your door.

for one of the first times in your entire career, you have no idea the sort of look pulled across your face. what the fuck are you supposed to do?

you know you have at most one more second before the silence shifts from anticipatory into awkward, and you consume it in full to think. okay. gojo has no clue what you look like, of this much you are almost certain. further, the name on your door is not one he would recognize. by all accounts the person who sits before him has absolutely no relation to his remote IT intern, despite the fact that you’re in fact the same woman. you take stock of his face; if you have any sense left, you think he shows no sign of recognition on your face.

okay. you swallow. refusing him would be a first for you, and by hisako’s description he’s an important client to please. you almost laugh at yourself for that thought; of course he’s an important client to please, he’s something like the wealthiest man in the country. 

what is there to do other than act as though he’s any other customer?

you smile, small and wry, and gesture him inside. gojo nods his head in hello, closing the door behind him and settling gracefully on the other end of the couch. his legs are long and spread so far his knee almost touches yours, almost, and he reclines back into the upholstery like he owns the room. you suppose he could, if he had any interest. he holds a broad hand out to you, smiling sharp and wolfish. he likes you.

“it’s nice to meet you. you can call me satoru.”

if you can push beyond the strangeness of meeting your boss like this, you acknowledge the unique position you have been unceremoniously pushed into. namely, that unlike any other first-time client, you know a great deal about him.

you smile warmly but don’t move your hand to shake his. “it’s my pleasure.”

he wiggles his fingers slightly. “you don’t shake hands?”

“you know the rules, satoru,” you admonish lightly.

he chuckles and lowers his hand. “i guess i was hoping otherwise.”

you move to pour him a glass of sake and feel his eyes trace you as you bend. his irises flit over the swell of your breasts, the arch of your back, though he stays reposed back into the cushions, watching you like a predator. you coach a smile that doesn’t reveal what is becoming clearer to you with each moment: it’s almost fun to have this secret. 

or it would be, if your internship wasn’t on the line.

it may still be, actually.

you cross your other leg over, let the tip of your stiletto hang close to his shin. the muscle of his thigh twitches but he remains still.

“so what brings you here tonight?”

gojo keeps his eyes on you over his glass as he takes a slow pull. he smacks his lips lightly, shrugging. “i wanted company.”

“do you struggle to find good company?” you tease.

he tilts his head back and forth, thinking, before admitting, “yeah, i guess i do.”

“i find that sort of hard to believe.”

the corner of gojo’s mouth tilts up. “and why’s that?”

you roll your eyes lightly. “you’ll have to work a little harder if you want me to stroke your ego that overtly.”

“i’ll work as hard as it takes,” he fires back, only half joking.

your laugh is breathy and real. he communicates himself rather well over slack, you think. all the cheekiness, all the bite, you have felt moments of it in your communications online. though seeing it all from his mouth is a different beast you are, if you can admit it, becoming increasingly elated to face. how fucking hot he looks while talking is not something easily captured online.

“so what do you do for work, satoru?”

you hope that question is convincing. he didn’t tell you his last name on purpose, you think. 

“i run a business.” his eyes are narrowed almost imperceptibly, and it unnerves you, so you bend at the waist again to refill the sip he took from his glass. the tension in his face goes limp watching the curve of your ass.

“what sort of business?”

“oh, it’s all so boring,” he dismisses, sounding almost disappointed that you’d ask.

you scoff and chuckle all at once. “most of my clients come to talk about their work.”

he extends an arm across the back of the couch, fingers a few inches from your neck but still not touching. you let him.

“i think that’d be a waste.”

“why’s that?”

“i could pay a lot less money for someone who doesn’t look like you to listen to stories about my work.”

you breathe in sharply. he’s fun. “you could pay a lot less money for someone you could touch, too,” you add.

his eyes flit a moment to his hand, so close to your skin, surely sensing the warmth of you, but still making no move to actually feel. it seems almost like he gets off on the not-touching, like that inch of space between you thrills him. he flexes all five fingers.

“i find that pretty boring, too,” he murmurs.

“you don’t like fucking pretty girls?” 

your sudden crassness makes him shift, crossing one leg over the other. he liked that. 

“i suppose i’m just tired of it now.”

your grin grows. “oh, i see, so you’ve fucked too many pretty girls.”

he shrugs with that predatory smile, running his free hand through his hair to muss it slightly. “the waiting’s the best part anyway.”

“so what do you find not boring?” you ask.

he looks at the ceiling in a show of consideration that makes you laugh. his gaze snaps back to you at the sound, immediately preening with it. “you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

your scoff only sets him alight further, scooting just barely closer to you, angling his legs so they still don’t touch yours. but you’re tucked further into his side now, noses closer, and it makes something animal inside you flex and bite. your thighs squeeze quickly but you track his eyes as they catch the movement.

“see that, right there,” his hair flops to one side, loose now from its gel in all his fussing, “you’re scoffing at me. do you know how rare that is?”

he seems genuinely delighted, whole-heartedly excited by your diminutive little noise.

“oh i see,” you start, “you like being degraded?”

he scrunches his nose and it’s sort of boyish. “no, honestly, not really. i just have so few people in my life that treat me like a real person.”

you chew on this slowly. “so you…” a coy smile breaks through, “you came to a hostess bar for the humanity?” but you can hardly finish your sentence without laughing again, light and amused but real, and he chuckles at himself, too.

“yeah, i guess so.”

you feel his pointer finger brush the skin at the back of your neck and you shudder, narrowing your eyes at him again. he corrects himself immediately, pulling away, and breathing out, “sorry. i forgot.”

you can see on his face that he means it.

“tell me about your life, little moon,” he says, voice low and quieter as it fans over your face. when did you get so close together? both of your bodies contort beyond reasonable expectation to fit so closely without touching.

you have never felt quite so charmed by a client before. whether it’s because you already feel so familiar with him outside of this room or the appeal of harboring this secret you cannot decipher, but nonetheless you are doing things you would normally never allow yourself. you have never leaned so close before, have flirted so overtly with the breaking of a rule you have historically enjoyed.

you want him to touch you. for so many reasons that is a terrible, life-alteringly horrific idea.

you try to speak with him instead.

“little moon?” you ask.

he points to your door. “tsukiko. moon-child,” he clarifies, but something thinly veiled and knowing tugs at his lips.

you hum. 

“but i guess that isn’t your real name, is it?”

something about the low rumble of his voice tickles at your spine, makes you want to arch into his touch. you’re trying so hard to remember yourself, to remember who he is.

“i don’t think it’s wise for me to answer that question.”

he doesn’t miss a beat. “then answer my other one. tell me about your life.” you hesitate and he grins. “or scoff at me again.”

you smile and push an amused breath through your nose. this is a somewhat perilous trap of a question but you don’t show it on your face.

“wouldn’t that ruin the illusion? peeking behind the curtain and all?”

“what illusion do you think i’m under?”

you appraise his face slowly. you suppose you don’t have an answer to that, so you relent to his other question, at last.

“i’m fairly boring outside of this job, actually.”

“i don’t believe that.”

“i spend all my time here and at home.”

“oh, little moon, such a shame. pretty young thing all alone all the time?”

the teasing lilt of his voice, sweeping in that low whisper of a register, makes your thighs clench again. he doesn’t even look this time, only grins a little bigger to show you he knows.

“i’m around people all the time, people are my job,” you argue.

“that’s not the sort of alone i’m talking about.”

you cannot help but want to play this game with him, you lob the ball back, though your voice comes out a fraction more breathless than usual. “what sort of alone are you talking about then, satoru?”

“well i can’t touch you,” you can feel his pointer finger hover over your shoulder again, intentional this time, running a knuckle so close you can sense it without looking, but still not touching. “but is anyone?”

you’re taking in a stuttering breath in an attempt to respond but he continues, lips closer to the shell of your ear.

“surely someone gets to feel this tight pussy, huh?”

you huff out all your air, fuck you’re so wet and he’s looking at you like you can smell it. what the fuck is happening? you have never, ever reacted to a client this way. and better yet, this is your boss.

but rationality slips from your ears and down your neck, you think, because you only shake your head.

pity drips from his voice like honey, every ounce of power you implicitly relinquish to him a thing he takes on with what appears to be great pleasure.

“surely you must have needs.”

“i can take care of myself, but i appreciate your concern.” your double entendre doesn’t dawn upon you until you’ve already said it and he’s laughing with a lewd sort of tenderness. your face burns and you make use of your remaining faculty, looking away from him knowing he cannot tilt your chin back himself.

“uh huh. and how often are you…taking care of yourself?”

“i don’t have to answer that.” that’s a weak retort and you both know it.

“no, you don’t.”

you try to deflect. “i thought fucking pretty girls bored you.”

“i’m not fucking you, am i? unless you’ve had a change of heart about the touching rule.”

“no,” you reply, as firmly as you can manage, though something below your navel is bellowing for him.

“i figured not,” he admits, leaning just slightly further into you, whispering low and hot into your ear, “it’s enough just knowing how fucking wet you are in that little skirt just from the sound of my voice.”

your mouth drops open in disbelief, head snapping towards his, so close your noses almost bump. “i’m not,” you protest, voice clipped. fucking liar. 

“no?”

“no.”

“why don’t you prove it for me?” he taunts softly.

you squeeze your thighs harder, desperate for any sort of friction, anything, but your restraint is waning with him whispering so sinfully in your ear.

“you’re not allowed to touch me,” you remind him again.

“but you can touch me, can’t you?”

this is a suggestion you’ve heard from a few patrons before but it’s a first to feel so tempted to take one up on it. you search his face for anything to tether to, looking for a reason to refuse, but god he’s so pretty and you want him. he has almost as keen an eye as you do, you think, because he sees the moment your trepidation lowers.

“why don’t you get on my thigh and let me feel?”

his legs uncross and he splays them out, a saddle for you. your eyes drop there, and then to the tent in his slacks as they pull tight across his hips, to his face—wild and manic—and then back again. shit. 

you brace one hand on his shoulder, just to see what he’ll do. he tenses with the contact but doesn’t move, doesn’t make to grab at you. you look at each other a moment longer, both of you waiting for something terrible or wonderful or both, and then you’re swinging one bare leg over his, settling slowly on his pant leg, skirt fanned just to the middle of your thigh.

the pressure of his muscle under your swollen clit makes you whimper as soon as you sit down and a breath punches from his lungs but still he does as you have asked, still he doesn’t touch you. he tilts his head to the side, mouth parted. 

“come on, little moon,” he encourages lowly. “use me.” he punctuates it with a little bounce of his leg and you’re gone.

you start slow, dragging your clit on the warmth of his slacks, surely leaving something shiny and humiliating behind but you can’t find it in you to care. you brace your other hand on his other shoulder for balance, rolling your hips faster now, mewling quietly as he watches with rapt attention.

“you’re fucking soaked, aren’t you? that all for me?”

you nod wordlessly but he bounces his leg again. you only barely stop yourself from screaming. “answer me.”

“f-fuck, yes, satoru, f-for you,” you exhale, words stuttering and stumbled as your stomach tenses with your movement. the pleasure whips through your body, coils around your diaphragm and around your hole. you flutter and pulse and surely he feels it, how badly you want to be filled. his fists clench at his sides watching it, cock aching and huge from the looks of it, jumping in time with your little grinds along the fabric.

with each roll you thrust harder, whimpering as the feeling bubbles and smokes inside of you. “fuck,” you whisper, to yourself or to him you do not know.

“fuck you look so fucking—oh that’s it—perfect humping me like a slut,” he groans.

you throw your head back, rolling your hips harder, faster, you need to cum and it’s so close you can taste it, can feel it between your fingers. he takes the opportunity to lean closer to your neck, exhaling slowly on the beating of your jugular.

“i’m so cl-close,” you whine.

he bares his teeth against your skin. “oh baby you really did need it, huh? cumming so fast.”

you nod, all pretenses and attempts at self-possession abandoned. the maw of your heat unhinges its jaw as ecstasy washes over you, hips gone frantic and lost of all rhythm, riding your high as you gush over the fabric of his pants. he moans with you watching it happen, feeling the wet heat spread across his thigh.

with one final sigh you slow to a stop, panting lightly. when you raise your head to meet his eyes again you feel something like sheepishness coiling feverish in your chest but his expression is so open in its wanting that the humiliation doesn’t last.

“fuck,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

with the remaining shreds of your crazed desire you are put upon to slide two fingers past the hem of your panties, collecting your slick where it pools. you raise them in front of his face, shiny and tacky.

“open,” you order softly.

he obeys immediately, gratefully. you press your fingers lightly on his tongue and his eyes almost roll back, half-lidded as he licks your fingers clean, his groaning around them reverberating down your hand. you pull away with a faint pop.

“you are fantastic,” he breathes, as dazed as you are.

you smile something small and honest, slowly disentangling yourself from him to right yourself on the couch again. 

“thank you,” you say, for the compliment and…for everything else, you suppose.

he almost seems nervous now that he’s seen you cum. his cock is still obscenely swollen in his pants, still jumps every time you look at it, but it feels like he’s swallowed his swagger along with your cum. he reaches for his sake cup and takes it all in one swig before standing.

“i’ll…see you again, i’m sure,” he says as he makes for the door. you sort of want to giggle at the absurdity of it all, at this situation you find yourself in. but then he turns back, as if remembering something, and digs through his pocket.

he pulls out a wallet, leather and embossed with the kanji of his name, a tidbit you know but cannot divulge. yes, the fact is slapping you across the face again: this is your boss. 

he throws something to the tune of 150 thousand yen on the table, for the first time looking less than certain about what to do. you think for a moment that he seems like he’s just remembered, there at the threshold and one foot out the door, that this has been first and foremost a transactional encounter. 

when the sound of his expensive shoes walking down the hallway fades into silence—or as close to silence as the club is capable—you hang your head in your hands. what the fuck did you just do?

the next week passes like torture. for the first time in your life you dread going to work, dread seeing him again; even worse you spend equal time hoping he’ll turn up at your private room. satoru gojo plagues you, plagues tsukiko, infiltrates somewhere deeper beyond the character.

to add insult to injury, you are subject to continued messages from him under your real name, a new character borne of necessity under the pretense that you didn’t fuck his thigh last thursday. though you suppose the only benefit to keeping such close contact with him is that you do not have to wonder when he doesn’t turn up for a week after his first appearance; you know he is busy, know he’s working past sunset, and you have the slack receipts to prove it.

he is as hopeless with his computer as he has always been—you suppose a clandestine encounter with a hostess wouldn’t have changed that—and every time he turns to you, endlessly grateful and funny and reverent, somehow, of the ways in which you help him.

like now.

Satoru Gojo 6:06pm Sweet intern

normally you would have logged off by now, but you have the night off from the club, and what better way to spend your evening than with a glass of wine and engaged in a treacherous IT session with your boss and best single-visit client?

you nibble on your lip as you respond.

You 6:06pm Good evening

Satoru Gojo 6:07pm My evening has been terrible.

You 6:07pm More computer troubles?

Satoru Gojo 6:08pm You must think I’m an idiot.

You 6:09pm Definitely not.

Satoru Gojo 6:09pm Helpless?

You 6:10pm Something like that.

oh god. did you just send that? you need to log off. take a week of PTO. do anything other than continue responding while a little tipsy and still fucking horny for him. to his credit, he takes that comment in stride.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm I appreciate your honesty.

Satoru Gojo 6:11pm And yes, more computer troubles.

You 6:12pm Do tell.

Satoru Gojo 6:13pm Suguru retaliated

You 6:14pm From your retaliation? It’s becoming a vicious cycle.

Satoru Gojo 6:14pm He logged me out of my Partiful account

you almost spit up wine laughing at him.

You 6:15pm Why is your Partiful account attached to your business email?

Satoru Gojo 6:15pm It’s a business party!

You 6:16pm Go ahead and request the Forgot Password email. It should send to the domain admin (me) and I’ll fix it for you. It’ll be a temp password and then you can reset when you log in again.

it’s an easy fix; so many of his requests are. he is never any less grateful.

Satoru Gojo 6:18pm Thank you thank you!

case in point.

you begin to rise from your bed to refill your glass when another ping! lights up your screen. 

Satoru Gojo 6:20pm Do you live in Tokyo?

you pause. is this…still business related?

You 6:21pm Yes

Satoru Gojo 6:21pm You should come by then.

something skittish pokes from behind your ribs. 

You 6:22pm Come to what?

Satoru Gojo 6:23pm This business party. It’s the company’s 100th anniversary. You can come by the office, meet your poor disciples in person

despite everything that still makes you smile. 

of course, you cannot under any circumstances attend. the moment he sees you in person he’ll know, likely firing you in the middle of the party. and he’ll know, too, that the night you met in person, you knew who he was even though he took great care to equivocate. was that a betrayal on your part? should you have suggested he leave that night when he walked in?

it’s all so hazy now, glossed over with your lust and his, the heat a contagion you haven’t quite baptised yourself of.

his message blinks before you still.

You 6:25pm I’m busy that night, unfortunately

Satoru Gojo 6:25pm I haven’t told you what night it is yet

are you the stupidest young woman on the planet? it is so unfamiliar to feel so out of control, your grip slack where it normally tightens, white-knuckled.

you aren’t entirely ready to concede.

You 6:26pm I just don’t do well with people.

lie.

Satoru Gojo 6:26pm I really would like it if you dropped by. You don’t have to stay for long.

you groan aloud.

Satoru Gojo 6:27pm You’ve helped me so much the last few months

Satoru Gojo 6:28pm It’s next Friday at 7pm. Most people will be there straight from work so business formal is fine. I hope you’ll come

the truth—it descends upon you like wrath, venomous and toothy—is that you have no options. you cannot deny the CEO at the company for which you intern three times. you also surely cannot attend, cannot let him see your face. but the former is a more pressing problem, you suppose. maybe it’s the wine, but you feel your resolve bruising into submission.

maybe this is for the best; you’ve saved enough now that you can stay in this apartment long enough to find another job. and was it really sustainable to continue to work alongside gojo after what happened at the club?

the terrible part of you—you’ll never forgive her—wants to think you would sustain this as long as it was viable. but the rest of you acknowledges that the lifespan has arrived at its bloody, inelegant end.

You 6:30pm Okay

there is something deeply ironic about zipping up a pencil skirt of appropriate length in preparation to go see satoru gojo again. your stockings are sheer and black, catching the light where your foot curves into the lowest heels you managed to find in your closet. no matter how you arrange your gray sweater over your torso you feel sort of crude-looking. you have come to associate this style of clothing so closely with the club that you cannot process your silhouette in the mirror as anything other than whorish.

with a manic sort of giggle you think, oh well. you’re getting fired anyway!

you’ve considered, over the last week, feigning sickness or some personal tragedy, all manner of terrible scenarios which would keep you from the party. but in the first place you suspect, after your couplet of dreadful attempts at rejecting the invitation, that he would know outright you were simply trying to weasel your way out of the obligation. 

and secondly, some naive part of you does want to go. the other coworkers you’ve helped online seemed so excited when they found out you had committed to come: yuuji itadori, a new hire who seems entirely incapable of recalling his passwords, kento nanami, a clearly whip-smart high-level employee who harbors a secret fear of pressing buttons he doesn’t understand, ieri shoko, an altogether efficient young woman who simply cannot remember to clock in and out.

you have put in tangible time of your life to help these people, and in turn have forged something like friendships with them. what you had said to gojo that night is true; other than the club, you don’t encounter people much. there is something embarrassingly exciting to you about solidifying, even if only for ten minutes, these little bonds you find you care a lot about.

the gojo enterprises building is enormous and beautifully designed, you notice, as you walk towards the revolving entrance doors. the scaffolding gleams in sleek gray steel, large windows across swaths of floors cleaned to a pristine shine. the lobby is still full of people, even at this hour, shuffling about in all directions along the marble flooring.

nobody seems to pay you any attention, which soothes your nerves slightly. at least only you and him will know you’re a slut. 

you approach a pretty young woman at the front desk, hair cut recently in an auburn bob that suits her face.

“um…hi,” you begin, resting one hand on the counter. “i’m here for the office party?”

she smiles at you easily, like you aren’t about to be fired and potentially publicly humiliated. “wonderful! it’s on the penultimate floor, so just click the second button from the top.”

you nod and thank her, heartbeat increasingly demanding in the cavity of your ribs. a part of you remembers the way gojo acted that night, how pliable and kind he remained even as he paid you and stumbled out. you’d like to think the man you know—both versions—would spare you the degradation of announcing your misdeeds in front of everyone. it’s not like he isn’t lewdly implicated in such an announcement, either.

but you can’t help the slight tremble in your hands as you press on the button and it chimes, thrusting you upwards.

the last thing you consider before the doors open is that he simply won’t mind, that you’ll laugh about it together. it’s a little startling how much you find you’re hoping that he isn’t upset with you. 

and then the doors slide open.

you are reminded, as you wade through the gaggle of people chatting over champagne, that the only person here who knows what you look like is gojo, and even he might not realize at the outset that you are you. you have no way of recognizing your familiar coworkers, and thus no reasonable way to begin conversation with anyone. you make a beeline for the bar.

you assess the room around you from the far end, nursing your champagne with as much poise as you can manage. this floor has only a few, large desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by even larger board rooms flush with long, dark tables and leather seats. at the far left corner you see two single-person offices with plaques by the doors, surely gojo and geto’s offices, you think.

you cannot see gojo anywhere, though you’re unable to decide whether that’s a relief or a disappointment. you scrutinize the crowd so hard you hardly sense the figure approaching at your side until they’re already there. a deep voice clears its throat.

the man you find when you turn is rather beautiful. hair long and dark around his shoulders, face sharp and fox-like, eyes the sort of keen that might frighten someone who didn’t enjoy observant people so much. you give him a polite smile.

“you’re new,” he says simply.

you shake your head. “only partly.” you hold your hand out to shake and tell him your name. “i’m actually your remote IT intern,” you explain.

the man smiles wider, almost secretive, and assesses you quickly. his eyes rake down your form, across your face, but it isn’t hungry so much as it feels vigilant, void of the voyeuristic heat you’re used to. 

he introduces himself: “suguru geto.”

you grin at him, laughing a little. “it’s great to meet you. i’ve been wondering what you’re like.”

he raises one eyebrow. “that so?”

you realize only now that it’s more difficult than you anticipated to speak with attractive men in a different way than how you talk at the club.

“i just mean that you’ve never needed my help. i only know the technologically-challenged of you.”

he chuckles. “you must know satoru well.”

actually, you go back on your previous thought; you are positively indebted to your time at the club. all your practiced grace and easy charm prevents you from choking on your champagne. just barely. 

“yeah, in fact, i do.”

“are you the one who helps him get back at me?”

“guilty as charged.”

he clicks his tongue in his mouth. “i knew he couldn’t have been doing it on his own.”

you take another sip of your drink. “i really am sorry for my participation,” you assure him, “but when the CEO demands you attach a lewd photo to your launch button i don’t have much of a choice.”

geto’s lips tug up at one corner. “so you saw that photo then?”

heat licks over your nose and you hope the fluorescents cover it. “unfortunately, yes.”

“he’ll be so hurt you said that.”

your eyes widen only slightly, but you know he catches it. you try to imbue your voice with the casual leisure you hope to convey. “don’t tell him.”

he clinks his glass against yours with a small, knowing smile. “you have my word.” and then, over his shoulder as he begins to walk back into the heart of the party, he adds: “it was nice to meet you.”

you wave him off politely, leaning again against the bar.

your attention is pulled quickly towards a broad, blonde man as he approaches the bar, another, much younger man seemingly attached to his hip. 

“no, itadori, you can’t handle your alcohol,” the older man admonishes.

“please? it’s the company party, nanamin,” he pouts.

you smile to yourself. two of your frequent flyers.

“look, you’re an adult,” kento sounds wholly unconvinced of this, even as he says it, “but if you’re asking my permission for some godforsaken reason, then i’ll tell you–”

“wait a second,” yuuji stops. it takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you. “aren’t you our IT intern?”

you sputter in surprise. “i–um…yes?”

yuuji beams. “i knew it! it’s nice to meet you in person.” his handshake is so firm and eager it jostles you a little bit. something lost in his online translation is how frenetic of a thing he is, bouncing about in a constant state of buzzing that endears you to him.

“how did you know it was me?”

“he has a weird sense for those things,” nanami interjects, taking your hand next.

“it’s really nice to meet you both,” you smile.

“thank you so much for all your help. i was just mentioning to gojo how i wouldn’t ever get any work done without you.”

“you said that to gojo?” nanami asks disapprovingly, though yuuji doesn’t even seem to register it.

“i know he wanted to meet you, too. i’ll go get him!” he chirps, bounding off between people beyond your reach, not hearing—or choosing to ignore—your feeble oh no you don’t have to!

you turn back to nanami to find an almost pitying look on his face. you scrunch your nose. “is he that bad in person?”

“he’s…a lot,” he qualifies.

you lean an elbow on the counter of the bar, watch your champagne swirl about in the flute. “it’s sort of strange meeting all of you in person,” you admit.

nanami scans the throng briefly again, quickly muttering into his own drink: “into the eye of the hurricane.”

you have only a moment too little to discern what he means.

“—and he keeps taking my champagne away,” itadori grumbles.

lord help you you recognize gojo’s footsteps as they approach, still as certain as you remember them, and the discs of your spine align in a taut stack, but you do not turn to him.

his laugh is easy, unaware, the low scratch of it only a few feet away now, but you learned that night that he watches when he speaks. he doesn’t see you yet, surely still turned and attentive towards yuuji. “probably because you threw up in his office trash can at the last christmas party.”

“i told you, that wasn’t me.”

“who else could it have possibly—oh.” the footsteps stop, and you feel his eyes fall on you.

when you turn your head, a number of things become obvious at once.

he is as handsome as you remember him. melted a little around the edges, tie loose, suit jacket gone and button-up bunched at the elbows to expose his forearms. his scent makes your thighs clench a little, less perceptible under your reasonable skirt, his hair disrupted by the long day and possibly a glass of champagne. the terror of your present circumstances, and the punch of guilt, too, come fettered to how badly you want him. 

the other revelation—or, you suppose it’s more like a reminder—is that gojo is a great deal like you. you can almost see the way he’s counting the moments in his head, taking stock of the time he can allot himself to think, to decide, knowing that this gnawing silence will at some point grow too monstrous too ignore.

in that time the shock meets his eyes first. they widen and then pinch, flitting across your face and down your body, and you do your best not to preen in the attention. and then his lips part a little, any further salutations stone dead in the back of his mouth, swallowed down. he breathes out once, twice, heavy things you think he wanted to attach to words but couldn’t quite manage to animate.

and you want to say something, want to apologize; you almost want to encourage him to fire you now so you can avoid the anticipation and get home before your feet hurt. 

but then something devious pokes out from behind his teeth, something vital and alive, something like a smirk. his head cocks just so, bearing his large hand out.

“it’s so nice to finally meet you in person,” he says, voice so even you could strike him. 

and this is the final cognizance, thrust towards you between his lithe fingers; he plans to enjoy this. beginning, it seems with a cheeky homage to that night, the shaking of hands you refused him once but cannot deny him now. 

you shake his hand firmly, smiling something only he would identify as divergent from polite. he grazes the inside of your wrist with his pointer finger before your arms drop, posture twitching with the feeling of you despite the mundanity.

you nod your head in acknowledgment. “good to see you, sir.”

his tongue pokes briefly on the inside of his cheek. “i trust nanamin has introduced you around.”

“don’t call me that.” nanami sounds exhausted with him already, weighed down further by what you fear is a flicker of recognition. whatever dynamic flare is crackling between you and gojo, nanami’s eyes narrow, just a moment, like he sees it.

“you let me call you that,” yuuji adds unhelpfully.

and even though you’ve come upon this game in the wake of a monumentally terrible decision—or maybe because of that, you’re unsure one way or the other—you let the other proverbial pleaser drop.

“would you introduce me?” you ask gojo.

both his eyebrows jump, something silent exchanged, but he takes little time to seize the opportunity. he rounds beside you to lay a hand on the small of your back, all but delighted to guide you away, pressing only minutely harder than what would be appropriate. enough to remind you that he can touch you now.

“it was nice to meet you both again,” you offer to nanami and yuuji as satoru shepherds you off, but as soon as the pair looks away gojo is leaning down to your level slightly.

you beat him to the punch. “is this really wise?”

low enough that it’s only for the both of you: “definitely not.” he squeezes your side again quickly. “but i think i’d like to show you off to all your lovely coworkers before i fuck you in my office.”

you suck on the back of your teeth and try your best to glare up at him, but it’s hard when your panties stick so tacky to your mound. he bumps into you on purpose, giving you one, ephemeral moment to feel how hard he is in those expensive slacks. 

“can you even wait that long?”

he drops his hand from your back just to graze the swell of your ass, swipe there once with his thumb. “i already told you, little moon…the waiting is my favorite part.”

with what is clearly no small amount of reserved prudence, gojo stays true to his word. he deposits you about the party, peering at you heavy-lidded as you greet the people you’ve thus far only known over email. every time you steal a glance at him he’s already staring, the weight of his gaze so heavy your knees nearly buckle. you feel more supine than you ever have in your life, soft and watched and wanted.

but surely he must know you’re observant enough to notice he is winding you, slowly, to his office. with each new introduction you are a few feet closer to his door; it’s just shy of torture waiting this way. how long has it been since you’ve been fucked? you choose not to answer that question for yourself, though with each step you feel the gluey swipe of your slick between your legs and you cannot deny that you’re greedy to be filled.

still, you do your best to appear something like normal when you walk through the threshold of his office door, when you hear the metal snick of the lock behind you. 

the panel of glass looking out into the bullpen is so frosted you can hardly see through it, a modern design choice that suits the building, and the rest of the room follows suit; a glass coffee table stacked neatly with books, an enormous desk flush with papers and folders and an intercom system, windows that span the outer wall to boast half of tokyo.

gojo stays a moment by the closed door but gives you no direction, so you simply stand in the middle of the room, hands clasped behind your back and waiting for further instruction. you suppose he likes the look of it, because he makes no move to gesture you anywhere, smoothing a hand over his jaw as he watches you.

“get down on your knees for me, baby,” he says simply.

the air punches from your lungs and you bite down on the inside of your cheek but you find your legs curling under themselves anyway. you can’t look way from his face, that crazed manner of watching you a scorching cloak you don’t want to shed. 

only once you’re on your knees does he approach you, reaching a hand to your face to cup your jaw. with a little tug of your jaw your nose is brushing against the bulge in his pants and you exhale over it. he sighs up at the ceiling as you bring one hand up to cup his twitching cock—god it’s so big.

“you’re not mad at me?” you murmur.

he laughs once, sharp and humorless. “oh i’m fucking furious—ah” he’s cut off by your palm applying more pressure, rubbing him in earnest, and his hips buck into your fingers. his right hand weaves into your hair and grips it like a handle, humming at the way you whine.

“so i have rules of my own now,” he finishes. you still and blink back up at his face. “no touching.” you lower both hands and fasten them behind your back again. 

gojo pulls his belt loose and tugs the zipper of his pants down, aching cock jumping up and out. he’s so red it looks like it hurts, curved up a little and as massive as you thought he was, and with one hand he wraps his long fingers around the base, tugging up once, twice. your lips part as precum pearls at the tip and he grips the back of your head, bumping his slit against your lips to gloss them. when you don’t take more than you’re given he groans low, “good girl.”

and then in one, mean thrust, he’s fucking the entire girth of him into your mouth. he’s so big he bumps halfway down your throat, you gasp and sputter around him, spit pooling already and eyes watering but you’re nothing if not determined, swallowing hard around his tip.

“fuck i knew you’d take it,” he growls.

you try to nod but his length pins your head in place, not to mention each of his hands taking a tight grip on each side of your face to start thrusting into your mouth.

he’s loud, so loud that you have moments of clarity when you worry the party will hear, but he’s so fucking long that mostly you dedicate all your attention to taking him without gagging. with each thrust your nose brushes the neatly trimmed hair at his base and you lave your tongue along the underside of his shaft, feeling a vein there that pulses every time you moan around him.

“that’s it, that’s it,” he lets one hand travel down to your throat and wrap there, not pressing so much as feeling himself as he fucks in and out, “swallow—fuck me—swallow around me again, baby.”

you do and he moans wild and honest, almost surprised at how good it feels, and you’re so desperate for anything that your hips start to rock over your own heels. feeling the wet trail you leave on your shoes is vaguely humiliating but the pressure behind your pulsing clit is almost unbearable and you’re afraid he’ll pull out if you use your fingers, still clung together behind you. gojo looks like a deity with his head tipped forward watching you, brows pinched together and mouth agape, droopy eyes sharpening when he sees the little ruts of your hips.

“you fucking like this don’t you?”

you hum out a pathetic mmhmm around his skin and his eyes almost roll back. forgetting yourself you bring both hands up to claw at the vee of his hips but he catches them immediately, thrusting once with a particular malevolence to tell you to behave.

his thrusts are gaining urgency, losing their rhythm, you know he’s close and you can’t tell if you want him to finish or would prefer it be inside of you. most of all, though, you find you want to please him, so you whine one more time around his cock to hear him mewl something broken and desperate. he does.

“fuckfuckfuck i’m g’na cum, i–”

he can’t even finish his own sentence, hips stuttering and growl caught in the back of his throat as he finishes heavy on your tongue. you swallow it all down like a blessing and the bob of your throat makes him pulse a little more, whispering mainly to himself a breathy: jesus. when you pull your lips away slowly a few webs of spit snap down your chin but you let them glisten there.

gojo can hardly allow you enough time to get to your feet, wrapping his arms under yours to haul you up and over his desk. your hands press over files and polished wood and he bends you into a deep arch with one hand. with no less urgency than before his first orgasm gojo rips your skirt and stockings down to your ankles, groaning low at the damp spot in your panties, on display with your legs spread and hips flared out to him.

he uses one finger to pull your thong to the side and you can feel the filthy slide of your slick as it slips around your folds, down your thighs. you can hear the squelching of his hand on his cock again, jerking himself over the remnants of your spit and his own cum, and you tense your legs waiting for him to breach your tight hole.

he chuckles when he sees the cords of your muscles move.

“oh baby,” he coos, “are you waiting to get fucked?”

your fingers pull in and leave crescent marks on your palms. “please,” you whimper, wiggling your hips, “please fuck me.”

“i dunno,” the fwap of his hand is speeding up seeing you present yourself further for him. “i think seeing you like this is enough to—fuckfuck—make me cum again.”

you drop your forehead to the wood to ground yourself but still your words come out like a sob: “i need you satoru please, please.”

“fuck!” again his hand gets quicker, “beg me again baby. beg me better than that.”

“please satoru i need your cock so bad, i need you to fuck me, i–”

in all honesty you don’t know whether it was you begging that did it or the dissolution of his own resolve, but without warning gojo fits his angry tip at your hole and pushes, hips slapping against your ass as he sheaths himself fully in one go.

you both groan in unison, relief and nirvana and the aching heat with her claws in both of you, and satoru holds your head to his desk as he starts to move.

his thrusts now are not exactly like the way he fucked your mouth; he isn’t testing your limits, isn’t using every ounce of his remaining strength, each grind is calculated, slower than before. it almost feels like he’s pausing after each rut to hear the sound you make and learn. that consideration alone is enough to make you clamp down around him, and a moan claps like thunder from his mouth.

“god it’s like fucking a virgin you’re so fucking tight,” he hisses. 

recovering from the burn of the initial stretch you start to incline your hips back into each thrust, the punches of his tip around your walls even harder as you arch to meet him. your arms reach back to feel for him but he only seizes the opportunity to wind them in one hand and hold them to the curve of your spine. 

“was it worth it fucking embarassing me?” he pants out, beginning to bend at the waist to fuck up into harder, words nearly spat onto the wing of your shoulder. “i’ve spent all—fuck—week thinking about it.”

you mewl and hum into the wood of the desk.

“made me feel like a fucking teenager at the club,” he thrusts harder, the sound of his skin on yours louder in your ears, “made me feel like a fucking creep at my job.”

you…what?

somewhere between your insistent moaning you ask him “what—ah! oh f-fuuck satoru—what do you mean a creep?”

he bands one arm around your torso and shifts upright, holding you to his chest as his hips continue to buck wildly, more erratic, more in it. his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“all this time i’ve wanted to fuck my sweet intern,” your mouth drops open in surprise and pleasure and something else, the mounting feeling of ecstasy scintillating through your body, “thinking you were some fucking hermit,” he spits. your ass is surely red from the snapping of his toned hips but you’re so close and the hot tickle of his breath on your face just might be enough to get you there.

he almost seems to hear what you’re thinking, though, because then his free hand is jumping to your swollen clit, rubbing messy circles over and under the hood. “went to the club hoping to—oh yeah baby, squeeze me like that—get her off my mind just for you to fuck me over again,” he spits, but it isn’t angry, not really, he’s just desperately and pathetically close.

your body catches and locks, toes curling into your heels as you start to come undone, the dull pleasure coming first and then that cutting slice of your high. you shudder and pulse and milk him as it washes over you, about to pull him over the cliffside with you.

“i’m g’na fuck my cum deep in this cunt and you’re gonna have to fucking walk out of here with it dripping out of you.”

and then he’s gone too, rutting quick and thoughtless and then exploding inside of you, groaning deep in your ear and arm tight across your chest. he thrusts lazily through it, plugging you with the ropes of his seed, trying to feel the slosh of it in your channel.

the disentanglement of his body from yours is almost silent save for your shared quiet groaning at the overstimulation, an almost self-conscious kiss pressed to your temple as you redress, and the murmuring buzz of the corporate party still going outside. 

fuck. the party.

satoru takes great care righting your clothing, brushing fingers through your hair. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to—only smiling sort of boyishly as you do the same for him. you try to replicate the easy and rushed tug on his tie from before, the right pleating of his sleeves halfway up his arms. 

really it’s no use. you look like you’ve been railed, you can feel it, and the scent of sex sticks to gojo, supplanting even his cologne. you shrug at him and he laughs softly, muttering a small c’mon as he ushers you back out.

to your surprise and great delight, the party outside seems…normal. people hardly turn when you exit, engaged in their own conversations, a considerable group of them watching yuuji—absolutely plastered now—trying to get nanami to dance. satoru places his hand again on your back one last time and presses there, but it isn’t hungry now. he means it to be comforting, you think, and it is.

or it would’ve been, if your eyes didn’t immediately land on geto, leaned against the wall and watching you both with that serpentine glare. you nudge gojo with your elbow to get his attention.

when they make eye contact suguru only smirks wider. you turn slow and dangerous to satoru, who stands upright like a statue.

“satoru,” you begin, a calm that should frighten him if he’s smart, “what does he know?”

he shakes his head quickly, lips turned down in a dismissal. “nothing.” 

satoru gojo is frustratingly excellent at a great number of things. lying isn’t one of them.

when you return to your apartment that night, legs sore and aching and happy, you flop immediately onto your bed and pry open your computer, single-minded. it only takes a few moments of navigation through the admin channels to find it, a conversation from two weeks after you first started.

Satoru Gojo 3:11pm Hello

Suguru Geto 3:13pm Oh I’m sorry I don’t have any change

Satoru Gojo 3:14pm I need your help

Suguru Geto 3:15pm I’m not a philanthropist

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm I’ll give you 3 extra days of PTO

Suguru Geto 3:15pm What is it

Satoru Gojo 3:15pm You’re not gonna like it

Suguru Geto 3:16pm When do I ever

Satoru Gojo 3:16pm I need to fuck the IT intern

Suguru Geto logged off 3:16pm

~~~~~~~~~~~

to anyone who read to the end dm me you're entitled to a big messy kiss!!

comments and reblogs always appreciated <3 :3

[0scarp1astr1]

 ˖ 𐔌 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥࿐ . ۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || Lando Norris was known for his partying ways, his loud and exciting ways, at least by the media. So, it began to make those close to him wonder what attracted him to a single mother such as you. ||

ᯓ★ Lando Norris x Fem! (Single Mom) Reader

ᯓ★ 2x Genre: Angst, Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: This one is longer than the others, so please be aware but hopefully this holds you all over. Much love.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Being a mother wasn’t something you had planned—at least, not this soon. You were in your twenties, the so-called “prime years,” the time for reckless freedom, house parties that turned into sunrise conversations, or spontaneous trips with friends that felt like the world belonged only to you. Your nights were supposed to be lit with fairy lights strung across living room ceilings, wine glasses clinking, and the endless chatter about relationships, careers, and everything in between.

But instead, your twenties became a symphony of lullabies, muffled cartoons, and the quiet creak of a baby monitor in the middle of the night. They were no longer about heels and lipstick but about stepping over rogue LEGO pieces that threatened to take you out with one misstep, about mopping up juice spills and wiping sticky fingers and tired tears. You were reading the same bedtime story three times in a row because your son loved the way you did the voices, checking under the bed for imaginary monsters with the same seriousness you once saved for final exams.

It wasn’t easy. Especially not when people you thought would be there for you—those who once claimed they'd be aunties and uncles in all but blood—began to drift away. Some didn’t understand. Others didn’t try to. The baby shower promises and “I’ll always be here” texts faded like echoes, and in their absence, you carried the weight of motherhood alone. It stung in the quietest way.

But then came Sebastian.

Your beautiful baby boy with soft curls and eyes that held the galaxy. He changed everything. From the moment he was placed in your arms, the chaos didn’t matter. The sleepless nights, the fear, the uncertainty—they all became worth it the second he smiled. He was three now. A tiny tornado of joy and curiosity, who gave your life a sense of grounding and wonder you never knew you needed. Raising him wasn’t always easy, but somewhere in the mix of tantrums and toothy grins, your confidence as a mother began to bloom. You figured things out, step by shaky step, and you were proud of who you were becoming—for him.

Still, late at night, when he was tucked into bed and the silence stretched long between the walls, you wondered if love would ever find you again. The kind that made your chest ache with excitement, the kind that whispered comfort into the hollow places. You had loved before—young love, teenage love, the firsts that shaped you—but now? Now you weren’t the same girl anymore. You were a woman, a mother, and that felt like a world apart from who you used to be. Who would want to step into this life mid-chapter?

But little did you know, love wasn’t far. In fact, it lived just behind the screen you scrolled through at night.

Lando Norris. His name echoed across social media like a song on repeat. A man whose life seemed impossibly full—speeding through cities, smiling on podiums, partying in places you only dreamed of. He was freedom personified. A life in fast motion, captured in highlight reels and championship circuits. To the world, he was laughter and youth and charm, adored by millions, a modern-day rockstar in a race car.

He was everything your life was not.

And yet—somehow, fate was quietly working behind the scenes.

Because what neither of you realized just yet...was that love was about to collide with your life. Not with fireworks or headlines—but with small moments. A conversation. A look. A gesture. Something real, in a world that often felt anything but.

Despite his young age, Sebastian had already found a passion that made his eyes glow with wonder: Formula 1. It started subtly—he’d pad across the floor in his little socks, dragging his blanket behind him, only to stop and stare at the TV whenever fast cars zipped across the screen. The vibrant colors, the roaring engines, the animated commentary—it all lit up something inside him.

You didn’t expect it. After all, he was just three years old. His world should’ve been centered on coloring books and stuffed animals, not tire strategies and pit stops. But every time you flipped past a Formula 1 broadcast, he’d make a sound, a pointed squeal, or a clumsy run toward the screen. It was obvious: he was captivated.

So, naturally, you followed his excitement. You became the mom who ordered F1 merch online late at night, building a miniature racing wardrobe for your son. T-shirts in all colors. Hats far too big for his little head. Plushie cars he’d vroom around the living room. Whatever he showed the slightest interest in—you got it. And soon enough, the drivers became household names not just to the world, but to him.

Sebastian would burst into laughter whenever Max Verstappen gave his famously direct interviews, his young mind not grasping the words but fully recognizing the face. And Yuki—now part of the Red Bull team—became his source of infectious glee. Every time Yuki’s voice rang through a press conference or onboard radio, Sebastian would shriek with laughter, his eyes twinkling. He didn’t need to understand Japanese humor to adore Yuki’s presence.

Charles Leclerc? Sebastian pointed him out like an old friend. Lewis Hamilton? He’d watch him like he was listening to a storybook read aloud. And George Russell, ever graceful in his silver Mercedes, was often mimicked when Sebastian ran around the apartment in circles, pretending he was on a flying lap.

But the real surprise came with Kimi Antonelli—Mercedes' youngest and most buzzed-about addition. Whenever Kimi’s name popped up onscreen, Sebastian’s full body seemed to light up. “Kimi!” he’d shout, over and over, jumping as if the two were best friends. He didn’t care that there was a more famous “Kimi” from before—this one was his. Young, daring, full of raw potential. Sebastian’s toddler heart was loyal in a way adults often forgot how to be.

Yet, through all the teams and drivers he loved—Red Bull, Ferrari, Mercedes—it was always McLaren that stole the biggest piece of his heart. He adored the bold papaya orange livery, the sleek cars, and most of all, the drivers. Every time Lando Norris appeared on screen, Sebastian would clap like he was watching fireworks. And when Oscar Piastri came on, he’d spin in a happy circle, unable to contain his joy.

“Lando! Look, mama, it’s Lando!” he’d shout, tugging your arm with his tiny fingers, eyes wide in awe like he was seeing a superhero. If Lando waved to the camera, Sebastian would wave back, completely convinced it was meant for him.

You watched all of this unfold with warmth blooming in your chest. Parenthood hadn't been something you planned for your twenties—but moments like this made it feel like life had rewritten itself for the better. Amid the mess of snacks on the carpet, bedtime stories, and tiny shoes always misplaced—you found beauty. In Sebastian’s passion, in his smile, in the way he pointed to his heroes like they were friends—you found your peace.

And somehow, in between your world of routines and his world of racing, you both found something else too: hope. Joy. And a shared love for the chaos and color of Formula 1.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The gentle steam curled from your mug as you sat at the kitchen table, your fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic, grounding yourself in the stillness of the morning. Across from you, your mother sat with the familiar calm she always brought—an anchor in your often-chaotic days. The soft hum of the TV filled the space between your conversations, and the distant clatter of plastic toys played backup to the soundtrack of your life as a mom.

Every so often, you'd rise from your seat to peek into the living room where Sebastian was busy pushing his toy cars across the rug, his tiny feet kicking in excitement, curls bouncing with each animated laugh. He was three years old, full of energy, and already fascinated by the world of Formula 1—a love you'd discovered through the way he lit up at the sight of the cars, the drivers, the roar of the engines on screen.

You returned to the table, a tired but content smile forming on your lips.

Your mother took a slow sip of her tea before looking up at you gently. “So… has his father called? Checked in at all?”

Your chest sank a little, and you exhaled a sigh that felt like it had been stored up for weeks. “No. Not once,” you said quietly. “He’s never really made the effort. And honestly? I’m done waiting for him to care. Sebastian doesn’t even notice. It’s just been me and him for so long, we’ve got our own rhythm.”

Your mom nodded solemnly, her eyes reflecting both pride and sorrow. “I’m sorry, honey. You deserve more support than that. But you’re doing an amazing job. I mean it.”

You gave a soft smile, one that came with both gratitude and a hint of weariness. Your gaze wandered again to the living room. Sebastian was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, practically vibrating with excitement. The race had started, and you could hear his delighted squeals every time a car zoomed across the screen.

“He’s obsessed,” you chuckled. “Formula 1, of all things.”

“I noticed,” your mom said, a twinkle in her eye. “He talks about the cars like they’re superheroes.”

You smiled wider. “Yeah. He has a whole routine. Points at Charles and says, ‘Zoom!’ Every time he sees Kimi or George he claps like he’s at a concert. Don’t even get me started on how excited he gets over Lando and Oscar. It's... it’s kind of adorable.”

There was a pause, the soft kind that usually comes before something unexpected.

“Well,” your mom started, setting her mug down and reaching into her handbag slowly, “since he loves it so much… and since you could really use a little joy, I thought this might help.”

She slid a small envelope across the table toward you.

You blinked, confused, then slowly opened it.

Your heart skipped.

Inside were two glossy, official Formula 1 paddock passes—one adult, one child.

You looked up at her, stunned. “Mom… what is this?”

“It’s for the Grand Prix this weekend,” she said, her voice gentle. “I pulled a few strings. A friend from my old job still does hospitality for events like this. It’s not VIP, but it’s paddock access. You and Sebastian can go. See the cars, the drivers, the team garages… the whole thing. I thought he’d love it. And you, too.”

Tears stung your eyes, and you laughed, a bit breathless from the shock. “Are you serious? Mom… this is too much.”

“It’s not too much,” she said, smiling. “You give that boy the world every day with what little you have. I figured it was time the world gave something back. And who knows? Maybe this is the kind of moment he’ll remember forever.”

From the living room came the unmistakable shriek of joy—Sebastian jumping up and down, arms raised as a car zoomed across the screen. “Mama! It’s Lando!! Look! Orange car!!”

You turned, your heart softening at the sight.

You looked back at the passes, then to your mother, your eyes glossy. “Thank you,” you whispered. “He’s going to lose his little mind.”

She reached across and squeezed your hand. “That’s the plan.”

The two of you chatted between soft laughs and thoughtful silences—the kind that only exist in the presence of someone who has known you your whole life. It was one of those rare, warm moments of peace—something you didn’t get to feel often in your whirlwind life as a single mother.

The conversation drifted between topics: Sebastian’s latest fascination with “Zoom cars,” your job, the things you missed, and the things you learned to live without. It was soft. Safe. Your mother’s voice was a balm, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe everything really would be okay.

Meanwhile, halfway across the world, in a completely different atmosphere, Lando Norris groaned into his pillow.

The curtains of his penthouse suite were drawn tightly shut, but even the tiniest sliver of sunlight that slipped in felt like an attack. His head throbbed in waves, a dull pulsing at his temples that matched the beat of the club music still echoing in his brain. The drinks from the night before had tasted better going down than they did now, swirling in his stomach like regret. His mouth was dry, throat burning faintly from too much liquor and not enough water, and all he could remember was the wild chorus of bass drops, laughter, bodies dancing under neon lights, and a few blurry flashes of cameras aimed directly at him.

Another tabloid moment. Another night added to his growing online image—Lando Norris, the fun-loving party king of Formula 1.

He groaned again and shifted in bed, a pillow dragged over his face. "Never again," he muttered to himself.

“Right,” came a dry, amused voice from the doorway.

Lando peeked one eye open, lifting the pillow just enough to glare at Oscar Piastri, who stood just inside the room, arms crossed, and a disapproving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You look dead, mate,” Oscar said, eyeing the chaos of clothes strewn across the floor, the abandoned shoes by the door, and Lando himself—still in last night’s wrinkled t-shirt, half-draped in his sheets like a child mid-tantrum.

Lando gave a weak thumbs-up, his voice hoarse. “I feel sick.”

Oscar snorted. “Yeah, I wonder why. Maybe the six tequila shots? Or was it the bottle service you insisted on ordering at two in the morning?”

“I was celebrating,” Lando groaned.

“Celebrating what exactly? A hangover?”

Lando flopped onto his back, wincing. “Shut up. I'm mourning my youth.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You’re twenty-five.”

“Exactly,” Lando muttered. “Quarter-life crisis.”

Oscar shook his head, making his way over to pull open the curtains—Lando hissed dramatically as sunlight flooded the room. Oscar rolled his eyes and tossed a bottle of water at him. “You’re lucky your schedule’s clear for once. I should make you go for a run.”

“Run?!” Lando looked offended. “Oscar. I’m dying.”

“You’re hungover. Same thing every time. You act like the world’s ending, and then you’re back on a yacht tomorrow.”

Lando took a long sip of water, the coldness soothing his throat and dulling the nausea just enough. He looked out the window at the skyline—vibrant, alive, and completely removed from any form of normalcy. The contrast between his life and the real world had never been sharper than now.

And though he lived for the thrill, the freedom, the glamor... somewhere, buried under the hangover and the jokes, a part of him wondered what it would be like to wake up in a quiet house.

To the world, Lando Norris lived a dream dipped in neon lights and champagne. He was the poster boy of F1’s nightlife—flashing cameras, velvet ropes, smoke-filled lounges, the glittering pulse of clubs across Monaco, London, Ibiza. His name often trended beside headlines of afterparties and appearances, linked to whispers of flings, mystery women, and flirtatious smirks caught on video.

The “party boy” image clung to him like cologne—loud, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.

At first, Lando had laughed it off. He gave the media their smiles, tossed fans a wink, and leaned into the persona. Why not? He was young, rich, successful. The parties were fun, the people lively, the noise almost enough to drown out the emptiness that sometimes followed when he returned home alone.

But the more the world assumed, the harder it became to shake the narrative. Social media only cemented it further—comments under photos speculating who he’d slept with, sarcastic tweets calling him the "Formula 1 Casanova," and fan threads dissecting his every interaction with a woman. At times, the world didn’t seem to believe he was capable of real love—only fleeting fun.

And that started to sting.

Behind the filters and club lights, Lando was still just a twenty-five-year-old guy who sometimes questioned where his life was going. Fame had given him everything, yet it also took so much. Privacy. Trust. Stability.

He'd see posts about Oscar and Lily—his teammate and his long-time girlfriend—and it would stir something unfamiliar in him. They had history. Quiet affection. A love that felt warm and grounding. The kind of relationship fans loved to root for. There was no gossip about Oscar’s loyalty, no speculation over his weekend choices. Instead, there were cute couple pictures, supportive tweets, and heartfelt comments.

The contrast couldn’t have been sharper.

Sometimes, in the silence after a night out, Lando would lie in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin, wondering if the path he was on led to something fulfilling—or if he’d just keep spinning in circles. He didn’t want to admit it, but part of him craved something deeper. Someone to laugh with on quiet mornings. Someone who didn’t just love him for the spotlight, but in the silence too.

And yet, he wasn’t sure how to find her. Or if he even knew what he was looking for.

His “type,” as people so confidently assumed—tall, stunning models with glossy hair and flawless smiles—was starting to feel like a shallow box he’d been stuffed into. He thought back to past flings—women who were beautiful, yes, but left him feeling emptier than before. Conversations that rarely went past the surface. Nights that blurred into mornings with no plans for the day after.

Was that really love? Was that really what he wanted?

Or was he just playing a role he no longer fit?

The world saw him one way—carefree, reckless, living in luxury. But beneath the surface, Lando was beginning to feel a quiet shift. A question forming in the back of his mind: What if I want more?

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

When you told Sebastian that he was going to see Formula 1 in person, it was as if the entire world stood still for him. His little face froze in pure, stunned disbelief—mouth parted, eyes wide, eyebrows lifted in that exaggerated toddler way that could only come from raw joy. Then, in a heartbeat, he was squealing, launching himself into your arms with such excitement that it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“Tank you, Mommy! Tank you!” he repeated over and over, voice high with joy, arms wrapped tight around your neck. His mispronounced “thank you” was so pure and sincere that tears threatened to gather in your eyes.

This was it—this was the kind of moment that made every hard day worth it. Every sleepless night, every quiet cry when no one saw you, every sacrifice. Just to give him this joy.

He ran off seconds later, unable to contain his excitement, and started listing the drivers he hoped to meet, barely forming the names in between giddy jumps and giggles. “I gonna see Maxy! And Yuki! And Chawles! And Georgie!” he chanted as he spun around the living room, arms wide like airplane wings. “And Kimi too! And Ockar! Lan’dooo!”

You sat back on the couch, smiling through the wave of emotions. His joy was contagious, a kind of magic that settled deep in your chest.

The days leading up to the paddock visit were filled with a chaos that only love could fuel. You buried yourself in planning, not because you had to, but because you wanted it to be perfect. This wasn’t just a day out—this was a gift, a dream come true for a little boy who’d fallen in love with fast cars and faster drivers without even fully understanding the sport.

You spent evenings scrolling through online shops, adding team merch to your cart, checking sizes twice, and triple-checking the weather forecast. You mapped out packing lists, planned snacks, checked your camera storage space, and googled things like “best ear protection for toddlers at F1 races.”

But the biggest debate of all? Outfits.

You carefully laid out options on your bed—tiny team shirts, pint-sized hats, mini race suits, and soft fleece hoodies. You imagined how he'd look in each one, how his face might light up when he saw someone wearing matching colors.

“Which team should we wear first, Sebastian?” you asked one afternoon, crouching beside him as he built a racetrack out of magnetic tiles and blocks. He paused mid-play, finger on his chin in deep thought.

After a moment, he turned to you with absolute certainty.

“I wear McLah-win. All days,” he said, nodding to confirm his own decision.

“All three days?” you teased.

He nodded more firmly this time, curls bouncing. “Lan’do and Ockar are da best.”

So that was settled.

Day one: his bright papaya hoodie and matching cap—simple, bold, unmistakably McLaren. You paired it with black joggers and white sneakers, letting him choose his favorite little backpack with the lightning bolt keychain.

Day two: his mini Oscar Piastri race suit. It was perfectly tailored for a toddler, down to the stitched belt and sponsor logos. You’d even sewn his name—Sebastian—onto the chest in orange thread. When he saw it, his jaw dropped like he was holding the holy grail. “It me!” he shouted, tracing the letters.

Day three: Lando’s race suit replica. Slightly too big, but in his eyes, it made him look like a real driver. He practiced imaginary starts and finishes, sprinting across the hallway, mimicking Lando’s winning gestures, making vroom-vroom noises until bedtime.

Every night that week, he fell asleep clutching one of his toy cars, his beloved McLaren cap tucked beside his pillow. Some nights, you found him sleep-talking about drivers, whispering garbled names and “I so fast” with a tiny smile.

And you? You watched it all with a full heart.

You weren’t just preparing for a trip—you were making memories. You were giving your son something to remember long after his toddler years had passed. The joy in his eyes, the bounce in his steps, the way he counted down the days like it was Christmas. This wasn’t just about F1. This was about sharing something magical with your little boy.

And in the quiet moments, after Sebastian had fallen asleep, you'd sit in the living room, sometimes staring at the orange hoodie or listening to the faint hum of past races playing from your laptop. You didn’t have every piece of life figured out—but you had this. You had him.

You thought about how far you’d come. A single mom, navigating motherhood without the kind of support others had, building your own traditions, your own life. It hadn’t always been easy, but in these moments, the love made it feel more than enough.

Now, paddock passes in hand, suitcases packed, tiny shoes lined up at the door, it was almost time.

Three days. Three days of noise, excitement, laughter, and a front-row view to something your son loved deeply.

Airports were a world of their own—blaring announcements, rolling suitcases, the blend of perfume and coffee in the air, and the shuffle of people rushing from gate to gate. Among it all, you stood just past the security checkpoint, your carry-on slightly slipping from your shoulder, one hand firmly wrapped around the handle of Sebastian’s tiny suitcase—blue with orange race car stickers he insisted on putting on himself—and the other guiding your excitable three-year-old who was practically vibrating with anticipation.

It was Sebastian’s very first flight, and while you had spent days preparing, no number of travel blogs or TikToks could have truly braced you for the full-body energy your son was currently radiating.

He hopped along the polished tiles in his McLaren hoodie, a stuffed car plushie in one hand, backpack bouncing behind him. “Mommy! We goin’ in da sky! Da sky, da sky, da—!”

“Sebastian,” you called gently but firmly, your tone threading calmness into control. You reached for his shoulder and he paused, looking up at you with that sunshine-smile—one so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. He didn’t speak, just beamed at you like he was keeping a little secret with the clouds he was so eager to meet.

You crouched beside him for a moment, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I know you’re excited, baby, but we have to stay close, okay? No running. There’s too many people here today.”

“Okay, Mommy,” he whispered, slightly breathless, like the airport was a magical maze he was being told not to touch.

You stood again and reached into your tote bag. “Here,” you offered, pulling out the snack bag you’d packed that morning with military precision. “Pick a snack, sit tight.”

Sebastian peeked in, his small fingers rifling through pouches of gummies, crackers, and his ultimate comfort choice—Goldfish. His eyes lit up. “De fishes!”

You tore the bag open and handed it to him, watching the way he cradled it carefully in both hands, like it was treasure. He sat down cross-legged near the window of your gate, Goldfish in hand, gaze drifting to the planes outside.

You took a breath, letting the buzz of the airport fade into the background for a beat. The weight of the moment hit you gently—not heavy, but meaningful. This wasn’t just a trip. This was a first. His first time flying, his first Formula 1 race, his first steps into something that felt big and unforgettable. And you got to be the one by his side, showing him all of it.

You sat next to him, watching him crunch quietly, the reflection of the airplanes gliding along the tarmac gleaming in the wide glass ahead. The clouds above were beginning to part, sun dappling in streaks across the runways.

“Do you think we gonna go super fast like the cars?” he asked, cheeks puffed with snacks.

You laughed softly. “Not quite that fast. But we’ll be up in the clouds soon.”

“Like... where birds go?”

“Exactly where birds go.”

He turned to you, and in a whisper, said, “I hope Lando go there too.”

You chuckled again, heart full. “Maybe not today. But we’ll see him soon.”

It was then that boarding was announced, and the line began to form. You packed up the snack bag, helped Sebastian to his feet, and adjusted his hoodie once more. As you grabbed his hand and headed toward the gate, you felt it again—that quiet sense of rightness.

Despite the chaos of travel, the work of planning, the worries of being enough as a mom—you were here. Together. On an adventure. And that was more than enough.

As you stepped into the jet bridge, your son looked up at you once again, eyes sparkling with wonder. “Mommy?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I gonna fly like Oscar.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The flight buzzed with a quiet hum, the occasional ding of seatbelt signs and the low chatter of passengers blending into a white noise symphony. Yet, in the middle of row 14, two seats near the window were alight with joy.

Sebastian was electric with energy, practically bouncing in his seat, his McLaren hoodie slightly oversized and his cheeks flushed from all the excitement. Every person who met his eyes—even if only in passing—was greeted with an enthusiastic, “Hi! I go see cars! I go see McLaren! I go see Lando!”

You smiled, half-apologetic to the flight attendants who offered polite, knowing chuckles. But none of them seemed to mind. In fact, they leaned into his excitement, letting him help “check” the snack basket, praising his race car backpack, and slipping him extra juice boxes like he was royalty on board.

“He’s adorable,” one attendant whispered to you as she passed, her smile soft. “Reminds me of my nephew.”

You thanked her quietly, watching as Sebastian munched on the little cookies she had offered him. He kicked his legs softly under the seat, recounting every topic under the sun: cartoons, new toys, dinosaurs, his favorite car toys, and somehow even Santa Claus—despite it being months away from Christmas.

You couldn't help but giggle when he whispered, “Santa gonna bring me new tires for my cars.”

“Really?” you played along.

“Yeah, da fast ones. So I can beat Max.”

His logic was flawless.

But all that energy had a price. After a flurry of words and crumbs, your little boy's lids grew heavier. He curled slightly into his seat, and you, ever the prepared mother, pulled out his checkered-flag throw blanket—one he insisted on packing himself. You tucked it around him, brushing a hand over his forehead.

The screen ahead played SpongeBob, flickering softly. His eyes were half-lidded, still trying to focus, but the gentle sway of the plane, the warmth of the blanket, and the comfort of being beside you finally coaxed him into rest.

His lashes fluttered, and then—sleep.

You leaned back into your seat, a peaceful exhale leaving your lips. Looking down at your sleeping son, his cheek resting softly against the seat, arms wrapped around his plushie, you couldn’t help but pull out your phone. One quick snap, the image so sweet and pure it made your chest tighten. You posted it to your story with a caption:

“First flight ever—and he’s already dreaming of podiums 🏁✨ #McLarenFuture #PiastriJunior?”

The replies would come fast. Friends gushing. A few mutuals tagging McLaren. A couple of comments about how cute he looked in the gear. You smiled, tucking the phone away and letting your head rest against the seat as well, your heart warm with pride.

Meanwhile, miles ahead and hours earlier, Lando was nestled in the calm before the chaos.

The drivers’ hospitality suite was abuzz with low conversation. It was one of those rare quiet moments before a race weekend—the lull before the storm of flashing cameras, screaming fans, microphones, and paddock chaos. Drivers lounged on couches, some eating, some gaming, others just catching up.

Lando leaned back in his chair, arms folded, nursing a bottle of water as Oscar settled beside him, hair still slightly tousled from the heat outside.

“You win in Australia and you’re gonna party?” Carlos asked, amused.

Lando smirked. “Hell yeah. Wouldn’t you?”

Charles chuckled. “I guess it’s deserved.”

“Party responsibly,” Lewis added with a half-smile, giving a small nod toward Max who was currently laughing with Yuki across the room.

Max’s voice drifted over: “At least I don’t party in public every other weekend.”

Lando laughed along with the others, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The banter continued—Lewis talked about Roscoe’s latest spa visit, Max mentioned Kelly and the girls, Carlos shared plans of flying back home to unwind. Everyone had someone. Someone who waited at home. Someone who traveled with them. Someone they could call when the helmets came off.

Lando had always told himself he didn’t need that—not yet. He was 25, living the dream. He had the cars, the spotlight, the money, the fans. But lately, the silence after the adrenaline wore off… it felt a little heavier.

Sure, he had his parents. He loved them deeply, was grateful for their unwavering support. But still, it wasn’t the same. His Instagram tags were flooded with girls fans assumed he was dating, models or influencers caught near him at clubs, the media labeling him “F1’s golden bachelor.”

And yet here he was, scrolling through his phone, staring blankly at filtered stories and half-hearted DMs, wondering what it would feel like to have someone to call after a long day—not just someone to party with, but someone to talk to.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Finally, the sweet relief of the hotel room washed over you like a warm wave. The plush bedding, the crisp air conditioning, and the gentle hum of the city beyond the windows made it feel like a well-earned moment of peace. The journey had been long, and while you were used to doing things alone, the toll of traveling with a toddler wasn't light—especially one who vibrated with joy the entire way here.

But the moment your shoes hit the carpet and the door clicked shut behind you, you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

Sebastian was already off exploring the room, the smallest adventurer you’d ever met. His tiny feet padded softly over the hotel floor as he opened closet doors and peeked under the table like he was on a treasure hunt.

You smiled, watching him tumble through the pile of travel bags you’d placed near the bed. With delight, he unearthed the small toys you had carefully packed—ones he insisted on bringing because, “I want to show Lando my cars, Mommy!”

The bed looked like heaven, and you longed to collapse into it. Tomorrow would be the first of the three-day Paddock adventure. You'd need to be up early, need time to get Sebastian dressed, fed, and possibly wrangled into his mini McLaren gear without incident. You were sure you’d be chasing him around with a juice box in one hand and sunscreen in the other.

Still, it was worth it. Every bit of effort, every dollar spent, every long hour on your feet… all of it was worth the look on your son’s face. The world hadn’t always been kind to you—but Sebastian was your reason to fight harder, smile bigger, and hope again.

You watched him laugh at nothing in particular, giggling as his cars zipped across the polished hotel floor.

How could anyone not want to be part of this?

That thought crept in again, quietly but painfully. You never said it out loud, but sometimes—when you tucked him in at night or watched him dance around to a cartoon theme song—you wondered how anyone could look at this child and choose not to stay.

But that aching thought was abruptly interrupted by the buzz of your phone vibrating on the nightstand.

You frowned when you saw the name on the screen. That name. That past. That man.

The one who chose absence over fatherhood.

You stepped away toward the corner of the room, throwing a quick glance over your shoulder to ensure Sebastian was still happily distracted with his toys. He was. You answered.

“Hello?” you said quietly.

There was a pause—then that voice. Tired, lazy, like it hadn’t changed a bit. “Y/n… hey. It’s been a while.”

A scoff built in your throat. You clenched your jaw, already done with the conversation before it truly began.

“‘A while’?” you repeated, voice low and sharp. “It’s been more than a while. It’s been two missed birthdays. It’s been holidays with no call. It’s been me raising a child while you send the occasional drunk text at 2 a.m. about how we should get back together. Which, by the way, is sick. Because let’s be honest—you hated me. And I hated you.”

Your voice trembled—part anger, part exhaustion—but you kept it contained, steady. Because you couldn’t let Sebastian hear this. You wouldn't let his joy be tainted by a man who only called when he remembered he used to be a father.

There was silence on the other end of the line. No apology. No excuse. Just silence. The kind that confirmed what you already knew.

You ended the call without another word, letting your finger hover over the red button for only a second before pressing it.

Then you turned back toward the bed, your chest tight but your expression softening the moment you looked at Sebastian—who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, making car noises and whispering to himself about which driver he was going to talk to first.

And just like that, the ache in your chest shifted. Not gone—but lighter. Because you had him. And he had you.

You walked over and knelt beside him, pulling him close into a warm hug, letting him nuzzle against your shoulder. “I love you, baby,” you whispered.

He looked up at you with that same big smile and messy curls, his arms wrapping around your neck.

“I wuv you too, Mommy.”

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The next morning felt like a whirlwind dressed as routine chaos — the kind that makes you question every decision leading up to it. It started far too early, in a hotel room that still smelled faintly like fresh linen and room service. The alarm blasted through the soft silence like a siren call from hell. You startled awake, jolting upright with a groggy huff and instinctively smacking the snooze button with more aggression than necessary. Sebastian, curled up under the covers beside you, let out a long, loud whine — the kind of exaggerated noise toddlers save for their biggest complaints — before burying his messy-haired head under the blanket.

You mumbled a curse under your breath — something just strong enough to release the frustration but quiet enough that your three-year-old wouldn't catch on. Or so you thought.

The first words he mumbled were, “Mommy… that noise hurt my ears.”

“I know, baby,” you said softly, brushing hair from his eyes. “Mine too.”

Breakfast came next, which turned into a full-on negotiation. You’d offered a simple, reasonable suggestion — cereal and sliced strawberries — something quick and clean, something you could manage while half-awake and still brushing your teeth. But Sebastian had other plans, declared with all the authority of a Michelin-star critic: “Waffles. Hotel ones. And fruit. And muffins. And orange juice. The big cup.”

You blinked. “All that?”

He nodded solemnly, lips pursed like this was a very serious matter.

You gave in, of course. You always did when he got that specific sparkle in his eyes — wide, hopeful, and full of such raw excitement that saying “no” felt like a crime. Soon, he had a plate overflowing with buttery waffles drizzled in syrup, a rainbow of cut fruit, two muffins (one chocolate chip, one blueberry), and a comically large glass of orange juice that he insisted on holding himself with both tiny hands. He looked far too proud of his breakfast, swinging his legs from the chair and beaming up at you between bites.

You had no idea how such a small person could eat like that. You didn’t even question it anymore.

Then came bath time — your battlefield. You’d hoped maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be too hard today. But the second the tub started filling, he was bouncing with energy, throwing plastic toy cars into the water like a pre-race ritual.

Getting him in wasn’t hard. Getting him to stay still? Impossible.

Water splashed everywhere — the floor, the walls, your shirt. When it came time to wash his hair, the protest began. His face twisted into a dramatic pout the second your fingers touched the shampoo bottle.

“Nooo, it goes in my eyes!”

You kept your tone soft, soothing. “I’ll be careful, sweetheart. Eyes closed like a superhero, okay?”

He whined. Then sniffled. Then let you do it — reluctantly, with some side-eye — as you hummed the theme song to Paw Patrol just to distract him.

After what felt like a small war, he was finally clean, dressed, and smelling faintly of baby lotion and sunblock. You helped him into his outfit for the day — his prized papaya-colored McLaren hoodie, proudly zipped up to his chin, paired with a matching McLaren cap that looked just a little too big and kept sliding down his forehead. His joggers were black, and his tiny white sneakers were spotless… for now.

He looked like a mini superfan ready to storm the paddock with purpose.

You turned to yourself next, slipping into the dress you’d carefully chosen — a soft milkmaid-style dress that flowed like poetry around your calves. The fabric was weightless and cool against your skin, white with delicate blue florals scattered like petals caught in a spring breeze. The bodice was gently structured, the sweetheart neckline adding a touch of softness and femininity that made you feel — for the first time in a while — pretty. Really pretty.

The wide-brimmed straw hat you packed sat perfectly atop your head, giving you just enough shade to guard against the harsh Australian sun you knew would be relentless later. It felt right — the dress, the hat, the moment.

Sebastian slung on his small backpack with the same dramatic flair he used for everything. You grabbed the paddock passes — laminated, bright, and full of promise — and with one last deep breath, you stepped out of the hotel room and into the day.

The paddock was a different world entirely.

The moment you arrived, it swallowed you whole — the sounds, the motion, the life. Fans pressed against barriers, shouting names, waving signs, laughing and crying and reaching. The scent of rubber and heat hung in the air, the low growl of distant engines thundering beneath it all like a heartbeat.

Sebastian’s hand stayed firmly in yours, but his eyes were everywhere. Wide, lit with a pure joy that was impossible to replicate or fake. He looked around like he’d walked into the gates of a dream — and in a way, he had.

Meanwhile, not too far from the chaos, Lando Norris stood in the middle of it all — a sea of movement around him. He was used to this part: the cameras, the fans, the autographs, the media questions that danced on the edge of personal and professional. He gave polite smiles, half-jokes, the occasional wink that sent fans squealing. He did his part, and he did it well.

But then, something — someone — caught his eye.

A woman in a blue and white dress moving slowly through the crowd, careful and calm, with a little boy in McLaren gear walking beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Lando’s heart stuttered.

Not because he knew you. He didn’t — not yet.

But in the way her dress moved with the breeze, in the way the little boy held her hand with absolute trust, in the way she looked down at her son with the kind of love that softened even the harshest corners of a place like this… something in Lando shifted.

He didn’t know why, but for the first time all morning, he wasn’t thinking about the race.

He was thinking about them.

Sebastian gasped—audibly and dramatically—the way only a toddler could. His small hands flew up with excitement as he pointed toward a nearby setup, where bright banners and colorful displays celebrated each team with proud fanfare. The McLaren signage, bold and unmistakable, had clearly captured his entire being.

You let out a soft chuckle, reaching down to gently rest a hand on his shoulder. “We’re gonna get ourselves a tour of the garages, okay?” you explained, crouching slightly to meet his excitement with calm. “We just have to wait for the tour guide.”

Sebastian nodded, eyes still gleaming as he rocked on his heels, the cap on his head slightly tilted from his animated movements. He didn’t say anything else, but his joy was bubbling over — it was in his posture, his wiggling fingers, and the bright way he scanned the paddock like it was an amusement park made just for him.

The buzz of chatter around you was constant — conversations blending into each other, fan voices raised in awe, the faint beat of music pulsing somewhere in the background. It was overwhelming, in that kind of magical way only big, exciting places could be.

And then… he appeared.

Lando Norris, threading his way through the crowd with casual familiarity, a soft “Excuse me,” here, a small nod there, eyes scanning ahead until they landed directly on the small boy in papaya orange. In mere moments, he was in front of Sebastian, lowering himself into a crouch, eyes kind and lit with recognition.

“Hey, little guy,” he greeted warmly, his voice soft in contrast to the buzz of the paddock. “Supporting McLaren today? You’re gonna be our mini driver, yeah?”

Sebastian went completely still.

Not just quiet — frozen. His jaw dropped slightly, arms limp at his sides, as if he had just spotted a dragon, a real one, casually crouched right in front of him. He blinked rapidly, eyes wide and unblinking, unsure whether to cry, run, or explode with happiness. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you — quiet, surprised, utterly endeared. Lando had that effect on fans, sure, but seeing it happen to your own child? Surreal. You fumbled into your small white purse, pulling out your phone and readying it as you approached gently.

“Sebastian?” you asked softly. “Are you gonna pose so I can take a photo of you two?”

Nothing.

He still stood there, stunned and starstruck.

Then — without warning — he let out a high-pitched scream of joy, the kind of shriek that made nearby heads turn, and yours nearly snap off your shoulders. You winced. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—!”

But Lando was already laughing, waving a hand with ease. “It’s okay,” he reassured, glancing up at you with a grin that softened you instantly. “He’s okay. Totally okay.”

His gaze lingered for just a second longer than expected — drawn to your face, your soft expression as you watched your son. Then to the way your dress moved ever so slightly with the breeze, the light catching the delicate floral pattern like a watercolor in motion. Your perfume drifted toward him, subtle and clean with something sweet woven in. It hit him harder than expected, that scent — or maybe it was everything about you, compacted into that single moment of wind and sunlight and childlike joy.

Sebastian flung his arms around Lando in a burst of affection, burying his face against the front of his McLaren zip-up. You watched with your heart in your throat as Lando returned the hug, wrapping his arms around Sebastian without hesitation, effortlessly soft in a way that came so naturally it stunned you.

“Okay!” you said through a smile, stepping back with your phone. “Let me get a cute photo of you two.”

Sebastian and Lando posed — or rather, Lando posed with Sebastian, crouching back down with one knee on the ground, chin resting gently on Sebastian’s small shoulder. Their cheeks touched, curly heads leaning into one another. Lando held up a single finger in a #1 pose, smiling like he meant it. It was perfect.

You snapped a few photos, and as you did, you couldn’t help but notice it — their hair. The curls. The way they framed both of their faces almost identically. You smiled to yourself. It wasn’t exactly a coincidence. After all, when Lando had kept his signature curly mullet look last season, Sebastian had seen a photo online and announced with unwavering confidence: “I want that hair.” He had pointed at Lando like it was gospel. And you? You’d booked the salon the next day.

As the hug ended, you stepped forward, slipping your phone back into your purse. “Thank you so much for taking a photo with him,” you said warmly, genuinely.

Lando stood, brushing the knees of his pants. “It’s no issue at all,” he replied, glancing down at Sebastian once more with fondness. “I think I’ve just met my teammate of the future.”

Sebastian beamed, still too shy to speak.

“You gonna drive for us one day?” Lando added, teasing, nudging the boy gently. “I’ll keep a seat warm for you.”

Your heart tugged at the sight — your son, so young and yet so full of love for a world like this. And Lando, surprisingly sweet and attentive, entirely present in a way that told you he wasn’t just putting on a show for the cameras or fans.

You smiled to yourself, glancing at the paddock around you, then back at them — Sebastian, the driver he idolized, and this unfolding moment you hadn’t expected.

"Come on, we have to let him go now," you said gently, wrapping your fingers around Sebastian’s small hand, trying to coax him away. The toddler let out a soft pout, his eyes still wide with admiration as he looked up at Lando like he was the sun itself. But even with his protest brewing, he gave in with a tiny sigh, slipping his hand into yours.

Lando chuckled, the kind that warmed the air around him. “He’s fine—he’s a cutie,” he replied, his voice light, fond even, as he glanced down at the boy once more.

It wasn’t unusual for him to be sweet with fans, especially kids. He’d always had a soft spot for the younger supporters—their joy was so pure, so unfiltered. But something about Sebastian tugged at a different thread inside him. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just Sebastian who had caught his attention.

His gaze lingered, just for a second longer than it should’ve. Not on the excited toddler now hugging his leg again, but on you.

The subtle curve of your smile as you looked at your son. The soft sweep of hair tucked behind your ear. That floral milkmaid dress—light, ethereal—danced a little in the breeze, brushing gently against your calves, the blue and white print making your skin glow beneath the sunlight. He caught the scent of your perfume again, something sweet but grounded, and it almost made him forget the paddock noise surrounding him.

But then reality nudged him.

He was Lando Norris. And with that name came the constant click of cameras, the headlines that twisted simple kindness into something scandalous, and the ongoing ache of knowing that privacy was a luxury he didn’t own. He couldn’t afford to let curiosity become anything more.

Still, he offered a smile. Genuine. “Thank you for letting us get a photo,” you said, your voice soft with gratitude, and maybe even a hint of admiration tucked behind it.

“It’s no issue at all,” he answered, his voice equally soft now, more personal somehow.

Just then, Sebastian broke free of your hold once more, bouncing with renewed energy. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Lando’s leg in one last goodbye hug. Your lips parted in mild surprise, but you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped.

You already knew what was coming.

“He’s going to ask for Oscar now,” you said knowingly, an amused look on your face as you tucked your phone back into your purse.

Lando laughed, bending slightly so he could meet Sebastian’s gaze again. “Oscar, huh? Can’t blame him. We’ll have to make sure he gets that photo too.”

Your heart swelled at the kindness in his tone. And even if the moment had to end, it left an impression—gentle, fleeting, and maybe more meaningful than either of you could admit.

“We can find Oscar—he’s somewhere around here,” Lando said, crouching slightly to meet Sebastian’s eye again. His voice had that calm, charming tone kids seemed to respond to instinctively, and sure enough, Sebastian’s tiny hand found his with total trust.

You smiled, your heart quietly aching in the best way as you watched the two of them. There was something surreal about it—your son hand-in-hand with a driver he’d looked up to for months, someone whose posters decorated his bedroom walls, whose name he babbled about nonstop. And yet here they were, side by side, like they’d known each other longer than a few minutes.

You followed behind, just a few paces, letting the moment play out in front of you like a movie. The scene looked too perfect: Sebastian looking up, talking animatedly about his toy car collection, while Lando nodded and listened as if each word was of utmost importance.

But even as warmth filled your chest, something inside you whispered not to get carried away. This was Lando Norris. He was always kind to fans, especially to kids. This wasn’t special. It couldn’t be. It was just part of his image, part of the charm that made millions adore him.

And yet… he didn’t let go of Sebastian’s hand.

As the three of you walked deeper into the paddock, the vibrant atmosphere buzzed louder. You could hear the faint hum of tires being rolled out, radios crackling with chatter, distant bursts of laughter from fans lining the barricades. The scent of asphalt, heat, and oil mixed with the soft floral trace of your perfume, which the breeze occasionally carried toward Lando—who didn’t seem to mind at all.

When you finally reached the McLaren garage, it was like walking into the heart of something electric. Engineers paced with purpose, monitors lit up with telemetry, car parts glinted under sharp fluorescent lights. And standing a few feet inside, Oscar Piastri turned just as Sebastian caught sight of him.

There was a beat—a tiny, loaded moment—and then Sebastian let out the kind of squeal only a three-year-old could make, bursting from Lando’s side and sprinting to Oscar like he was reuniting with a long-lost friend.

Oscar laughed, catching him in a half-squat hug, lifting him off the ground a few inches. “Woah! Look who’s here!” he said, clearly charmed.

You stopped just at the threshold of the garage, your feet hesitating for the first time. Cameras lingered near the entrance—journalists, team photographers, random flashes—and for a second, insecurity tried to creep in. You didn’t belong here. This was their world. You were just visiting.

You adjusted your grip on your purse, suddenly more aware of your dress, your posture, your hair. But then Lando turned. He wasn’t looking at the cameras. He wasn��t scanning the room. His gaze found you—just you.

And in that second, something in his expression softened.

“This is the garage—McLaren, for all you little fans,” he teased, gesturing toward the bright orange and blue world surrounding you both.

You tilted your head, crossing your arms playfully. “Little fans? Excuse you—I’m not little.”

He laughed, quick and genuine. “Apologies—to you and your little McLaren fan.” His eyes dropped for a brief second, catching your smile.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Better.”

It was an innocent exchange, lighthearted and quick—but it buzzed in the air between you both like a hidden signal, an unspoken something neither of you could fully name. Not yet.

Then came the gentle tug at your heart again—Sebastian. He was still chatting to Oscar, waving his tiny arms, recounting something that involved race cars and dragons, by the sound of it. Your fingers itched for your phone again. These were the moments he’d remember forever. So would you.

And then, just as you reached to adjust the strap of your bag, Sebastian did something that caught you off guard: he ran back, arms wide, and wrapped himself tightly around Lando’s leg. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was safe.

You felt something twist inside your chest—something warm and unexpected.

Lando looked down, blinking in surprise, then softened, his hand gently resting on Sebastian’s back. “He’s got a strong grip,” he joked, chuckling.

“He gets attached easily,” you said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry if he’s clingy.”

Lando shook his head. “He’s not. He’s just… cool.” His voice dropped slightly, sincere and quiet. “You’ve got a good kid.”

You smiled—small, but real. “I know.”

Conversation between you and Lando had started off light, naturally flowing like you’d known him longer than a morning. You stood beside him in the garage while Sebastian trailed Oscar, clinging to every word and gesture the older driver made as he proudly led him on his own version of a pit lane tour. From where you stood, you could still hear Sebastian’s tiny giggles echoing through the hum of machinery and distant radio chatter.

Lando leaned against one of the workstations, arms folded, a casual smirk on his lips as you shared a story about how Sebastian once raced his Hot Wheels down the hallway so fast he crashed into the front door and blamed "aerodynamics."

Your laughter blended with his, light and genuine, for a moment making you forget where you were and who you were talking to. For once, it didn’t feel like you were speaking to a world-famous athlete. It felt... easy.

But then, just as you caught your breath mid-laugh, a voice chimed in—clear, curious, and edged with mischief.

“Who are you?”

Your head turned, and your smile faltered just slightly as Carlos Sainz approached. He was dressed in his Williams team gear, looking effortlessly put-together, a water bottle dangling from one hand and a subtle smirk playing on his lips.

You stood a little straighter. “I’m just a fan,” you said lightly, offering a small smile. “With a very enthusiastic mini fan.”

You gestured toward Sebastian, who was now seated on a tire stack as Oscar showed him the wheel gun. He was clearly in heaven.

Carlos raised a brow at your answer, his gaze flicking toward Lando, who remained unusually silent beside you. You caught the way Lando gave the subtlest shake of his head in Carlos's direction—a quiet warning, or perhaps a signal that this wasn’t what it looked like.

Carlos’s lips twitched with amusement. “I see…”

He turned his eyes back to you, sharp yet unreadable. “Any chance that little one over there’s gonna like me too?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully, hiding a smirk. “Maybe. He’s got quite the open taste. He’s been known to cheer for at least five teams depending on how cool their cars look.”

Carlos grinned. “Smart kid.”

Without waiting for a reply, he gave you both a mock salute and walked off, passing between you and Lando with the same confident stride he probably used walking to the grid.

You rolled your eyes playfully as you turned back to Lando, who looked amused but a little irritated too. “Next thing you know,” you joked, “they’ll be fighting over who gets his love.”

That broke Lando’s brief tension. He laughed, a soft, low chuckle that felt more personal than anything you’d heard from him before.

“He better stay loyal to McLaren,” Lando joked, glancing toward Sebastian again, his voice tinted with a sort of pride that didn’t quite make sense—unless it wasn’t just about the team anymore.

You smiled, feeling a subtle shift in the air. The kind that left you a little warmer, a little more aware. Of him. Of the way his gaze lingered when he looked at you. Of how close he was standing now, a casual closeness that felt just slightly charged.

Still, you reminded yourself to stay grounded.

Because at the end of the day, this was still the paddock.

This was still Lando Norris.

And this was probably still just part of the charm.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Practice ran smoother than expected, the sound of engines roaring past and tires screeching against the asphalt forming the soundtrack of the afternoon. From the elevated view inside the pit building, where guests and team members could observe from above, you stood with Sebastian tucked securely in your arms. The vantage point gave you a perfect view over the track, the bustling pit lane, and the vibrant, living pulse of the paddock beneath.

The air buzzed with excitement, even as the sun began to dip slightly in the sky. A warm Australian breeze slipped through the open balcony space, tousling your hair and carrying the lingering scent of gasoline, rubber, and fresh grass. Your heart was full—soaking in the atmosphere, the hum of conversation around you, the thrill from the crowd cheering just meters away, and most of all, the joy radiating from your little boy.

Sebastian was a firecracker in your arms—restless, wide-eyed, and utterly consumed by the action. “Go, Lando!” he shouted, his tiny fist pumped in the air. “Oscar! Look, mama, Oscar’s goin’ fast!”

You laughed gently, holding him a little tighter. “I see him, baby,” you said, amused by his commentary. “They’re both doing so good today, huh?”

He was completely immersed, like a sponge absorbing every detail. His enthusiasm didn’t waver, not even as the session neared its end. He clapped wildly when the McLaren cars zoomed past, shouted out names like they were old friends—“George! Kimi! Max! Charles!”—and even pointed with giddy excitement when Lewis appeared on the screen.

“Yuki! Look, mama, Yuki funny!” he giggled, slapping his hand against your arm.

You couldn’t help but smile. Seeing the world through his eyes—full of color and awe—made the chaos of travel, the fatigue from the long day, and even the stress you carried feel a little bit lighter.

But as the final laps came to a close and the cars began trickling back into their garages, the adrenaline began to fade. You felt it first in the way Sebastian slumped slightly against you, his arms slowly wrapping around your neck, his cheek brushing your shoulder. The spark of excitement still lingered in his little heart, but the rest of him—well, it was giving in.

He fought sleep like a warrior.

His lashes fluttered, his eyes red and heavy, but still he insisted, “No nap, mama.”

“I know, I know,” you said softly, brushing your hand over his curls. “Just a break, right? Just rest your eyes for a minute.”

But he wasn’t done yet. With a sudden jolt of energy, he shifted in your arms and pointed toward the paddock area just below. “Kimi, mama! Me see Kimi!”

His voice cracked from all the yelling he’d done, but the determination in his tone was still strong. He wiggled, trying to slide down from your hold.

“Kimi’s probably doing interviews right now,” you murmured, trying not to laugh at his stubbornness. “We’ll find him later, okay? Maybe he’ll even say hi if we’re lucky.”

He squinted into the distance as if willing the Mercedes driver to materialize on command. “Him wave me. Kimi wave me!” he insisted, rubbing his eyes and stamping his little foot down as if that would summon Kimi by pure toddler force alone.

You took a breath, your heart full to bursting. This was everything to him—the drivers weren’t just names or faces. They were superheroes. They were friends. And in his world, seeing one more of them—just one—before the day ended felt like the most important mission ever.

You leaned down and kissed his temple. “I believe you,” you whispered. “And I promise, we’ll try to find him. But you need to be strong for me, okay? Can you be strong, just for a little while longer?”

He nodded with all the gravity a three-year-old could muster, despite the way his thumb crept into his mouth and he tucked his head under your chin.

You shifted your weight, gently rocking him side to side, taking in the fading light on the horizon. The practice was done. The paddock buzz was quieter now, people trickling away, laughter floating from somewhere below, mechanics wheeling tires and boxes past in a practiced rhythm. The day had been long, but good. There was a softness in the air that hadn’t been there this morning. A calm.

And as you stood there, swaying slowly with your child in your arms, you couldn’t help but feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. Right here, in this in-between moment, holding the person you loved most in a place he already adored.

Sebastian let out a soft sigh, curling closer into your chest. His voice, thick with exhaustion but still clinging to hope, came again in a sleepy murmur.

“Mama... Kimi come back?”

You kissed his cheek, tucking the blanket from your bag around his shoulders.

“We’ll see, baby. I promise. You rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

And with that, his tiny body finally relaxed, sleep pulling him into a peaceful slumber, the sounds of the paddock slowly fading into the background.

You didn’t want to wait much longer — the day had worn you down, and Sebastian had finally dozed off in your arms, his head resting against your shoulder, lips parted in soft snores. But despite your fatigue, a small flame of hope flickered inside you. Maybe, just maybe, if you held on a little longer, Kimi would appear. You knew how much it meant to Sebastian.

The paddock had finally begun to settle. The blinding flashes of cameras, the swarming fans, the echoing voices of reporters — all of it had died down to a hum. And somewhere in that calm, Lando spotted you again. For once, he wasn’t surrounded by media demands or tugged in different directions by obligations. It was just him now. And his eyes softened the moment they landed on you.

He approached with that familiar casual stride, a chuckle slipping from his lips as he glanced at the boy cradled in your arms. “He’s out,” he said gently, almost amused, as if the excitement had finally caught up to the little one.

You smiled in return, the kind of tired but warm smile only a parent could offer. With care, you took off Sebastian’s slightly tilted McLaren cap, brushing his curls away from his damp forehead. “He’s been holding out just to see Kimi,” you murmured, almost apologetically.

Lando nodded with sincerity. “I’ll make sure Kimi stops by. He won’t miss this,” he promised. There was something earnest in his voice — not performative, not the usual ‘fan-service’ charm — but genuine, like he wanted to make it happen for Sebastian. For you.

You shrugged a bit, not wanting to impose. “If not, it’s okay. We’ll be back tomorrow. Got ourselves the full three-day access.” You hadn’t meant for it to be anything special when you said it, but it lit something quietly inside Lando. You were coming back — that meant more chances to see you. Maybe talk. Maybe… something more.

“In the span of just a few hours,” you added with a faint chuckle, “he managed to get photos with Charles, Lewis, Carlos, Alex — even Liam and Isack. Now all that’s left on his dream list is Kimi, George, Yuki, and Max.”

Lando smiled at that. “He’s ambitious. I like it. And he’ll get them — I’ll make sure of it,” he said firmly. He wasn’t just saying it to be nice — he meant it. Maybe it was the way Sebastian lit up around them, or maybe it was how you looked at your son like he was your whole world. Either way, Lando found himself caring a little too much.

A lull in the conversation opened a new window — a chance to ask more. To know more. And he took it.

“So… earlier you were saying a bit about the little guy and yourself. Dad didn’t come along?” Lando’s voice softened, carefully treading that line between curiosity and respect.

You looked down at Sebastian’s sleeping face, brushing a hand gently along his back. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms,” you said, voice low. “We’re not together. Haven’t been in a while.” Your tone wasn’t bitter, just honest.

And then the words spilled — maybe because Lando was easy to talk to, or maybe because you were just so tired of keeping it all inside. You told him how your ex had missed both of Sebastian’s birthdays. How the only contact came in the form of late-night, drunken texts that always circled back to the same twisted narrative: “Let’s try again,” followed by declarations you’d long stopped believing in.

You didn’t notice, but Lando’s expression shifted — a quiet intensity in his gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something deeper. He hated it for you. Hated that someone had been foolish enough to walk away from a life with you and Sebastian. And worse, that someone had left you to handle it all on your own.

But then, that guilt crept up his spine — uninvited and sharp. He was Lando Norris. He didn’t do strings. His world was fast and fleeting. Privacy was a myth. Relationships were speculation fodder. And the idea of being involved with someone — someone who came as a package deal — was overwhelming. Terrifying, even.

Still… he couldn’t ignore how naturally it all felt just then. You, him, and Sebastian.

For a second, he wondered what it might be like if things were different.

And that scared him.

So, instead of speaking his thoughts, he simply nodded, offering the kind of half-smile that didn’t reach all the way to his eyes. “He’s lucky to have you,” he said quietly.

And even though he didn’t say more, even though he buried whatever stirring he felt, the way he looked at you lingered longer than it should’ve.

Just as you were preparing to gently excuse yourself from Lando and finally head out with Sebastian asleep in your arms, a small wave of movement caught your attention. You looked up — and sighed in sheer relief.

Kimi had appeared at last.

He strolled in with a calm, almost unreadable expression, still in his race suit, hair slightly tousled from removing his helmet, and a bottle of water in hand. He hadn’t even fully stepped into the area before his eyes landed on you and Lando. He tilted his head slightly, brows pulling together in mild confusion as if trying to place the scene — a woman holding a sleeping child, standing with Lando Norris.

“I am so sorry to bother you,” you began gently, stepping forward just enough without jostling Sebastian. You didn’t want to startle him awake. “But you’re here and— I know I don’t have anything Mercedes for you to sign, but… signing his backpack would mean a lot.”

You offered a small, hopeful smile, holding out a black marker and the tiny, well-loved backpack that was slung over your shoulder. Its fabric was soft from use, and one of the zipper pulls had a keychain shaped like a Formula 1 car.

Lando gave a small, encouraging nod, his expression warm. “They’ll be back tomorrow,” he added, his voice casual but his tone protective. “Kid’s been waiting just to see you.”

At that, Kimi's face softened. Something about the sincerity in your voice, and perhaps the tone Lando had taken on — almost like it was his job to make sure this moment happened — made Kimi nod without hesitation.

He reached forward and gently took the backpack from you, uncapping the marker in one hand and holding the fabric taut in the other. “How old is he?” Kimi asked, his voice quiet but curious, eyes glancing at Sebastian’s sleeping face.

Before you could even open your mouth to respond, Lando beat you to it — his voice calm and full of a surprising kind of certainty.

“He’s three. His name is Sebastian.”

Your gaze flicked to Lando, eyes softening as a small lump formed in your throat. The way he said it — like he’d memorized it — made your chest feel tight. You hadn’t expected him to remember. Not when he’d been bombarded by faces and questions all day, caught in flashes of cameras and interviews. You assumed you and Sebastian would be forgotten as quickly as you appeared — just another moment in a long blur of fan interactions.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

He remembered your son’s name. His age. The way he fought sleep just to see Kimi. And it wasn’t just that he remembered — it was the way he cared. Lando said it like it mattered.

Kimi hummed thoughtfully as he signed his name across the backpack in neat, bold letters. Then, handing it back, he gave a small nod toward you. “He’s got good taste in drivers.”

You chuckled quietly, adjusting Sebastian in your arms. “He thinks all of you are superheroes,” you replied, voice hushed with affection. “Each time he sees a car or hears a name, it’s like the whole world lights up for him.”

Kimi offered a rare, faint smile before giving a polite nod and stepping away, blending back into the quiet shuffle of drivers finishing up their day. You watched him go, grateful — but it was the man standing beside you that still held your attention.

You turned your gaze to Lando. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his race suit, curls still a little damp with sweat from earlier, eyes on you like he hadn’t stopped watching you since Kimi arrived. There was something calm in his face now. Thoughtful. Open.

You exhaled slowly, shifting Sebastian’s weight against your shoulder. “Thank you,” you said softly.

Lando tilted his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “For what?”

“For remembering,” you answered simply.

And for a moment, nothing else needed to be said.

There you stood — you, a tired mother clutching her dreaming son, and Lando Norris, not the F1 star, but the guy who remembered a little boy’s name and helped him chase down a dream. And as the last rays of sunlight poured in from behind the pit building, painting the garage windows in a honey-gold glow, you felt something warm settle in your chest.

Bidding Lando a bye, you carried Sebastian, his now signed backpack, and his McLaren hat to the car, with Lando on your mind and a busy day ahead tomorrow.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Day Two arrived with a quiet stillness, the kind that promised potential before the world fully woke up. You stirred before the soft alarm had a chance to sound, quickly silencing it so Sebastian could remain curled up, blissfully asleep in the warmth of the hotel bed. He was tangled in the covers, one arm flopped dramatically over the stuffed car he’d won yesterday, the other hand loosely holding a toy McLaren.

You stole a moment to just watch him—his chest rising in slow, peaceful breaths—and then slipped away for a shower. The water felt grounding, warm against your skin, helping you wash away the exhaustion of travel and the high emotions of yesterday. You reminded yourself that today was supposed to be simple: enjoy the second day, support Sebastian’s little dream, and keep things… uncomplicated.

But then, there was Lando.

You knew better than to entertain anything. Yet his laugh, the way he’d remembered Sebastian’s name, the ease in his voice when talking to you… it all lingered heavier than you expected.

Once dressed, you stood before the mirror. You’d chosen the outfit intentionally—something that felt bold, fun, and just the right amount of spirited McLaren energy. A vivid orange halter top hugged your figure with flattering ruching, tied delicately at the back of your neck in a neat bow. It matched Sebastian’s bright Oscar Piastri race suit with near-perfect coordination. Paired with light wash high-waisted jeans that sculpted your shape and ended in a relaxed straight leg, the look balanced sleek and casual effortlessly.

You slid on a pair of orange braided heels, the square toe giving it a modern edge, and completed the outfit with stacked bangles in shades of ivory and burnt orange. A McLaren cap sat nestled on the hotel dresser—Sebastian’s idea for you to wear it today. “So we match!” he’d squealed yesterday. And of course, you’d promised you would.

You turned to gently wake Sebastian, who stirred the moment you whispered his name. His tiny brows furrowed sleepily at first, but when you pulled out the miniature Oscar suit, he shot upright like a rocket. “Today is Ows-cah day!” he cheered, bouncing on the bed in his onesie.

You got him dressed with a bit of effort and a lot of giggles, and once his race suit was zipped, name stitched proudly over his chest in orange thread, he did a full spin in front of the mirror. “We look like twins!” he declared.

Meanwhile, Lando was stirring in a completely different world.

He sat upright in the plush, oversized bed of his penthouse suite, the muted morning light trickling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. His room felt too pristine, too still. He rubbed a hand over his face, his curls messy, and let out a low breath. The first thing he did was grab his phone, swiping through headlines and Instagram notifications. Race prep, news alerts, tagged posts, and—

Rumors.

He knew they were coming. Media always got wind of the smallest things: a photo, a glance, a conversation held just a second too long. And yesterday had definitely given them fuel. A few posts had already surfaced—pictures of him crouched next to Sebastian, you laughing beside him, a blurred shot that captured the spark in your eye mid-conversation.

Oscar caught him just as he made his way into the hotel lobby. “Did you check the media?”

“Yeah,” Lando said flatly, already bracing.

Oscar raised a brow. “They’re spinning stuff already. You and that girl—”

“Her name is Y/n,” Lando snapped back, more sharply than he intended. “And I know. I’m just not dealing with it right now.”

Oscar held his hands up, not pushing it further. But the look in his eye said it all. There was something different in the way Lando spoke about you. He wasn’t denying it. He wasn’t even hiding it well.

And Lando knew it too.

Because while his eyes scrolled past the usual stream of bikini models and car edits, it wasn’t them he was thinking about this morning. It was the way you’d tucked Sebastian’s curls under his cap. The way your smile flickered with hesitation at first, but then warmed once Lando said your son’s name.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

But he was starting to.

And that… scared the hell out of him.

The paddock was alive, electrified with the kind of energy only sprint day could summon. The air buzzed with adrenaline, fan chants echoing between the walls of garages, reporters weaving through mechanics and engineers, and flags fluttering like excited hearts. Today was qualifying, high-stakes, no time to breathe—yet somehow, you found a pocket of peace.

Oscar stood beside you, grinning as Sebastian—dressed in his perfectly tailored mini Oscar Piastri race suit, complete with his name stitched proudly in orange thread—hugged his leg. You held up your phone to capture the moment, crouching just enough to get the perfect shot: the contrast of the little boy’s bright orange suit against the sharp navy of Oscar’s own, and the pure smile they shared.

A few fans and even paddock staff paused to admire the adorable sight, some snapping their own pictures, others simply smiling and whispering to one another. Sebastian basked in the attention like it was his own victory lap. The moment felt so light—so warm.

And the day only got better.

With the help of Lando, Oscar, and even a few kind PR team members, Sebastian managed to meet the last of his dream list—Yuki gave him a high five and posed with an exaggerated grin; Max knelt for a photo and ruffled his curls; George crouched beside him with a thumbs up; Kimi gave a rare soft smile while crouching to sign Sebastian’s cap, and Charles even pulled him into another hug for one more picture.

You couldn't stop smiling. Everything had fallen into place—Sebastian had met his heroes, and their kindness brought out a glow in him that made every early morning and long walk worth it.

Until it didn’t.

You had barely turned to look toward the walkway when the buzz of conversation around you shifted, energy twisting from joyful to alert. The media had spotted something—or someone—and they were closing in fast. You looked up, confused by the sudden interest. The camera flashes began before the questions did.

“Can I help?” you asked softly, arms instinctively wrapping tighter around Sebastian’s small form as he clung to your hip, sensing the change.

“I’m with Sky Sports,” the man said smoothly, flashing a press pass like a shield. “Just need you to confirm or deny some rumors—”

His gaze dropped from your face to Sebastian. That subtle implication in his eyes made your stomach turn. Was this about Lando? Your fingers curled protectively into Sebastian’s back.

“I’m just a guest. We’re fans, we’re not—” you began, but the man didn’t seem to hear. He stepped forward again, camera crew behind him, mics angled toward your face like accusations.

Before your heart could even pound harder, before you could form words to push back—he was there.

Lando.

He moved with sharpness, unhesitating, stepping between you and the cameras like a shield. His shoulders squared, his jaw clenched tight as his hand subtly moved back, nudging you behind him.

“We’re here to talk about qualifying and the race, not harass the fans,” Lando said, voice low but laced with command, a warning hidden beneath the smile he didn’t wear.

The reporter hesitated, startled. “I—I apologize,” he stammered, backing off slightly as Lando’s gaze stayed fixed.

The air shifted again—awkward tension bleeding out slowly as the media retreated, their interest deflated by the firm dismissal. You didn’t even realize your hand had clenched Lando’s sleeve until he turned slightly, checking on you and Sebastian.

You nodded, still stunned. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice barely carrying over the renewed hum of paddock life.

Lando’s expression softened when his eyes met yours. “Anytime,” he said simply. Then his eyes dropped to Sebastian, who was now blinking up at him from your arms.

“You okay, buddy?” Lando asked, letting a small smile return.

Sebastian gave a tiny nod before curling into your shoulder, thumb in his mouth—exhausted again, the rush of attention too much.

You looked back at Lando, still a little shaken, still trying to process the way he stepped in like that. It wasn’t just fan service.

It felt like care. Like protection. Like something more than it was supposed to be.

And that terrified you—because for the first time since this whole thing started, you weren’t sure you wanted it to be less.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

For the rest of the event, the tension that had rattled your nerves earlier melted away, replaced by an unexpected calm that settled around you like a warm blanket. You and Sebastian stayed nestled in the rhythm of McLaren’s world—cheering, watching, laughing, and sharing quiet moments behind the velvet ropes of paddock life. Despite the constant whirl of noise, camera clicks, and mechanics shouting over engine whines, you felt at peace.

And it wasn’t just you. Sebastian was glowing with energy, his little race suit slightly rumpled now from running about, his curls springing up with every bounce of excitement. He cheered loudly when the McLaren team passed, and when Oscar or Lando appeared on the screens, he clapped as though they were superheroes instead of real men in fireproof suits.

You didn’t realize it until the day had almost ended—but you felt like you belonged there.

You didn’t feel like an outsider anymore, not just some guest with a pass, not just a mother of a young fan. Somehow, between the knowing smiles from engineers, the high-fives from Oscar, and even the nods from other teams, it felt like you were part of something. Like you fit.

Lando felt it too. Though he’d never admit it out loud, the thought had slipped in more than once during the day, threading through his mind between practice runs and interviews. Every time he spotted you in the distance, chatting with a team member or crouching to fix Sebastian’s laces, it hit him harder—this felt right. Too right. Too fast.

Too soon, he told himself. And yet, he kept looking anyway.

After qualifying—an intense battle that left him finishing a proud P2—Lando was spent. His body ached from the push, his skin glistened with sweat under his race suit, but his thoughts weren’t on lap times or team briefings.

They were on you.

He barely waited until he was out of the post-race huddle before nodding to a McLaren staffer. “Can you bring them to the garage?”

Within minutes, you were walking in—Sebastian clinging to your hand, wide-eyed at the inner sanctum of the McLaren team. Lando saw you and immediately crouched, his face lighting up despite his exhaustion.

“Sebastian! Hey buddy!” he called with a grin.

The three-year-old didn’t hesitate, sprinting the short distance into Lando’s open arms, giggling as he was scooped up in a warm, sweaty hug. You followed behind, letting out a soft chuckle as you watched them.

Lando laughed as he pulled back just slightly, eyebrows lifting when he caught sight of the small smudges dotting Sebastian’s cheeks and the suspicious trail of crumbs on his suit.

“What is on your face?” he asked with mock horror, trying to bite back another grin.

Sebastian flashed a proud, sugar-fueled smile. Before he could respond, you chimed in with a hum, arms folded loosely as you leaned slightly on one foot.

“Cookie crumbs,” you said, amused. “One of the drivers—pretty sure it was Fernando—had a secret cookie stash. He gave him two, and now he’s on a full sugar rush.”

Lando looked at Sebastian with a mix of disbelief and adoration. “You bribed Alonso? I’ve been trying to get a cookie from him all season,” he teased.

Sebastian giggled, holding up three fingers instead of two. “Three cookies,” he corrected proudly.

You and Lando burst out laughing, and for a beat, the world outside the garage didn't matter. It didn’t matter what had been said or what rumors had started to swirl. It didn’t matter how complicated things might get.

Lando had barely caught his breath from qualifying, the adrenaline still running faintly through his veins when the words slipped from his mouth like they’d been waiting all day for a place to land.

“Do you and Sebastian want to… go to the aquarium?” he asked casually—though his tone was careful, soft in a way that didn’t quite match the high-energy buzz of the McLaren garage around you.

You blinked, caught completely off guard. “Us?” you asked, your voice small, uncertain.

He nodded, brushing a loose curl from his damp forehead. “Yeah. I’ll head back to my hotel, clean up, and then I can swing by wherever you two are staying. We’ll head over together.”

Before you could process your reply, Sebastian practically burst with excitement, jumping in place. “YES! Fishies, Mama! Can we go see the sharks?!”

Lando chuckled, clearly entertained by the sheer enthusiasm bursting from the tiny human now bouncing beside him. Your eyes darted toward him again, cautious and conflicted.

Part of you wanted to go. God, you wanted to go.

But another part—the part that had learned how cruel the world could be when it noticed something good—whispered a thousand hesitations into your mind. The media. The cameras. The attention.

You looked away, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But the media…” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the team still moving about the garage.

Lando tilted his head, as though hearing your fear and meeting it without judgment. He took a step closer, and his voice dropped lower, quieter.

“I’m human too,” he said with a shrug. “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong. My team will push back as much as they can. I promise.”

His eyes were sincere—none of the typical charm or cheeky arrogance people expected from Lando Norris. Just truth. Just softness.

“So?” he added, a flicker of hope curling around the question.

You stood still for a moment, unsure what to do with the comfort that suddenly wrapped around you like a familiar coat. It was crazy, impulsive, dangerous even—but above all… it felt safe. Safe with Lando.

And real.

You glanced down at Sebastian, who was now hugging your leg, looking up at you with those wide, eager eyes.

“Sure,” you said at last, and the word felt like stepping into sunlight.

“We’ll go.”

Sebastian squealed in delight, nearly tripping over himself as he ran in a circle. “YAY!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, loud enough to make a few heads turn and laugh nearby.

Lando grinned, flashing you a look that made your heart skip just a beat too fast. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way,” he said, reaching down to ruffle Sebastian’s hair gently. “Sharks beware—this kid’s coming for them.”

You laughed—full, open—and suddenly, the weight that had been pressing on your chest all day lifted just a little.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The aquarium was quiet—softly lit by the glow of gently moving water and illuminated tanks, casting a subtle shimmer onto the smooth floors. It was a far cry from the earlier frenzy of the paddock. Peaceful. Settling. A rare pocket of calm where, for a moment, life could breathe without pressure.

You walked alongside Lando, with Sebastian happily toddling between the two of you, his small hands occasionally brushing yours or Lando’s as he pointed with wide eyes at stingrays and reef sharks gliding overhead through the tunnel of glass.

You wore a warm brown, body-hugging one-shoulder dress that fell down to your ankles like liquid silk. A soft, beige duster cardigan hung off your arms like a gentle frame, catching the light as it swayed with each step. A sleek black crossbody bag rested snugly at your hip, golden hardware catching the occasional shimmer from the glowing tanks. Simple, elegant—but comfortable enough to chase after a toddler if needed. You hadn’t planned to end up on a spontaneous evening out, but somehow, the moment welcomed you.

Sebastian was a walking ball of color and softness. He wore a playful vintage cartoon T-shirt, vibrant with reds and blues, tucked slightly into wide-legged beige corduroy pants that made his tiny legs look even tinier as he waddled forward. A chunky, lavender knit cardigan was draped over his shoulders—one sleeve constantly slipping down as he chased after his thoughts. His shoes, little white sneakers, already scuffed from adventure, squeaked lightly with each step.

Lando, walking beside you, looked comfortably cool in an oversized navy and white striped rugby shirt with “Quad” embroidered across the chest. The sleeves were pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing a few friendship bracelets that danced slightly as he moved. His jeans were baggy, worn in the right ways, and his white sneakers were casual but clean. There was an effortlessness to him—a contrast to his usual track-ready look.

“So... is it true?” you asked, glancing up at him as the three of you strolled past a glowing blue jellyfish exhibit. “You’re a party boy?”

He looked down at you, one brow lifting in curiosity before he grinned. “Depends... how curious are you?” he teased.

You laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just wanted to know what I’m getting into.”

Lando chuckled, nodding slowly. “I am, yeah. Was. Still am sometimes. Comes with being twenty-five, I guess.”

You smiled softly. “Twenty-five and still going strong? God, I need your energy.”

He glanced over at you again, this time his gaze lingering a little longer. “It’s fun sometimes. But... it gets boring. All of it. It’s loud. Flashy. Temporary.”

You nodded in understanding. “Too much stimulation. No peace.”

That was all that needed to be said. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was comforting. A shared understanding that there was something quieter, something softer, in the simplicity of this moment.

You and Lando watched as Sebastian ran up to a floor-to-ceiling tank. His hands smacked against the glass, face lit up in awe as a school of colorful fish darted past. Lando instinctively crouched beside him, resting his arms on his knees.

“They look cool, huh?” he said softly.

Sebastian nodded furiously. “They’re swimming really fast!”

You slowly approached, ignoring the buzzing of your phone deep in your pocket. You didn’t need to check to know who it was—reality could wait. For now, you lowered yourself beside Lando, the soft fabric of your cardigan pooling on the ground. All three of you sat together, faces bathed in aquatic blue light. Lando smelled faintly of clean cologne and sun-drenched grass, while your perfume lingered lightly in the air between you.

No flashing lights. No rumors. No curated stories or whispered headlines.

Just you, Lando, and Sebastian—laughing gently over the shapes of fish and the stories Sebastian made up about them. For a second, it looked like a little family portrait frozen in time. You caught Lando’s gaze and looked away quickly, your cheeks warming. He didn’t say anything—but the way he looked at you, like you were already something more, said enough.

The rest of the evening moved like a lullaby—soft, smooth, and glowing with the quiet joy only shared moments could bring. Between the tanks and tunnels, you and Lando took turns capturing fleeting snapshots and short videos—Sebastian pointing excitedly, or giggling mid-run, or narrating his own marine documentary with impressive confidence for a three-year-old.

“Fish!” he shouted, his voice echoing gently in the cavernous tunnel as Lando lifted him up, effortlessly resting him on his hip so he could get a better look.

You stood close—closer than you realized—shoulder brushing his, warmth shared through fabric. Your head came to rest lightly on Lando’s shoulder, your laughter bubbling softly as you pointed at the glass.

“That would be a pufferfish,” you said, lips quirking as the spiny little creature floated past. “They get all bloated like a balloon, and their faces go—” You puffed out your cheeks dramatically and crossed your eyes.

Sebastian let out a full laugh, tilting backward slightly in Lando’s arms as he mirrored you with his tiny face puffed like a marshmallow. “You’re right, Mommy!”

Lando hummed in amusement. “She’s pretty smart, huh?” he said, casting you a sideways glance, playfully nudging you with his shoulder. “Should we give her some credit?”

Sebastian’s brow furrowed as he considered. “Hmm… Can I drive da car?”

Lando crinkled his nose and gasped like the question was dangerous. “Oof… You might need a few more years of training, mate.”

Sebastian huffed in disappointment, only for Lando to lean in. “But after that? Formula 1. Full speed. Number one racer in the world.”

Sebastian’s eyes went wide. “Really?!”

You smiled, your heart tugging as you watched them—how naturally Lando folded into these moments with him, not a trace of forced charm. It wasn’t performative. It was just… who he was. You looked ahead and noticed something through a wide arched entrance.

“They have a gift shop,” you said casually, pointing.

Sebastian’s head whipped toward you like you’d just offered him the moon. “Can we go?! Please, please, pleaaaase?”

You giggled, eyes still on the small sign and bright display lights beyond the glass tunnel. “Eventually.”

Lando nudged Sebastian with a knowing grin. “We will. But first,” he paused and pointed to another glowing section, “I have to take you to see the turtles.”

You gasped, perhaps louder than necessary, clasping your hands together in exaggerated excitement. “Turtles?! Oh no, I love turtles!”

Sebastian mimicked you perfectly—hands clapped, mouth agape. “Let’s goooo!”

With that, Lando gently set him down and took his hand, the two of them walking ahead with energy, you trailing close beside. When they reached the next room, the ceiling curved above like a dome, casting light down onto the huge, gentle creatures that moved with ancient grace through their tank.

Sebastian was mesmerized, standing completely still for a moment before he started talking. Asking questions. Making up names. Pretending one of the turtles winked at him.

You leaned quietly against the railing next to Lando, your arms folding across your chest, watching your son point and babble beside the glass.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” you said under your breath, just loud enough for Lando to hear. “If someone had told me a year ago I’d be at an aquarium in Australia... with Lando Norris and my three-year-old son... I’d have laughed in their face.”

Lando smiled, just slightly. “I think I would’ve laughed too.”

You stood there for a long while, close enough that you could feel the space between you buzz—something soft and thrilling that hadn’t quite found its voice yet.

Eventually, Sebastian—never one to hide his needs—rubbed at his eyes and laid his head against Lando’s shoulder.

“Hungry,” he murmured.

You and Lando both glanced down, and then up at each other, exchanging the same silent question and answer.

“Gift shop, then dinner?” you asked softly.

Sebastian nodded sleepily, already perking up again at the idea of shopping. You smiled and brushed a hand over his curls.

The gift shop was bright and playful, a sudden burst of color after the ambient blues of the aquarium. Sebastian was back to full energy, dashing toward shelves of plush animals and glittery keychains. His eyes sparkled at everything—but then, they stopped.

“That!” he shouted, pointing with such conviction you and Lando both turned to follow his finger.

A massive, soft, gray shark plush towered over the others, nearly the size of Sebastian himself. It was outrageously big, comical even—but the awe in his voice made it impossible to resist.

“I want that!”

Lando didn’t hesitate. He reached up, grabbed the plush by its fin, and brought it down into Sebastian’s arms, where it nearly swallowed him whole. Sebastian gave a muffled “yes!” and hugged it like it was the best gift he’d ever received.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling. “That thing is bigger than his carry-on.”

Lando laughed. “Yeah, well... he loves it. Besides,” he plucked a shark tooth necklace from a nearby display, handing it to you, “a souvenir for Mom too.”

You blinked. “Lando—”

“Don’t even,” he said gently, his voice calm and sure. “I want to.”

You didn’t argue. Maybe because you knew he meant it. Maybe because it felt nice to let someone else take care of things, just for a moment.

At the register, Sebastian was trying to hoist the shark up by himself, only for Lando to step in and help. You watched them—man and child, natural in step, smiles matching. And maybe, just maybe, your heart tugged in a way that scared you a little. Because it felt like something real.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That evening, the three of you found your way into the quiet warmth of a refined little restaurant tucked beneath the pulse of the city—a place with dim lights that danced like soft candle flames against crystal glasses, white linen napkins folded like paper birds, and the gentle clink of silverware marking a chorus of elegant chatter. The ambiance was calm, inviting, the kind of place made for connection and quiet reflection.

You and Lando sat opposite one another, your chairs turned inward toward Sebastian, who had been nestled in the middle like the radiant center of your shared universe. A glass of chilled apple juice sat in front of him—his ‘grown-up’ drink—its amber tone glistening like gold under the glow of the table's candle. Earlier, he'd asked for "what Mommy and Lando are having," curious about the tall glasses of red wine swirling in both of your hands. Lando had leaned down, voice patient and warm, explaining that apple juice was the exact same thing, only better for superheroes like him. Sebastian had accepted that logic instantly, nodding proudly before lifting his glass and declaring a soft “cheers.”

Now, menu in hand, Sebastian squinted at the words like they were ancient texts.

“I want this,” he declared, pointing with conviction to a line near the middle of the kids’ section.

You leaned over and read the item aloud with a hum. “Chicken tenders… classic. And some fries to go with it?”

Sebastian nodded with all the confidence in the world. “Fancy dinner,” he grinned.

Lando chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass. “Feeling fancy tonight, huh?”

Sebastian nodded proudly. “Yup. Like you.”

When the waitress approached, Lando took the initiative, smoothly placing your orders. “Two pasta dishes—one with extra parmesan, please—and the chicken tenders and fries for the little gentleman. Oh, and we’ll take a side of roasted vegetables too,” he added, giving you a quick, almost playful glance.

You arched a brow knowingly. “The vegetables? Bold move.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” he said, smirking.

As the waitress disappeared with a promise that dinner would be quick, Sebastian received a coloring page and a small packet of crayons. Instantly absorbed in his artwork, his little brows furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking slightly from the corner of his mouth.

It gave you and Lando a moment. A bubble of stillness inside the restaurant’s soft symphony. A moment to just talk, without the world demanding too much.

“So…” Lando began, voice quiet and cautious. “Have you heard from his—”

He gestured slightly, not needing to say more. You knew who he meant. The shadow. The absentee. The person who helped create Sebastian but somehow forgot what it meant to stay.

You shook your head, your fingers tightening slightly around your wine glass. “Only when he feels it’ll benefit him,” you said, the bitterness hidden behind a composed tone. “Usually to ask for something. Or to argue about things that don’t matter.”

Lando leaned back slightly, frowning. “I don’t see how he can just… pretend you two don’t exist. Like, how do you walk away from someone like Sebastian?”

You looked down, exhaling softly. You didn’t have an answer. You never really had.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I’ve come to terms with it. I don’t think Sebastian’s missing anything by not having him around. He’s happy. He’s loved. And if I’m being honest… I’m at peace with it too.”

Lando studied you, his gaze holding something more complex than sympathy. Admiration, maybe. Or something even deeper. There was a strength in you that tugged at something tender in him—how fiercely you loved, how steady you were despite the storm life had thrown your way. It made him think about things. About you.

About settling down.

Why now? Why you? He didn’t know yet. But he felt it. Gnawing and blooming all at once. He took a sip of wine to distract himself.

“Tell me more about you two,” he said, tone lighter now, the weight shifting off both your shoulders.

You smiled, turning your chair just slightly toward him.

“Well, Sebastian’s a big fan of Formula 1… obviously,” you started, throwing him a playful glance. “But aside from that, he’s obsessed with SpongeBob, Paw Patrol, and lately, Tom and Jerry. I think the slapstick makes him feel like he’s getting away with something.”

Lando grinned. “Classic. I loved Tom and Jerry as a kid too.”

“Same,” you said. “And as for me? I’m into dramas, comedies, a little romance. Occasionally cartoons—especially when someone insists I join movie night in a blanket fort.”

Lando smiled at the mental image.

“He’s a waffle lover,” you continued, “but he’ll also go through phases of fruit and muffins in the morning. Grilled cheese sandwiches are his go-to lunch—sometimes crustless, depending on his mood—and for dinner, if it’s not pasta or chicken tenders, you’re in for a battle.”

Lando laughed, leaning forward on his elbows. “Veggies?”

“Oh, those are the enemy,” you confirmed, laughing softly. “We’ve tried dinosaurs made out of broccoli. Spaceships shaped from carrots. I think I once made a full-on zoo with cucumbers and celery. He’s not impressed.”

Lando’s laugh was a little louder this time, catching the attention of a nearby couple.

“He loves bath time, though,” you added, “but hates getting his hair washed. Kicks and squeals every time. Orange is his favorite color—if the McLaren merch didn’t give it away. He says he wants to drive one day, and I believe him.”

Your voice softened as you looked down at Sebastian, still happily scribbling blue stars onto his coloring sheet.

“And I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen for him,” you said. “If that means working extra jobs, if that means staying up late or missing sleep or giving up things I love… I’ll do it. No question.”

Lando’s heart twisted a little in his chest. The kind of twist that comes when something clicks. When you realize you’re watching someone love unconditionally. Fiercely. Gently. And without an ounce of bitterness.

He reached out, lightly brushing the back of your hand with his fingers. It was a small gesture—one that said more than he had words for just yet.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” he said, voice quiet, sincere.

You looked at him, your eyes soft with both gratitude and caution. But in that moment, something unspoken passed between you.

Time moved differently at that table.

It melted between soft glances and shared laughter, weaving through your quiet conversations and the gentle jazz notes that glided in the background like a lullaby. It wasn't just the food or the ambiance. It was the feeling—a rare kind of comfort, like sitting at a table that had always been meant for the three of you.

Dinner had long become more than a meal. It was connection in the purest form.

Plates of steaming pasta were placed in front of you and Lando, the scents of garlic, basil, and cream-rich sauces curling upward in soft waves. Sebastian’s plate of golden, crispy chicken tenders and perfectly salted fries sat in front of him like a crown jewel. His little eyes sparkled with delight, his fork diving in immediately.

Lando, as cheeky as ever, held out a forkful of his pasta toward you. “Try it,” he said, wiggling the fork slightly with an encouraging smirk.

You leaned forward, taking the bite, eyes fluttering shut at the rich burst of flavor. “Mmm… that’s so good,” you hummed in satisfaction.

“Alright, your turn.” You scooped some of yours up and offered it to him.

Lando accepted, eyes on yours as he took the bite. He mirrored your hum, grinning as he swallowed. “Okay, yeah. That’s unreal. We should’ve split both from the beginning.”

Sebastian, never one to be left out, giggled and mimicked you both. “Try mine!” He held out a small piece of his chicken tender between his fingers.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Lando said, dramatically leaning in for the bite, followed by you, both of you giving the little boy a grand thumbs up after tasting it.

“This is so good, I might have to order it myself next time,” Lando said, acting genuinely impressed, making Sebastian beam with pride.

With your glasses empty and plates dusted with crumbs and sauces, dessert arrived—a decadent sundae set in a glass bowl, the kind made for sharing. The vanilla was creamy and cold, the chocolate thick and rich, with warm caramel drizzled across the top like golden ribbon. Bits of brownie and nuts rested like treasure at the bottom.

Three spoons. One sundae. One perfect ending.

Sebastian was the first to dive in. “So good!” he declared through a mouthful of ice cream, chocolate smudging at the corner of his lip.

You leaned over and gently wiped it away with a napkin, smiling at him. “You’ve got a little sweet mustache, sir.”

Lando chuckled beside you. “I don’t blame him—it’s amazing,” he said, scooping some for himself, then dramatically dabbing the spoon along his bottom lip. “Oops.”

You arched a brow at him, grinning. “You too?” you teased, reaching over with your napkin, your fingers brushing gently against the stubble at the corner of his mouth as you wiped the chocolate from his skin.

The touch lingered just long enough to feel something.

Something unsaid, soft and magnetic.

Laughter filled the silence that followed, but in those moments between the bites of shared sundae and easy conversation, something had shifted. It wasn't just dinner anymore. It was the idea of something whole. Something healing. Something that felt like it might just last.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Lando had offered to carry Sebastian, who had dozed off in the car almost immediately, his little hands still clutching his new, oversized grey shark plushie like it was a treasure chest. The plush, comically large in Lando’s other arm, bobbed gently with every step as they made their way through the lobby and toward the elevators.

You trailed just beside him, glancing at the way Lando carried your son—not with strain or awkwardness, but like he’d done it a thousand times before. One arm cradling the sleeping boy, the other balancing a plush shark nearly half his size. And somehow, it suited him. All of it did.

The elevator dinged softly as it opened, and the ride up was wordless, only the soft rise and fall of Sebastian’s breathing between you and Lando. When the doors parted again, it was just a short walk to the room. You fished out the keycard with one hand, the other gently brushing Sebastian’s back as Lando stood still, waiting.

Inside, the room welcomed you with that familiar dim hotel glow—soft lights above the bed casting a golden warmth over the tidy, lived-in space. The bed was unmade from earlier, pillows fluffed messily, blankets a bit rumpled, still marked by your shared laughter and rest from the afternoon.

“Here,” you whispered, stepping aside so Lando could carry him in.

Careful, like every movement held meaning, Lando walked over to the bed and gently laid Sebastian down, easing the shark plushie beside him so it tucked perfectly against the boy’s side. Sebastian stirred only slightly, lips parting with a sigh before his small hand instinctively reached for the shark, pulling it close in his sleep.

You knelt beside the bed, brushing back a few curls from his forehead. “Goodnight, baby,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

Lando stood back, watching in silence. He had never seen something so stilling. So complete.

After a moment, you rose, standing beside him in the quiet glow of the room. You both looked down at Sebastian, tucked in between hotel sheets and a plush shark almost as long as he was.

“He really knocked out,” Lando said quietly, his voice just above a whisper, as if anything louder might break the spell.

“He always does after a full day like this,” you murmured, wrapping your arms gently around yourself. “He gets so excited, burns through every ounce of energy, and then…” You smiled. “Out like a light.”

Lando chuckled softly, his gaze still fixed on the sleeping boy. “It’s kind of amazing. The way you just… have it all handled.”

You shrugged gently, your voice low and thoughtful. “I try. Some days feel easier than others. But when I see him like this… it’s worth everything.”

You looked up at Lando then, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you, really looked—like he was seeing every piece of you that had gone unnoticed for too long. Not the mother, not the friend, but the woman. The one who loved deeply, gave endlessly, and somehow still had space for more.

His voice broke the silence gently. “Can I stay? Just for a bit.”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And so you sat together at the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder, the soft hum of the air conditioning the only sound filling the room. Sebastian’s breathing stayed steady. The shark plush sat like a sentry beside him. And for the first time in a long while, you felt like maybe you weren’t carrying everything alone.

Both you and Lando held a conversation, quiet enough for just you two, getting to know him more, and you more.

And just like that, an hour struck back when Lando signaled he had to leave, he had to get up early for the grand prix tomorrow, something you and Sebastian would be able to witness thanks to your 3-day paddock club passes.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun had barely kissed the track, and already the paddock buzzed with energy—media personnel weaving through, mechanics checking and re-checking, fans beginning to trickle in with banners, merch, and wide-eyed anticipation. But all eyes briefly shifted when you and Sebastian stepped through the paddock gates.

You, dressed in a sleek, body-hugging white ruched dress that shimmered in the sunlight like liquid porcelain, turned more heads than you intended. The dress, simple yet impossibly elegant, contrasted playfully with the bold orange McLaren cap atop your head and the matching McLaren racing jacket draped effortlessly over your shoulders. The crispness of the white Air Force 1s on your feet gave the look a relaxed finish—fashion meeting fandom in perfect balance.

At your side, Sebastian practically radiated pride, striding confidently in his mini Lando Norris race suit. The suit clung just right to his tiny frame, complete with patches, sponsor logos, and even the little McLaren emblem on the chest. His messy curls poked out from beneath a pint-sized matching orange cap, and his face lit up anytime someone complimented him or gave a high-five.

He gripped your hand excitedly, his other arm wrapped tightly around the jumbo grey shark plushie he refused to leave behind. "I want Lando to see me like this," he said proudly, giving a small tug to your hand as he looked up at you with sparkling eyes. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

You looked down at him with a soft smile, brushing a curl off his forehead. “He’s going to love it, baby. You look like his number one fan.”

Sebastian beamed, his small boots clunking lightly as he walked. “That’s because I am!”

Your Christian Dior tote bag rested in the crook of your arm, holding all the little essentials a mother might need—snacks, wipes, sunscreen, and of course, a sharpie, just in case Sebastian wanted another autograph. The handmade beaded bracelets around your wrist—one reading "Norris", the other "Piastri"—were Sebastian's latest paddock project, and you wore them with pride.

The two of you made your way deeper into the paddock, receiving nods, warm smiles, and a few amused looks at the sight of your fashion-forward fit paired with your tiny race-suited shadow.

Cameras flashed subtly. Whispers of “That’s her—Lando’s…” didn’t faze you. If anything, they added a quiet confidence to your stride.

Sebastian looked up at you again, eyes wide with anticipation. “Do you think he’s here already?”

You smiled knowingly, tightening your grip on his hand. “I’ve got a feeling today’s going to be a really good one.”

The entrance to McLaren hospitality was buzzing with activity—team members moving briskly with radios clipped to their belts, PR assistants glancing over schedules, and cameras from F1TV floating by to capture glimpses of the drivers’ pre-race routines. You adjusted your cap slightly, offering a polite smile to someone who gave Sebastian a thumbs-up.

Before you could step inside, a familiar voice called out.

“Well, look who’s ready for race day,” Oscar Piastri said with a grin, walking toward you in full race kit, a McLaren water bottle in one hand and a relaxed ease in his walk. “That suit might be a little better than Lando’s, to be honest,” he added, squatting slightly to meet Sebastian’s eye level.

Sebastian beamed. “Thanks! I’m his biggest fan today. I brought Sharky too!” He held up the oversized plush with both arms, causing Oscar to laugh.

“Strong choice,” Oscar nodded approvingly. Then his eyes flicked to you. “And you—definitely win best-dressed in the paddock today. You sure you’re not the one about to race?”

You smiled, cheeks warming lightly. “If I were, I'd be aiming for champagne.”

Oscar smirked. “Spoken like a winner. Come in—Lando’s somewhere inside, probably eating his tenth pancake.”

You and Sebastian followed him into the hospitality suite, a wave of cool air greeting you as the bustle of the outside paddock melted into a more private space. The orange and black interiors were bright, clean, filled with quiet team chatter and the soft clinks of silverware from the breakfast spread.

And then—there he was.

Lando, standing near the buffet with his back partially turned, chatting with two engineers and a trainer. His hair still slightly tousled, arms crossed loosely over his chest, the relaxed smile on his face faltered slightly when he turned and spotted you.

You could see it—the brief flicker in his eyes, soft and surprised. And then, the warmest grin tugged at his lips.

“There he is!” Sebastian shouted, breaking into a run, nearly dragging Sharky behind him. Lando bent instantly, arms wide as Sebastian jumped into him, and Lando caught him with a practiced ease, spinning him in a playful half-circle before hugging him close.

“Well, if it isn’t my lucky charm!” he said into Sebastian’s ear, before glancing up at you. His gaze held for a moment too long—just enough to make your heart squeeze.

“You guys came,” he said, softer now.

“We wouldn’t miss it,” you replied, matching his smile even though something about the whole thing tugged deep under your skin.

Lando set Sebastian down, his hand gently ruffling the boy’s curls. Then, as a few team members came up behind him, he motioned toward the two of you casually.

“Oh—uh, this is my friend Y/N,” he said, glancing at you before adding, “and this is Sebastian.”

Friend. Just a word. Harmless. Simple. But it sank somewhere heavy inside your chest. Not because he was wrong—but because, for a moment, you forgot that this wasn't something more. And maybe you’d let yourself believe otherwise.

Still, you smiled, your voice gentle. “Hi, nice to meet you all.”

The team greeted you both warmly—one even joking with Sebastian about being the team’s new mascot. Lando, meanwhile, had knelt down to adjust the strap on Sebastian’s mini race suit, talking to him about pit strategies like he was part of the crew.

You stayed quiet, watching them. You could’ve let it sting longer. But you knew the truth—there were no promises made, no titles given. Just shared moments, private smiles, and one night at an aquarium that left your heart hoping.

So instead, you brushed it off. Like you always did.

Because if today was about supporting Lando, then you’d do just that.

Even if he only called you a friend.

The sun was beginning its descent, casting golden flares across the asphalt as the pre-race grid walk commenced. The tension in the air was thick with adrenaline—crew members moving swiftly around the cars, broadcasters weaving through interviews, and fans leaning against the barriers for a glimpse of their favorites.

You held Sebastian’s hand tightly, navigating the chaos beside one of the most recognizable orange cars on the grid. The roar of engines testing systems vibrated under your shoes, and the smell of hot tires and fuel clung to the air. It was a world unlike any other—and Sebastian's eyes were wide with wonder.

“There he is,” you murmured, pointing as Lando stood next to his car, helmet off for now, laughing with a mechanic as a camera hovered nearby.

Sebastian tugged at your hand. “Can I go say good luck?” His voice was almost shy, though you could tell he was trying to be brave.

You gave a small nod. “Go on, buddy. Just stay where I can see you.”

The moment Sebastian let go of your hand, he marched with purpose through the buzzing grid. His little race suit was slightly rumpled from the excitement of the day, the McLaren logo and "4" on his back catching Lando's eye just before he turned fully.

Lando’s expression instantly softened when he saw him.

“Hey, mate,” he said, crouching down as Sebastian reached him. “You look like you're about to start this race with me.”

Sebastian grinned wide. “I just wanted to tell you good luck.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up briefly to find you watching nearby. You gave him a gentle smile, mouthing go get ‘em.

Back down to Sebastian, Lando said, “Thank you, buddy. Means a lot. I’ve got you cheering for me, so I think we’ve already got the edge.”

Sebastian held up his palm for a high five, and Lando met it without hesitation, then pulled him in for a quick hug. “This one’s for you,” he whispered, gently tapping his forehead to Sebastian’s helmeted head.

As Lando stood back up, he nodded toward you, walking over with a slow exhale. You could tell his mind was starting to flip into race mode—but still, there was a softness in his eyes as they met yours.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, voice low beneath the noise around you. “Both of you.”

“We’re always rooting for you,” you replied, meaning it more than you could say.

He hesitated for a second—like he wanted to say something more—but instead just smiled and backed away as one of the engineers handed him his helmet. He slid it on, the reflective visor clicking into place like a final shield.

Sebastian gave a little wave as Lando turned toward his car, stepping into the cockpit like it was second nature.

You placed a hand over your chest, watching him settle into the machine, surrounded by people—but somehow, still feeling like the only one on the grid.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself, hand finding Sebastian’s shoulder as the grid began to clear. “Let’s watch him fly.”

The lights would go out soon.

And whatever the outcome, you knew this moment—this quiet, private piece of his very public world—would stay with you forever.

The atmosphere in the grandstands was electric. Fans in every direction waved orange flags, their cheers rising in a crescendo as the lights above the grid turned red one by one. The engines screamed in perfect harmony—then silence.

Lights out.

Twenty cars exploded off the line, tires gripping the asphalt as smoke trailed behind them. You and Sebastian sat just above the pit wall in a McLaren viewing box, hearts pounding as you watched Lando’s car surge forward, fighting for position into Turn 1.

“He’s in second!” Sebastian shouted, clutching your arm as Lando tucked behind the leading Red Bull car, timing his move.

Lap after lap, the field spread, then compacted again like a slingshot. Strategy came into play. Rain clouds loomed for a moment before disappearing. Pit stops became a test of perfect precision. McLaren nailed it—Lando out in clean air on Lap 32, tires fresh and focused.

Radio: “Alright Lando, we’re racing for the win here. Let’s push.”

And push he did.

Lap 41: He was closing the gap—half a second behind P1, DRS enabled. You leaned forward, barely blinking as the tension crackled through your bones.

“He’s gonna do it, Mommy!” Sebastian whispered, wide-eyed.

Lap 45: On the main straight, Lando darted left, then right—then made a daring lunge down the inside at Turn 4. Rubber screeched. His rival tried to hold on, but Lando was relentless, using every inch of the track, claiming the corner with the precision of someone who wanted this more than anything.

He was through.

The grandstand erupted. McLaren crew members leapt to their feet. You stood too, hands over your mouth in disbelief as Lando flew ahead.

Lap 48. Lap 52. Lap 56.

Every second stretched like eternity. But Lando held his line, controlled the pace, fought the wind, the pressure, the world.

Final lap.

You and Sebastian were on your feet, cheering, voices hoarse with anticipation. The McLaren pit wall was already half-standing in wait. Lando rounded the final corner, and with the checkered flag waving wildly in the air—

He crossed the line.

P1. Lando Norris wins the Grand Prix.

Tears flooded your eyes without warning, the emotions crashing over you like waves. Sebastian jumped up and down, shouting, “HE DID IT! HE DID IT!”

“YES, HE DID!” you laughed through your tears, sweeping him into your arms.

Radio: “Lando, you are a Grand Prix winner! P1, mate. You did it!”

His voice cracked through the radio, raw and overwhelmed: “Oh my god, finally. Finally. Thank you, team. That one was for all of you... and for someone watching up there too.”

You knew that "someone" was closer than he realized.

In the cool-down lap, he swerved left and right, waving at fans, helmet still on—but you could feel his smile. He stopped on the grid, climbed onto his car, raised his fists into the air, and the world lost its mind.

Trophies, champagne, confetti—those moments came next.

But nothing compared to the instant he saw you and Sebastian outside the garage afterward.

Helmet off, eyes scanning through the haze of celebration, his gaze landed on you both—and that’s when it hit him.

The roar of the crowd had softened into the background now—cheering still echoed in waves, but inside the back corner of the McLaren motorhome, it felt like the world had slowed down for just a moment.

Lando had just showered and changed into a clean team polo, though his curls were still damp and tousled. His skin carried the subtle pink flush from the heat, and his eyes—god, his eyes—looked exhausted but alive. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he got out of the car.

You sat on the couch with Sebastian, who had finally calmed from all the excitement, his small head resting against your side as his fingers absentmindedly played with the lanyard still hanging from his neck. He looked up as Lando stepped in.

“Hi, Champ.” you smiled, soft and genuine.

Lando looked at you, his expression faltering for just a moment—relief, disbelief, emotion. His voice dropped, quieter now than all the shouting and applause from earlier.

“I still can’t believe it,” he murmured, dropping down onto the seat beside you, careful not to crush Sebastian’s legs.

“You earned every bit of it,” you said. “It was yours from the start.”

Sebastian sat up, crawling into Lando’s lap, wrapping his arms around him. “You were so fast! Like zoooom,” he said, making a whooshing sound. Lando laughed, burying his face in Sebastian’s shoulder for a second.

“Thanks, buddy. I told you I’d win today if I saw your suit.”

Sebastian beamed, proud as ever. “I’m your lucky charm!”

“Yes, you are.”

The moment was warm, cozy. The three of you felt like a little island in the middle of all the chaos. But that peace only lasted a beat before Carlos barged in through the door without knocking, grinning from ear to ear, still sweaty and in his Ferrari kit.

“Landoooo!” Carlos called, pointing a finger at him. “You said—if you ever won—you’d party.”

Lando groaned playfully. “Carlos—”

“No excuses!” Carlos waved off the protest. “We’re going out tonight. Whole paddock’s buzzing. It’s your moment, hermano. You're not skipping this.”

You looked over at Lando, who glanced back at you as if waiting for your response.

“It’s okay,” you smiled. “Go celebrate. You deserve it.”

“But I wanted to spend time with you two,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to you and Sebastian again. “I don’t really care about—”

“Lando,” you interrupted softly, brushing your hand against his. “You can have this moment. We’ll still be here tomorrow. Go dance, drink, scream if you want to. You only get your first win once.”

He hesitated, then squeezed your hand.

“You sure?”

You nodded. “Promise. We’ll be in bed, watching SpongeBob reruns or something. Go.”

Carlos threw an arm around Lando and smacked the back of his head. “Come on, before she changes her mind!”

Lando finally cracked a grin, standing up with Sebastian still in his arms. He looked at you once more—an unspoken thank-you in his eyes—before gently setting Sebastian down on the couch.

“I’ll text you when I get in,” he said.

“I’ll be asleep,” you teased, “but I’ll read it in the morning.”

As Lando and Carlos disappeared down the hallway, laughter echoing behind them, you leaned back on the couch, Sebastian curling up at your side again.

And though Lando had gone to celebrate with the world, it still felt like his heart had never really left that room.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Somewhere in Australia, while the soft hum of the hotel’s AC wrapped you and Sebastian in a cocoon of sleep, a different world pulsed to life just down the city blocks.

The club was dimly lit but alive—bass thrumming through the floorboards, the strobe lights slicing the shadows like flashes of lightning. Music thundered. Laughter echoed. Bodies moved in rhythm with careless joy. It was the kind of chaos that made the air feel electric, where sweat mixed with spilled liquor and every fleeting moment felt like something worth chasing.

And there he was—Lando.

Shirt half-buttoned, the edges loose and dancing with the rhythm of the club’s fan. His curls were damp at the edges, the scent of his cologne clinging stubbornly to his skin, mingling with the sharp tang of whiskey and champagne that hung in the air. His cheeks were flushed pink from both alcohol and adrenaline, and his smile—crooked and disoriented—never quite left his lips.

The celebration was real. Electric. He had finally done it—P1. The first win. The first taste of it. And everyone wanted a piece of him.

Carlos was lost somewhere in the blur of bodies, likely dancing on some table and encouraging shots with people Lando couldn’t name. McLaren team members toasted, DJs hyped him up. Strangers—women—slid into his space like gravity pulled them toward him.

He leaned slightly against a girl, laughter bursting from his chest, and she reached up, fingers brushing his jaw as if she belonged there. Cameras snapped in a flurry—flashes of light capturing a moment out of context but full of implication. Lando didn’t even register the blinking of notifications piling up in his back pocket. His phone was the last thing on his mind.

He was smiling. Drunk. Buzzing. Floating.

And in that moment—between the glass in his hand, the warmth of touch that wasn’t yours, and the loud encouragement of friends and strangers alike—he didn’t see the cracks beginning to form.

Because back in a quiet hotel room, wrapped in cotton sheets and the soft light of the night lamp, Sebastian slept soundly beside you, one hand still holding onto the tail of the jumbo shark plush, the other curled into your side.

And you? You were asleep. Or trying to be. Somewhere in your subconscious, maybe something felt... off. A small shift. A ripple. Like a thread tugging just slightly, signaling something had come undone while you weren't looking.

But Lando didn’t know. Not yet. Not as laughter swallowed him. Not as hands rested where they shouldn't. Not as the night captured a version of him that he might not even remember in the morning.

And certainly not as the world watched, waiting to see how this celebration would cost him something he hadn't yet realized was priceless.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun was high in the sky when you stirred awake, Sebastian’s soft breaths nestled against your side, the morning light seeping in through the cracks of the curtains. It was peaceful—at least, it should have been.

You reached for your phone on the nightstand, wiping the sleep from your eyes, not prepared for the barrage of notifications that had flooded in overnight. Headlines. Photos. Mentions.

A single image opened first—Lando, flushed and smiling in a dim-lit club, his shirt undone, a girl’s hand resting on his chest like she belonged there.

Your chest tightened, breath catching just slightly. You scrolled slowly. More photos. More angles. One of her whispering into his ear. His smile wide, his body comfortably close. He didn’t look forced. He looked... happy. Drunk, yes, but happy.

And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

You stared for a long while, heart sinking, and yet—you said nothing. No text. No confrontation. No storming call demanding answers. What would be the point? You weren’t his. He had introduced you and Sebastian as his friends, hadn’t he? Not even close to what you thought you might have been.

So instead, you placed the phone down, slid out of bed, and began to pack.

Lando hadn’t texted that morning. Nor that afternoon. You made the decision to leave it at that.

At the airport, Sebastian clutched his stuffed shark, happily babbling about the turtles and fish, unaware of anything heavier lingering in the air. You smiled at him, fixed his little McLaren hoodie, and carried on as if the last few days hadn’t cracked something quietly inside you.

Lando met you at the gate, out of breath and sheepish, wearing sunglasses and a hoodie. “Hey,” he panted, “I was hoping I could say goodbye before you left.”

You smiled faintly. “Of course.”

He crouched to give Sebastian a hug, the little boy clinging to him like always. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” he said softly.

“Okay,” Sebastian beamed.

Then Lando looked up at you. “We’ll stay in touch?”

You nodded, keeping your voice calm and pleasant. “Definitely.”

But definitely started to feel more like barely.

Weeks passed. Conversations that once felt effortless turned into polite check-ins. Lando would text, and you would take hours—sometimes days—to reply. You became harder to reach, more brief, no longer offering the warmth he had grown used to.

He noticed.

And eventually, Oscar noticed too.

They were in the paddock weeks later, preparing for another Grand Prix when Oscar finally confronted him during a quiet moment in the garage.

“Do you even know what you did?” he asked, arms crossed.

Lando blinked, startled. “What are you talking about?”

Oscar scoffed. “You don’t get it, do you? She saw the photos, mate. The club. The girl. That night you celebrated like a legend. She never said a word about it, but that’s why she pulled back.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

Oscar continued, “She cared about you. I mean, really cared. She didn’t have to come to your race. She brought her son. Wore your colors. Stood in your world. And you—”

“I didn’t know,” Lando muttered, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” Oscar said, shaking his head. “That’s the problem.”

Months slipped by like sand through fingertips.

Your messages came less frequently. Then they stopped altogether. But your Instagram didn’t. Every few weeks, Lando would find himself opening the app, searching for your name. There you were, always glowing.

One photo showed you and Sebastian at a pumpkin patch, his little arms wrapped around that same grey shark. Another had you walking on the beach with him, your smile soft but distant.

In one, you were dressed up for a night out. No tag. No mention of who took the photo. That one he stared at for too long.

The digital distance cut sharper than any silence ever could.

And now, the only way Lando kept up with the life he once dipped his toes into—was through a screen.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three Months Later Off-season Break, Quiet Day in Monaco

Lando was sprawled across the sofa in his apartment, TV playing something he wasn’t watching, phone in his hand as his thumb hovered over Instagram. It had become a routine now — checking your page, looking for any glimpse of your life, of Sebastian, of the family he let slip through his fingers.

And then he saw it.

A hand. A delicate ring sitting neatly on a manicured finger. Resting against a familiar sweater he swore he’d seen on you.

The caption? A simple heart emoji.

And the comments —

“Engaged?! Omg congrats!! 💍” “Wishing you all the love and happiness!” “You deserve this 🥹💖”

His stomach dropped.

He blinked. Read it again. Scrolled. His hands began to shake slightly as he locked his phone, but it didn’t stop the pounding in his chest.

He didn’t even realize Carlos and Oscar had entered the apartment until Carlos tossed a water bottle at him.

“Earth to Norris,” Carlos called out. “What’s with the face? You look like someone just stole your car.”

Lando didn’t answer.

Oscar flopped into a chair and frowned. “Lando?”

He finally sat up, holding his phone like it was evidence in a crime. “I think she’s engaged.”

Carlos blinked. “What?”

“She posted a picture. A hand. A ring. I don’t know if it’s hers but everyone’s congratulating her and—” he stood abruptly, pacing. “I knew I lost her. I just didn’t know it was already this far gone.”

Oscar leaned forward. “You haven’t talked to her in weeks, mate.”

“I didn’t know what to say!” Lando’s voice cracked. “I messed up. I let her walk away. And I’ve been watching her raise Sebastian like the strongest woman I’ve ever met while I sit here doing nothing.”

Carlos exchanged a glance with Oscar before stepping in front of Lando, voice firm. “So do something. Fly out there. Talk to her.”

Lando shook his head. “What if she doesn’t even want to see me?”

Oscar stood, crossing his arms. “Then at least you’ll know. But right now? You’re acting like a coward. You love her. Anyone with eyes could see it.”

Carlos nodded. “And that kid adored you. So either go tell her how you feel or spend the rest of the season wondering what might’ve been.”

Lando stood frozen for a moment — heart in his throat, chest tight — before he turned and grabbed his keys.

“Book me a flight,” he said, voice low. “Tonight.”

The next day Your doorstep – early evening

You weren’t expecting company, especially not when the sun had barely begun to dip behind the trees. So when the knock came, sudden and sharp, you wrapped a cardigan around yourself and padded over.

You opened the door slowly.

Lando stood there. Hoodie half-zipped, sneakers slightly dusty, hair messy like he’d run straight from the airport.

You froze.

He looked like hell. Beautiful, aching hell.

“Hi,” he breathed out. “I—I saw the ring post. I thought you were engaged. I thought you were gone.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. “Wait, what?”

He shook his head. “The picture. I thought it was your hand. I didn’t read the caption, didn’t check anything, I just... I panicked. I flew here without even thinking. I had to see you. Had to know.”

You let out a breath, eyes wide. “Lando, that’s my best friend. She got engaged. I was posting for her.”

Lando blinked like he was waking up. His shoulders dropped as he let out a strangled laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

You stood aside. “Come in.”

He walked in slowly, glancing around as though memorizing everything. Like the home you built with Sebastian was a life he’d only dreamed about.

He turned back to you and the laughter died.

“I thought I lost you,” he said again, voice cracking. “I’ve already been losing you. You’ve been slipping away since Australia, and I knew it. And I let it happen.”

You stayed quiet, waiting.

“I know I never said the right things. Or showed up in the right way. I messed up — at the club, and every day after when I said nothing.” He looked down. “But it was never because I didn’t care. I was scared. Scared that what I wanted was too much. That you’d realize you didn’t need me.”

“Lando—”

He stepped closer.

“I need you,” he whispered. “I love you. I love Sebastian. And it’s not some temporary, easy feeling. It’s deep, and messy, and real. I’ve felt like a ghost since I left. I check your Instagram just to feel something. Every time Sebastian smiles in a post I think, that used to be mine too.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was trembling now, the weight of months of silence collapsing in on him.

“I want to be there. Not for show. For real. I want to be the one Sebastian tells his secrets to, the one who packs school lunches, the one who kisses you goodnight, and doesn’t run when things get hard.”

You stared at him — eyes glassy, chest tight.

“You left,” you whispered. “You let me think I didn’t matter.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And if I have to prove otherwise for the rest of my life, I will.”

A small yawn echoed from down the hall.

“Mommy?” came the sleepy voice.

You turned just in time to see Sebastian peek out, hair messy, eyes wide. “Is Lando here?”

Lando crouched down gently. “Hey, buddy.”

Sebastian grinned. “You’re back.”

You looked between the two of them — the connection, the hope in Sebastian’s voice, and the pleading in Lando’s eyes.

And finally, your resolve cracked. You walked to him, wrapped your arms around him, and let yourself feel everything you’d pushed down.

“I’m scared too,” you whispered.

He pulled you closer. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Sebastian was five now — bright-eyed, sharp with his words, and carrying more energy in his little frame than the entire grid on race day. The flat you now called home was tucked into a hillside in Monaco, where the sea kissed the edges of marble balconies and every window glowed with golden sunset light. Fancy, yes — sleek and curated — but warm with laughter, scattered toys, and the fingerprints of a real life being lived inside.

The kitchen smelled of rosemary and lemon, the sauce simmering gently as you stirred with one hand, the other resting absentmindedly over the curve of your belly. The moonlight filtered in through the glass doors, casting silver across the tiled floor. Music drifted low and slow in the background — something jazzy and nostalgic.

Peace. You had found it, and better yet, you had chosen it.

The door opened with a click and a rush of laughter. Sebastian’s giggles filled the flat as he kicked off his shoes, running to his room with the thud of socks against hardwood. Lando followed, gear bag slung over his shoulder, curls tousled from the wind.

You turned, smile playing at your lips. “How’d he do?”

Lando leaned in, stealing a brief kiss before answering. “He’s good. Like, really good. We might be raising the next world champion.”

You chuckled. “He gets it from you.”

Lando’s gaze softened. His hand moved instinctively to your bump, resting over the swell of new life. “And how’s this one doing?”

“She finally stopped her karate routine,” you joked, glancing down. “I think the smell of dinner soothed her.”

“A girl after my own heart,” he said with a grin.

Dinner was cozy, full of overlapping conversation — Sebastian animatedly recounting how he overtook someone on the final lap, and Lando grinning proudly at every word. Between bites, he’d chime in about his own upcoming races and how Sebastian’s form was already better than his at that age. You caught your gaze wandering now and then to the photo in the corner — your wedding day — frozen in time with the sound of the waves and laughter behind you, your veil tangled in the wind as Lando looked at you like he was seeing color for the first time.

After the dishes, which Lando insisted on doing — “Can’t have both of my girls stressed,” he’d said with a wink — the house quieted. Sebastian had curled up in bed with his shark plush and a bedtime story. And now, the two of you were lying in your bed, blankets tangled at your feet, your heads close, voices low. This was the part you loved most — not the trips or photoshoots or champagne showers, but the calm. The pillow talk. The shared world no one else got to see.

You’d once been a single mom fighting your way through life with tired eyes and a hopeful heart, never sure what the next day would bring. But here you were — Mrs. Norris now. With a son who bore that name proudly, and a daughter soon to join the world who would never have to question her father’s love.

The phone buzzed once. Lando rolled to check it.

“Old mate wants to go out tonight. Some club in town,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to you — your belly, your soft smile, your fingers gently tracing patterns across the duvet.

He paused. And then the decision came without thought.

“I’ll be home with the wife and kids,” he said aloud, tapping his screen off. “But you boys have fun.”

He tossed the phone on the bedside table and rolled closer to you, one hand sliding to rest over your belly, the other entwining with yours. He kissed your knuckles and sighed like someone who had run every race just to arrive here, in this exact moment.

“I really did change everything, huh?” he asked softly.

You nodded, resting your forehead against his.

“No,” you whispered. “We did.”

And outside, Monaco slept under a velvet sky, but inside that home, love stayed awake — breathing, growing, anchoring everything that mattered.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

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[urdreamydoodles]

Hi hi!! Hope your day’s going well!!

I adore the krakoa headcanons you have for the x-men, how willing would you be to do something similar for mcu characters?? Idk if there’s an equivalent though, if not it’s no problem ❤️

MCU CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

A year after your death, you are resurrected and reunited with your lover

Characters: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker (Tom H.), Stephen Strange, Thor Odinson, Loki Laufeyson, T'Challa, Marc Spector, Steven Grant, Jake Lockley, Scott Lang, Wade Wilson, Logan Howlett, Matt Murdock, Frank Castle, Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter, Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff & Erik Lehnsherr

Requests are reopened since I'm going to have surgery for my scoliosis...yes, it's bad news, it's a major operation, so I need your requests to feel better. PLEASE SEND ME REQUEST. I don't have surgery for another four months so I have plenty of time since I'm at home! I can't wait to see all your ideas, I LOVE YOU <3

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark, the man who could build a new world with his hands but could not stop them from shaking when they lost you. He spent a year in ruins, laughing too loudly at parties that could not fill the silence you left behind, drowning in half-finished projects where your ghost lingered in the curve of every wire. He never stopped talking about you—not to his friends, not to himself, not to the night. You were the equation he could not solve, the loss he could not engineer his way out of.

- When he sees you again, standing in the flickering light of his workshop, the wrench in his hand slips, clattering to the floor. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, gives him ten different explanations, each more impossible than the last, but his heart—his battered, grieving heart—gives him only one. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice hoarse, because the alternative is something he cannot afford to believe.

- And then you speak, and the walls he built to keep himself from shattering crumble in an instant. He is across the room before he knows it, hands gripping your arms, your face, tracing the proof of you. The ache in his chest is unbearable, but not from pain—it is the sheer weight of having you again. “They told me I was crazy,” he murmurs against your lips, against your skin. “Guess they were right.”

- You are back, but time has moved without you, carving deeper lines into Tony’s face, dulling the arrogance that once carried him like armor. He watches you like you might disappear again, fingers always brushing your wrist, your hip, the pulse at your throat. He doesn’t sleep much—he never did—but now, when you wake in the night, he is already awake, watching the rise and fall of your breath as if it is the only thing tethering him to reality.

- He brings you everywhere, makes no excuses for it. “My ghost, my rules,” he says when someone questions it. He builds new suits and doesn’t let you out of his sight, not when danger is near, not when a single misstep could take you away again. He has never been a man who believed in second chances, but for you, he will believe in anything.

- The world thinks he is Iron Man, but you know the truth: Tony Stark is just a man who loved and lost and refused to let death win. He holds you like a miracle, like proof that he was right to fight for the impossible. And for the first time in a long time, he is not afraid.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers has always known loss—has carried it like a second skin, worn it like a name he could never leave behind. But losing you was different. It was not the cold silence of the ice, nor the distant ache of time slipping through his fingers. It was immediate, brutal. It was your blood on his hands, your last breath against his cheek. A year passed, and he carried on because that was what he did, because that was what you would have wanted. But he stopped looking at sunsets. Stopped drinking coffee the way you used to make it. Stopped believing that the world could ever feel warm again.

- When he sees you again, standing in the doorway of the safe house, the shield strapped to his back feels heavier than ever. His breath catches, his heart stumbles, and for a moment, he wonders if this is some cruel trick played by an enemy who knows exactly where to cut him open. But then your lips part, and you say his name, and the sound of it is like the first breath after drowning.

- He moves toward you slowly, hesitantly, as if one wrong step will shatter the illusion. His hands hover over your face, your shoulders, trembling with the unbearable need to touch, to feel, to know. And when you don’t disappear, when you are warm and real beneath his fingers, something inside him breaks. His arms crush you to him, his breath shaking as he buries his face in your hair. He is crying, but he doesn’t care. “I held you,” he whispers. “I held you.”

- After that, he does not let you go. The world calls him Captain America, but to you, he is just Steve—the man who wakes up in the middle of the night just to press his forehead against yours, the man whose grip tightens every time you reach for his hand, as if to reassure himself that you are not a dream. He does not know how to make peace with this miracle, so he does not try. He simply loves you harder, holds you closer, refuses to waste a second of the time he was so cruelly robbed of.

- He is more protective now, but it is not the suffocating kind. It is the quiet, steadfast kind, the way he always positions himself between you and an open door, the way he memorizes the sound of your breathing while you sleep. He does not speak of the past year unless you ask, but when you do, the grief in his eyes is something ancient, something that will never fully fade.

- Steve Rogers has always carried the weight of the world, but with you beside him, it is lighter. You are proof that even after all the battles, all the sacrifices, the universe still has kindness left to give. And he will spend the rest of his life earning it.

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff has survived on borrowed time for as long as she can remember. She has lost, she has bled, she has walked away from battlefields without looking back. But losing you was different. It was the one wound that did not heal, the one loss she could not turn into fuel. She did not cry. Did not speak of you. She simply moved forward, faster, harder, with reckless abandon—because if she slowed down, even for a second, she would have to feel the hollow space you left behind.

- When she sees you again, standing in the shadows of a dimly lit alley, her knife is in her hand before she even registers what she is seeing. Her body reacts the way it was trained to, but her heart—her traitorous, fragile heart—stutters in her chest. “No,” she breathes, shaking her head as if denying it will make it any less real. “No, I buried you.”

- And then you step closer, into the light, and she sees the familiar curve of your smile, the warmth in your eyes. She drops the knife. It clatters against the pavement, forgotten, as she crosses the space between you in two strides, her hands fisting in the fabric of your jacket. Her lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if she can taste the truth in the way you breathe against her mouth.

- After that, she is different. Softer, in ways only you will ever see. She touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reverence. A hand at the small of your back, fingers trailing over your wrist, knuckles brushing against yours as if reminding herself that you are here. The world may question, but Natasha has never cared for the world's judgment. You are hers, and she is yours, and that is all that matters.

- She does not let you fight alone anymore. Not because she doubts your strength, but because she refuses to feel that kind of loss again. She watches you when you sleep, when you move through a room, when you laugh. She memorizes the details she once took for granted—the exact color of your eyes in the morning light, the rhythm of your voice when you call her name.

- Natasha Romanoff has spent a lifetime making peace with ghosts, but you are not one. You are flesh and blood, a heartbeat beneath her palm, a warmth she never thought she would feel again. And this time, she will not let you go.

Bruce Banner

- Grief is not an emotion Bruce Banner can afford. He has spent a lifetime suppressing, locking away the parts of himself that feel too deeply, because feeling too much is dangerous, and losing you nearly ended the world. The Hulk roared in agony that day, the earth itself trembling beneath his wrath, but even in his most furious state, even as he destroyed everything in his path, you were gone. And no amount of strength, no amount of science, could bring you back.

- He stopped fighting after that. Retreated. Isolated himself in a place where no one could see the way his hands trembled when they weren’t balled into fists, where no one could hear him whisper your name like a prayer, a question, a plea. He stopped shifting into the Hulk—not because he was afraid, but because the monster within him had nothing left to fight for. There was only silence, only the ghost of your touch, only the unbearable weight of having lived when you did not.

- So when you return, standing before him in the quiet of his lab, he does not react at first. His mind, trained to doubt, to question, to disassemble and understand, tells him it cannot be real. That the chemicals in his brain are firing incorrectly, that his grief has finally shattered him in a way no transformation ever could. But then you say his name, and it is not just sound—it is gravity, it is a force pulling him from the abyss.

- He crosses the room in a single breath, hands hovering over your face, your shoulders, your waist, unable to trust his own touch. He is afraid to break you, afraid to break himself. And then your fingers slip into his, grounding him, reminding him that this is not a hallucination, not a cruel trick of his subconscious. You are warm, real, here. And just like that, the weight he has carried for a year crumbles to dust.

- After that, he does not leave your side. He watches you sleep, not because he doubts, but because he cannot waste another second of the time he was so certain he had lost. He builds new defenses, new protections, because if death could not keep you, then neither will any enemy foolish enough to try. He teaches himself to trust happiness again, to allow himself to feel, because with you beside him, it is no longer a danger—it is a gift.

- Bruce Banner has always been afraid of his own power, but with you, he is not afraid. He is a man, not just a monster, and for the first time in a long time, he believes in the possibility of a future. A future where he is not alone. A future where he is not running. A future where you, against all odds, are still his.

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has never been one to dwell. The life he leads does not allow for it—grief is a luxury, mourning a weakness, and the only way to survive is to keep moving. But when he held you in his arms, felt the last shudder of breath against his skin, something inside him shattered. And he did not put the pieces back together. He let them fall, let them burn, let the silence swallow him whole.

- The others saw him continue—heard his sharp wit, watched him loose arrows with deadly precision, saw the same easy smirk that had always been there. But they did not see the empty spaces where you used to be. Did not see the way he avoided the places you had loved, the way he drank in solitude, the way his hands curled into fists whenever someone mentioned your name.

- So when you return—when you step into the dim light of his hideout, when your voice cuts through the silence he has lived in for a year—he does not believe it. He grips the bow at his side, tension in every muscle, because this is a trick, a trap, an illusion designed to destroy him completely. But then you move closer, and the way you look at him—the way only you ever have—makes the doubt in his mind fracture.

- And then he is there, hands gripping your waist, your arms, his forehead pressed to yours as he exhales a breath he did not know he had been holding. He does not ask how, does not ask why. He only pulls you closer, lets himself collapse into the only thing that has ever truly felt like home. His fingers are tight against your skin, unwilling to let go, unwilling to lose you a second time.

- After that, he is different. Lighter, in ways only you will notice. He is still Clint—still sharp, still reckless, still throwing himself into danger without hesitation—but there is a warmth now, a flicker of something that had long been extinguished. He touches you constantly—not in fear, but in reassurance. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers brushing against yours, a quiet, wordless promise that he will not take a second of this for granted.

- Clint Barton has always been a survivor, but he did not truly live until you returned. And now, with you beside him, he has no intention of losing that again. He is yours, wholly and completely, and this time, no force in the universe will take you from him.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes knows the taste of loss better than most. He has drowned in it, clawed his way through decades of it, watched everyone he has ever loved slip through his fingers like sand. But losing you was different. Losing you was not the slow, creeping erosion of time. It was a blade to the gut, a wound that never closed, an ache that settled deep in his bones and refused to let go.

- He did not grieve the way others did. He did not cry, did not rage, did not seek solace in memories. He simply stopped. Stopped talking, stopped trying, stopped allowing himself to feel anything at all. Because feeling meant acknowledging the gaping wound your absence had left behind, and that was not something he could survive.

- So when he sees you again, standing in the doorway of his apartment, he does not move. Does not breathe. His mind—trained to expect deception, to anticipate betrayal—tells him this is a trick. But then you step forward, and the way your eyes soften when they meet his, the way your lips part in a quiet whisper of his name, makes the world tilt beneath his feet.

- And then he is there, crossing the space between you with the kind of desperation that only comes from losing something you thought was gone forever. His hands tremble as they frame your face, his breath shuddering as he drinks in the impossible reality of you. He does not trust words, does not trust his voice to hold steady, so he simply presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in, grounding himself in the proof of your existence.

- After that, he does not let you go. He does not speak of the past year, does not tell you how empty it was, how he spent every night staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came. He only shows you in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you closer at night, in the way his fingers linger on yours as if afraid you might vanish again.

- Bucky Barnes has spent a lifetime being taken, being controlled, being used. But you are the one thing that was his, the one thing that was real, and now that you are here, he will fight for you with everything he has. You are his salvation, his anchor, his second chance at something he never thought he deserved. And this time, he is never letting go.

Sam Wilson

- Grief is a weight Sam Wilson carries well, but carrying it does not mean it is light. It sits in his chest, heavy and unmoving, an ache that never quite fades. Losing you was not a clean wound—it was jagged, raw, a battlefield farewell written in blood and breathless whispers. He held you, watched the life slip from your eyes, and still, somehow, he had to stand up. He had to keep fighting. Because that’s what you would have done. That’s what you would want.

- But wanting and doing are not the same thing. He laughed in public, told stories that made others grin, carried himself with the same easy confidence. But alone? Alone, it was different. He spoke to you sometimes when the night was too quiet, when the wind sounded too much like your voice. He ran until his lungs burned, trying to chase the memory of you, knowing he never really could.

- So when you stand before him, alive, breathing, real, the world does not feel like the one he left behind. His first instinct is denial—a trick, an illusion, a cruel joke played by something with too much power and not enough mercy. But you look at him, and there’s something there, something he recognizes too well. Love. History. You. And suddenly, the weight in his chest is gone.

- He moves before he can think. One step, then two, then his arms are around you, his head buried in your shoulder, a shuddering breath breaking from his lips. His grip is tight—too tight, maybe—but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel you, needs to know this isn’t a dream he’ll wake from. He says your name like it’s the only word he remembers, his voice thick with everything he couldn’t say when you were gone.

- After that, Sam is different. Lighter, freer. He still fights, still leads, still carries the burdens of the world on his back—but he does it with you at his side, and that changes everything. He touches you constantly, a hand on your back, fingers brushing against yours, small, quiet reassurances that you are here, that he did not imagine this.

- Sam Wilson has lost many things. He has seen friends fall, watched the world tear itself apart. But this? This is something he never thought he’d get back. And now that he has you, he swears to himself—he’s not losing you again. Not now. Not ever.

Peter Parker (Tom Holland)

- Peter Parker does not know how to exist in a world where you do not. The pain is not sharp, not a clean wound he can stitch together with time. It is suffocating. Slow. A weight pressing down on him, stealing the air from his lungs, making every step feel heavier than the last. He was holding you, talking to you, and then you were just… gone. And nothing he did, no amount of strength, no web-slinging through the city, no late-night patrols could change that.

- He keeps going. He has to. That’s what Spider-Man does. That’s what you would have wanted. But some nights, when he is alone, when the mask is off and the world is quiet, he feels like a boy again—small, lost, powerless. He whispers apologies into the dark, tracing the memory of your touch, trying to pretend he still remembers exactly what your voice sounded like. Because he’s terrified he’s forgetting.

- And then, one day, you are there. Standing in the shadow of a flickering streetlamp, watching him with the same eyes he never thought he’d see again. At first, he doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain refuses to process it, refuses to accept this impossible, beautiful reality. And then you smile—small, hesitant, you—and he breaks.

- He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it almost hurts. His breath stutters, hands shaking as they press against your skin, your hair, anything that proves you are real. “You—” His voice cracks. “You died.” And it’s not an accusation. It’s a question, a plea, a broken whisper of disbelief. But you are warm, solid, here, and he holds onto that with everything he has.

- After that, Peter is clingy. He doesn’t mean to be, but he is. His fingers find yours without thinking, his arm curls around your waist at every opportunity, his webbing pulls you to him when you step too far away. He is afraid—afraid this is temporary, afraid that one day he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. But he also smiles more, laughs louder, lives in a way he hasn’t since he lost you.

- Peter Parker has lost so much. But this? This is a miracle. And Peter—Peter is going to make sure he cherishes every single second of it. Because this time, he has you. And that? That is everything.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is no stranger to loss. He has lived through pain, through heartbreak, through the destruction of things he once believed unshakable. But losing you—that was something else entirely. That was not just loss. That was devastation. It was the kind of pain that settled into his bones, that made the world feel quieter, colder, less.

- He did not weep. Did not rage. Did not crumble beneath the weight of it. Instead, he buried himself in his work, in his magic, in the relentless pursuit of something—anything—that could fill the void you left behind. He scoured the multiverse, searching for answers, but found only silence. Death, it seemed, was absolute. Even for you.

- So when you stand before him, alive, whole, untouched by the grave, he does not react at first. His hands twitch at his sides, eyes sharp, mind racing through a thousand possibilities, a thousand explanations. This must be a trick, a deception, some cruel game played by forces beyond his understanding. But then you speak his name, and the way you say it—the way only you say it—breaks him.

- He crosses the room in three steps, hands cupping your face, searching for any sign of illusion. But there is none. There is only warmth, only life, only you. His breath stutters, his fingers tighten, and for the first time in a long, long time, Stephen Strange allows himself to feel. His lips crash against yours, desperate, searching, as if trying to convince himself that this moment is not slipping through his fingers.

- After that, he is possessive. Not in a way that is suffocating, but in a way that is unmistakable. His cloak wraps around you when you are cold, his hands find yours beneath temple robes, his magic lingers in the air around you like a silent guardian. He does not say it—not outright, not often—but you know. You have always known. He cannot lose you again. He will not.

- Stephen Strange has faced the impossible, has bent time and reality to his will. But this? This is the greatest miracle of all. And he, a man who once scoffed at faith, finds himself believing in something again. Because if the universe had any mercy, any kindness at all, it would let him keep you. And this time, he will fight for that with everything he has.

Thor Odinson

- Grief and gods have never mixed well. Mortals mourn with time, with rituals, with whispered prayers to the sky. But Thor? Thor does not know how to grieve in a way that does not tear the world apart. He held you as you died, cradled you against his chest, his hands helpless against the tide of fate. The sky wept with him that day—thunder cracking, the heavens splitting open in rage, the storm inside him unfurling with no battle left to fight.

- He left Earth after that. It was too loud, too full of life, too painfully real in your absence. He searched for answers in the stars, in old myths and forgotten magic, in the whispered promises of gods who had lost more than he had. But the truth was simple: not even the might of Thor, not even the power of Asgard, could bring back the one thing he truly wanted. So he drank, and he fought, and he laughed too loudly to hide the fact that he was breaking.

- And then, one day, he turns, and you are there. Standing in the golden light of the Bifrost, impossibly, beautifully alive. His breath catches in his throat, Mjolnir slipping from his fingers, his entire body frozen between disbelief and desperate hope. “This is a trick,” he says, but his voice is hoarse, unsteady, as if saying the words out loud might make them false. But then you smile, and he is undone.

- He crosses the space between you in an instant, crushing you against him with a force that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. His hands tangle in your hair, his forehead pressing against yours, and his chest heaves with something between laughter and a sob. “You have returned to me,” he whispers, reverence in every syllable. And then he is kissing you, fierce and unrelenting, as if proving to himself that this is not some cruel jest of fate.

- After that, Thor does not let you go. Not truly. His arm is always around your waist, his hand always at the small of your back, his eyes watching you as if you might disappear the moment he looks away. He tells you, constantly, in grand declarations and quiet murmurs, how much he loves you, how he will never lose you again. You are his greatest treasure, more precious than any throne, any kingdom, any power the cosmos could offer.

- The God of Thunder has lost much—his home, his family, pieces of himself that may never fully return. But you—you are here, in his arms, alive once more. And Thor, a warrior who has fought countless battles, swears that he will fight against gods and monsters alike to keep you at his side.

Loki Laufeyson

- Loki knows loss better than he knows himself. He has lost love, trust, family. But losing you—that was different. That was a wound he could not charm away with silver-tongued words, a pain he could not outwit or outmaneuver. You died in his arms, your fingers curling weakly around his wrist as the light in your eyes faded. And for the first time in his life, Loki Laufeyson was powerless.

- He did not rage. He did not scream. Instead, he withdrew, wrapping himself in silence and solitude, retreating into the shadows where grief could not be seen. The world continued without you, and he played his part well—smirking, deceiving, spinning tales as if he were not hollow inside. But in the quiet moments, when no one was looking, he traced the ghost of your touch on his skin and whispered your name like a prayer.

- So when he sees you again, standing before him in the flickering candlelight of some forgotten sanctuary, he does not react—not at first. His body stills, his breath catches, and his mind races through every possibility, every cruel illusion that could explain this. But then you speak his name, soft and familiar, and something in him shatters.

- He reaches for you hesitantly, his fingers brushing over your cheek as if expecting you to dissolve beneath his touch. And when you do not—when you are warm, and real, and here—a sharp breath leaves his lips, and he pulls you against him with all the desperation of a man drowning. His grip is tight, unyielding, as if trying to convince himself that you will not be stolen from him again.

- After that, Loki is different. Not softer, not weaker—if anything, he is more dangerous, more cunning, more willing to do anything to ensure you remain by his side. He keeps you close, always within reach, his sharp wit reserved for those who dare to threaten what is his. There is no force in the universe he fears, no power he will not challenge, if it means keeping you safe.

- Loki Laufeyson has never believed in fate, in mercy, in second chances. But you? You are proof that even the most broken of men can find something worth living for. And this time, he will not lose you. Not to death. Not to gods. Not to anything.

T’Challa

- T’Challa was a king before he was a man, a warrior before he was a lover. But you—you—were the one thing that belonged solely to him. With you, he was not a ruler, not the Black Panther, not the protector of a nation. He was simply a man in love. And then, in a single moment, in the chaos of war, you were gone. And he—T’Challa, the unshakable, the wise, the just—fell to his knees, holding you as the life slipped from your body.

- He did not mourn in ways the world could see. There were no public displays of grief, no speeches of loss. He carried the weight of your death in silence, bearing it with the same quiet dignity that he bore every burden. But in the stillness of his chambers, when no one was watching, he let the sorrow take him. He traced the last place he had held you, whispered your name to the night, and wondered if he would ever learn to breathe without you.

- So when he sees you again, standing beneath the glow of Wakanda’s golden lights, his heart stops. His breath catches. And for a moment, he is afraid to move—to hope. But you step forward, your eyes locking onto his, and everything else ceases to matter. The world falls away, and there is only you.

- He crosses the distance between you in a single step, his hands cupping your face with reverence, with disbelief, with a depth of emotion he has never let himself show before. He does not ask how or why. He only whispers, “My love,” as if speaking the words aloud will make them real. And then he kisses you—slow, deep, a promise, a prayer, a thousand unspoken words pressed into your skin.

- After that, T’Challa is your shadow, your shield, your unwavering protector. He does not smother you—he respects you too much for that—but he watches, always. His fingers linger against yours in quiet moments, his gaze softens whenever you speak, and when he holds you at night, it is with the quiet, unyielding certainty that he will never let go again.

- T’Challa has lost many things—his father, his home, pieces of himself in battles fought for the greater good. But this? This is something sacred. And a king who has been given back his heart will protect it with everything he has.

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector has never been good at losing people. He has lost too much, buried too many, carried ghosts in the hollows of his ribs and the shadows of his mind. But losing you—watching you die in his arms, feeling your body grow cold as his own blood soaked into the ground—was something else entirely. It didn’t break him. It obliterated him.

- He stopped pretending after that. Stopped holding himself together, stopped fighting for anything beyond survival. He threw himself into missions with reckless abandon, took every fight as if he was begging for someone to land a fatal hit. He couldn’t sleep in your bed, couldn’t bear to hear your name spoken aloud. He tried—Khonshu knows, he tried—to find a way to bring you back. Bargained with gods, hunted down forbidden magic, but nothing, nothing, worked. So he gave up. He accepted that this was his punishment, his curse, to keep losing the things he loved until there was nothing left of him.

- And then—then—you were there. Standing in the doorway, alive, whole, looking at him like you weren’t a phantom haunting his grief. He didn’t move at first, didn’t breathe, convinced you were another trick of his fractured mind. But then you spoke—soft, hesitant, like you weren’t sure if he would even want you back. And the moment your voice reached him, Marc snapped.

- He was on you in an instant, his hands on your face, your shoulders, your arms—anywhere he could touch, anywhere he could convince himself you were real. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he whispered, voice shaking, breath unsteady. And when you smiled, when you nodded, he kissed you—desperate, bruising, like a man drowning who had finally found air.

- After that, Marc is different. Not softer, not gentler—he has never been those things—but determined. He refuses to let you out of his sight for too long, refuses to take a single moment for granted. The nightmares don’t go away—sometimes he wakes up reaching for you, convinced he’s lost you all over again—but you are always there, grounding him, reminding him that miracles exist.

- He still fights, still follows the path Khonshu carved for him, but now, there’s something else driving him. Not vengeance. Not guilt. You. You, alive and breathing, laughing in the golden light of morning, rolling your eyes when he gets in one of his moods. And if he has to fight every god, every monster, every force in the universe to keep you by his side? So be it.

Steven Grant

- Grief is a lonely thing. And for Steven, it was lonelier than most. He didn’t have Marc’s rage or Jake’s cold detachment—he just had absence, an empty space beside him where you used to be. You had been his bright thing, his sunbeam, the warmth in his life he never thought he deserved. And then, in a moment of violence and blood, you were gone.

- The flat was too quiet after that. He still made tea for two, still caught himself turning to tell you something, still found little reminders of you everywhere. Your books on the shelf. Your perfume lingering in the air. A sweater you’d stolen from him, draped over the back of a chair. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t move—just existed, stumbling through the days with a polite smile and eyes that held too much grief.

- And then, one evening, as he shuffled into the flat with the exhaustion of another day spent pretending he was okay, he saw you. Standing there, real as anything, watching him with that soft, hesitant look you always had when you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t even think. Didn’t question. Just dropped whatever was in his hands and ran to you.

- “Oh, love,” he breathed, his voice cracking as he cupped your face, pressing his forehead to yours. He was crying—of course he was crying—but he didn’t care, didn’t even try to stop. “I—I thought—oh God, I thought I lost you.” His hands trembled as he touched you, as if afraid you might disappear if he wasn’t careful. But you didn’t disappear. You were here. And when you kissed him—gentle, reassuring—he let out a broken, disbelieving laugh.

- After that, Steven becomes more himself again. The light comes back into his eyes, the warmth into his voice. He tells you every day how much he loves you, how grateful he is that you came back. He holds you for hours sometimes, murmuring little things against your skin, afraid that if he lets go, the universe will take you away again.

- You are his miracle, his impossible, wonderful second chance. And Steven, the man who never thought he was enough, now knows one thing with absolute certainty—he will never take you for granted again.

Jake Lockley

- Jake doesn’t grieve the way others do. He doesn’t sit in sorrow, doesn’t cry himself to sleep. He compartmentalizes, shoves it all into a locked box in the back of his mind and throws away the key. When you died, he didn’t break down. He didn’t scream. He just acted. Found the ones responsible. Made them pay. Made everyone pay.

- He convinced himself that was enough. That revenge was all he had left to give you. But when the dust settled, when the blood was washed from his hands, there was nothing. Just an emptiness so vast it threatened to swallow him whole. He became a ghost, slipping through the world unnoticed, unseen. He only spoke when necessary, only acted when called upon. If Marc and Steven noticed how much darker he’d become, they didn’t say anything.

- And then—then—you were there. Sitting in the backseat of his car like you belonged there, like you hadn’t died in his arms a year ago. He slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screeched, his pulse roaring in his ears. He didn’t turn around at first. Couldn’t. His hands gripped the steering wheel like a vice, his knuckles white with tension. “Not funny,” he rasped, his voice low, dangerous. “Not a game I wanna play.”

- “It’s not a trick, Jake,” you whispered. And that was all it took. He turned, his breath catching as he finally let himself look. Let himself believe. And the moment he did, something inside him snapped. He surged toward you, pulling you into his arms with a desperation he rarely let himself show. His face buried in your neck, his breath shaky and uneven, his body trembling as if the entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

- After that, Jake is ruthless about keeping you safe. He doesn’t care how you came back—only that you did, and that nothing will take you from him again. He’s always watching, always waiting, always a step ahead of any potential threat. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s in the way he tucks you close against him in crowds, in the way his fingers ghost over your pulse like he’s memorizing it.

- Jake Lockley is not a good man. He never claimed to be. But you—you are the one thing that makes him want to be. And if death couldn’t keep you from him, nothing else will either.

Scott Lang

- Scott never truly believed in happy endings, but he believed in you. He believed in the way your laughter could turn an ordinary day into something extraordinary, the way your hand in his made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he was enough. Losing you shattered him in ways he didn’t even know were possible. You died in his arms, your blood on his hands, and in that moment, he stopped believing in miracles.

- He tried to hold it together for Cassie. He smiled, told jokes, did his best to pretend he was okay. But he wasn’t. His apartment felt too big without you, the bed too cold. He found himself talking to the empty air, half-expecting you to answer. The worst part was the moments right before he woke up, when his brain still tricked him into thinking you were next to him, breathing softly in sleep. And then he’d open his eyes and reality would sink in like a knife to the gut.

- When he sees you again, it’s like the universe plays a cruel trick on him. He blinks, rubs his eyes, thinks he’s hallucinating. But then you smile, that soft, knowing smile he dreamed about, and everything collapses. He doesn’t think—just moves, just grabs you, just feels. “Oh my God,” he breathes, his voice shaking, his arms wrapping around you so tightly he might never let go. “Tell me this is real. Please tell me this is real.” And when you nod, when you whisper his name, he lets out a half-laugh, half-sob against your shoulder.

- Scott becomes clingy after that—not in an overbearing way, but in a you-can’t-leave-me-again way. He constantly reaches for you, constantly checks if you’re still there. He makes up for lost time—cooking you breakfast (badly), taking you on spontaneous road trips, making you laugh until you can’t breathe. Every moment is precious now, every second a gift. He refuses to waste a single one.

- He tells you everything he couldn’t before. How much he missed you, how much it hurt, how many times he caught himself looking for you in a crowded room. He never wants to take you for granted again. Every night, he holds you like you might disappear in the morning, presses kisses to your skin as if he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

- Scott Lang doesn’t know why the universe gave you back to him, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is that this time, no force in the world—no villain, no bad luck, no cosmic cruelty—is going to take you away from him again.

Wade Wilson (Fox)

- Wade doesn’t mourn like other people. He doesn’t wear black, doesn’t cry softly in the night. No, Wade’s grief is ugly, loud, chaotic. After you died, he became worse—more violent, more reckless, more unhinged. He threw himself into fights he knew he couldn’t win, hoping—praying—someone would finally land the killing blow. But they never did. His healing factor cursed him to keep living, to keep hurting.

- He talked to you like you were still there. Made jokes to the empty side of the bed. Left your favorite snacks untouched in the cabinet. The others tried to check on him—Weasel, Domino—but he just shoved them away with a laugh, a joke, a bloody fight he walked away from without a scratch. “I’m fine,” he’d say, voice hollow behind the mask. “Totally normal levels of depression. Probably a seven out of ten. Maybe an eight. Who’s to say?”

- And then, one day, you walked through his door. Just like that. No fanfare, no dramatic music—just you, standing there, looking at him with that same familiar amusement in your eyes. He froze. Blinked. Looked down at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “Oh,” he muttered. “Guess I finally drank myself into hallucinations. Took long enough.” But then you said his name, your voice real, and everything inside him broke.

- He tackled you before you could even take a step closer. Knocked you onto the couch, onto the floor, onto him, his arms squeezing so tight it was a miracle you could still breathe. “If this is a dream, I swear to Ryan Reynolds’ beautiful abs, I will murder my subconscious,” he babbled, his voice cracking. He touched your face, your arms, every inch of you, just to be sure. And when you laughed—when you really laughed—he just lost it. Full-on ugly sobs, face buried in your neck, refusing to ever let go.

- After that, Wade is worse—but in a different way. He never shuts up about how lucky he is. Clings to you, wraps himself around you like a human (questionably clean) blanket, dramatically declares that if you ever die on him again, he’ll personally go to hell and drag you back himself. He texts you every five minutes when you’re not around. If you so much as sneeze, he’s already googling life-threatening illnesses.

- But beneath all the jokes, the over-the-top antics, there’s something soft there. Something raw. Wade Wilson doesn’t believe in happy endings. But he believes in you. And if the universe was kind enough to give you back to him, then maybe—just maybe—he’ll finally start believing in second chances too.

Logan Howlett (Fox)

- Logan is no stranger to grief. He has lost more people than he can count, buried more loved ones than he dares to remember. But losing you—you—was different. It wasn’t just another loss, another name on the long list of people the world had taken from him. It was the loss. The one that finally made him want to lay down and never get up again.

- He disappeared after that. Vanished into the wilderness, into the places where no one could find him. He drank himself into oblivion, picked fights with men twice his size just for the chance to feel something. The nightmares were worse—your face, your voice, the way you reached for him as you died in his arms. He could still feel your blood on his hands, still hear your last breath. There was no escaping it. No running fast enough.

- When he sees you again, it’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s silent. He turns, expecting an enemy, a threat—only to see you. Standing there. Alive. His breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to break free. For a long moment, he just stares, his jaw clenched so tight it aches. “No,” he finally rasps. “No, that ain’t possible.” But you just step closer, your hands trembling, your eyes pleading. “Logan,” you whisper. And something inside him snaps.

- He moves before he can think, his arms wrapping around you with the force of a man drowning who has finally found solid ground. He buries his face in your hair, breathes you in, his whole body shaking. “If this is some kinda sick joke,” he growls against your skin, “I swear to God—” But you just hold him tighter, and he finally—finally—lets himself believe it.

- After that, Logan is fiercely protective. More than before. You are his second chance, his proof that maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t taken everything from him. He keeps you close, always within reach. He doesn’t talk about the time you were gone, doesn’t say how lost he was without you—but you see it in the way he touches you, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

- Logan has lived a long life, filled with too much pain, too much loss. But now, with you back in his arms, he thinks—just for a moment—that maybe, maybe, he finally has something worth fighting for again.

Matt Murdock

- Grief became a quiet shadow in Matt’s life, a presence that never left. He carried it with him in the way he adjusted his tie, in the way he spoke to Foggy and Karen like he was fine when he wasn’t. He still went out at night, still fought in the streets, but the fire inside him had dimmed. He no longer fought to save the city—he fought because it was the only thing that numbed the ache of losing you.

- He whispered your name in his prayers, his voice breaking over the syllables. In his apartment, your absence was louder than anything else. He reached for you in his sleep, his hands closing around nothing, waking up with an emptiness so heavy it stole his breath. He let the guilt drown him—because you died in his arms, and no matter how many bones he broke or how much blood he spilled, he couldn’t change that.

- When you return, he knows it’s you before you even speak. The world is full of sound, full of heartbeats, full of voices—but yours? Yours has always been different. His entire body stills, his breath hitching in his throat. He listens, waiting for the trick, the deception, because he knows what death feels like. But then you say his name, and the world tilts sideways.

- He moves without thinking, reaching for you, his hands trembling as they trace over your face, your hair, your lips. “You’re real,” he breathes, almost afraid to say it. “You’re real.” And when he finally lets himself believe it, when he pulls you into his arms and holds you so tightly it aches, he lets out a broken sound—somewhere between a sob and a prayer.

- After that, Matt is different. He refuses to let you go alone anywhere, his protectiveness manifesting in quiet touches, in the way his fingers always seek yours. He’s softer now, more open with his emotions, because he’s lost you once and he won’t make the mistake of taking any second for granted.

- At night, when the city is quiet and his scars ache, he traces over your skin as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. “I don’t know how I deserve this,” he whispers against your hair, his voice raw with devotion. “But I’m never letting you go again.”

Frank Castle

- Frank has always been good at loss. Not because he accepts it, but because he survives it. Losing you, though? It was a different kind of wound, one that never stopped bleeding. He didn’t cry. He didn’t scream. He just became colder. The world lost all color, all meaning. He didn’t live after you were gone—he just existed, a weapon with no purpose but destruction.

- He stopped talking. Stopped caring. The men he hunted became nothing more than names on a list, their deaths nothing more than numbers. He never said your name, never spoke of you, because acknowledging you were gone would break something inside him that even he couldn’t put back together.

- And then, one night, you stand in front of him, breathing, alive, looking at him like he’s still the man you loved. He doesn’t believe it at first. His grip tightens around his gun, his entire body coiled and ready for a fight because this? This is cruel. And yet—your eyes. Your heartbeat. The way you whisper, “Frank?” like it’s his name that brings you back to life.

- His hands shake as he reaches for you. He touches your face like it’s something fragile, something that might disappear if he presses too hard. And when you don’t, when you lean into his touch with a softness he thought he’d never feel again, something inside him shatters. He pulls you against him, his grip almost desperate, his breath ragged. “I lost you,” he rasps against your hair. “I lost you, and I didn’t—I didn’t know how to keep going.”

- Frank becomes your shadow after that. He’s gentler with you than he’s ever been with anyone, but that protectiveness? That fire? It’s stronger than ever. If anyone so much as looks at you wrong, they won’t live to make the mistake twice. But with you? With you, he is something softer, something almost human again.

- He doesn’t pray, doesn’t believe in fate. But at night, when you sleep beside him, warm and real, he presses a silent kiss to your forehead and whispers, Thank you. He doesn’t know who he’s thanking. Maybe the universe. Maybe you. All he knows is that this time, he won’t waste a single second.

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter

- Losing you broke Dex. And when Dex breaks, he destroys. He tried to keep it together—tried to pretend he could move on, that he could keep living without you—but the anger, the madness, the unbearable emptiness inside him only grew. The world felt wrong without you. He felt wrong. He stopped sleeping, stopped feeling anything but the burning need to punish whatever took you away from him.

- He lost control after that. Killed without hesitation, without remorse. Let his mind spiral, let his demons win, because what was the point of fighting them without you? You were his anchor, the one person who made him believe he could be more than the monster inside him. Without you, he had no reason to pretend anymore.

- When he sees you again, he doesn’t react the way most people would. No tears, no disbelief. He stalks toward you, his entire body trembling, his breath uneven. His fingers twitch like they’re reaching for a weapon—like he can’t decide if you’re a dream, a trick, or something worse. “You’re dead,” he says, voice flat, empty. “I held you while you died.” And then, quieter, almost desperate—“Tell me this is real.”

- The second you touch him, the second your fingers brush over his, he breaks. He surges forward, his arms crushing around you, his breathing ragged against your skin. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Please. I can’t—I can’t do this without you.” And for the first time in a year, his mind is quiet. The rage, the spiraling thoughts, the unbearable emptiness—it all stops the moment you’re back in his arms.

- After that, Dex is obsessive. He always had that trait in him, but now? Now it’s even worse. You are his, and he refuses to let anything take you away from him again. He follows you like a shadow, sleeps with his arms locked around you, memorizes every detail of your body just in case the universe dares to rip you away from him again.

- There’s a darkness inside him, one that never truly fades. But with you alive, with you real, that darkness is tempered by something softer. Something dangerous. He’s not just a killer anymore. He’s yours. And if anyone tries to take you from him again? He’ll burn the whole world to the ground.

Wanda Maximoff

- Grief clung to Wanda like an old, tattered shawl, woven with the ghosts of everyone she had ever lost. She had thought she had reached her limit—that the universe could take no more from her than it already had. But then it took you. And that, she realized, was the cruelest cut of all. She had survived wars, watched cities crumble, lost her family, her brother, her home. But losing you? That was the first time she felt herself break.

- She became something else after you died. A ghost walking through her own life, untethered from the world. The wind carried whispers of you—the echo of your laughter in a marketplace, the ghost of your breath against her skin in the moments before she woke up alone. And the anger—God, the anger. She lashed out when she fought, red energy sparking at her fingertips with a ferocity she couldn’t contain. She wanted to hurt the universe the way it had hurt her.

- And then, like an answer to a prayer she had never dared to whisper, you stood before her again. At first, she thought it was another cruel trick, another illusion meant to unravel what little remained of her sanity. But then—then she felt you. Your heartbeat, your warmth, the undeniable reality of you. And the moment that truth settled into her bones, she collapsed into you, shaking, weeping, hands clutching desperately at your arms, your shoulders, your face.

- “You were gone,” she sobbed, burying herself in you like she could merge her soul with yours. “I—I felt you leave me.” And for the first time in a year, her magic did not rage. It did not spark and burn with untamed grief. It simply was. It curled around the two of you like a shield, like a silent promise that she would never let you be taken from her again.

- After that, Wanda became something softer, but not weaker. She still held the storm inside her, but now, it had purpose. Now, it had you. She held you like she was afraid the wind might steal you away again, always touching—fingers brushing over yours, arms wrapping around you in sleep, a protective hand against the small of your back in public. She had lost everything before. She would not lose you again.

- At night, when the world was still and your breath rose and fell against her chest, she whispered things she could never say in the daylight. Apologies, promises, prayers in a language she had almost forgotten. And when you stirred, murmuring her name, she simply kissed you—deep and slow, like she could pour her very soul into you, like she could make you stay this time.

Pietro Maximoff

- The world never felt fast enough after you were gone. Time slowed into something unbearable, something suffocating. Pietro had always outrun grief before, always left it in the dust, but your death? That was a weight even he couldn’t shake. He stopped joking. Stopped running for fun. The world lost its color, its spark, its meaning. What was the point of moving quickly when you weren’t at the finish line anymore?

- He tried—he really tried—to pretend. To act like he was okay, to throw on that smirk and tell people, “Eh, I’m fine.” But Wanda knew. She saw it in the way he sat still for too long, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking, the way he lingered in places that reminded him of you. His speed was once his escape, his freedom. Now, every step forward only took him further away from the last time he held you.

- And then—then he sees you. And for the first time in his life, he can’t move. He just stares, his heart a violent drumbeat against his ribs, his breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he whispers, blinking rapidly, because this has to be some sick joke. “This isn’t real.” But you are. And the moment you take a step toward him, he snaps.

- He moves too fast, too desperate, grabbing you like you might vanish if he lets go. His hands cup your face, his lips press against every part of you he can reach—forehead, cheeks, hands, lips. “You’re real,” he gasps between kisses, between shaky laughter and choked sobs. “You’re—you’re real.” And suddenly, the world isn’t slow anymore. You are his new gravity, the only thing keeping him from spinning out of control.

- After that, Pietro is obsessed with feeling you close. He picks you up just to hear you laugh, carries you even when you insist you can walk. He talks more, filling every silence with his voice because silence is what haunted him for a year. And he touches—not just because he wants to, but because he needs to. Holding your hand, leaning against you, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to remind himself you’re here.

- And at night, when he curls around you in bed, his heartbeat thrumming like a song against your skin, he whispers things he’s never said before. “I thought I lost you forever.” “I never stopped looking for you.” “If you ever leave me again, I swear I’ll outrun death itself to bring you back.” And when you tell him you’re here, that you’re not going anywhere, he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder and finally—finally—lets himself breathe again.

Erik Lehnsherr (Fox)

- Erik was already a man carved from loss, molded by grief, his soul tempered in the fires of tragedy. Losing you was not just another wound—it was the moment he snapped completely. He did not rage. He did not weep. He simply became something else. Harder. Colder. More dangerous. Without you, there was no reason to hold back. No reason to believe in anything but vengeance.

- The world paid for your absence. He became relentless, his war against those he deemed responsible for suffering escalating beyond reason. He did not believe in mercy anymore—because if the world had shown you none, why should he? But in the rare, silent moments when he was alone, when his hands were still for once, he would stare at the space beside him and feel something that terrified him. Emptiness.

- When you return, he does not react as a man should when seeing his lost love brought back to life. He does not run to you. He does not whisper your name like a prayer. He simply stares, cold and unreadable, his mind calculating every possibility—illusion, manipulation, deception. And then—then you reach for him, and the moment your hand touches his, his composure shatters.

- His hands shake as they frame your face. His breathing is shallow, his eyes burning with something unreadable. When he speaks, his voice is low, trembling with something dangerous. “Who did this?” he demands. Because someone had to bring you back. And Erik Lehnsherr does not believe in miracles. But when you smile—when you whisper, “I’m here, Erik”—his fury dissolves into something broken, something human. He kisses you like a dying man gasping for air, his hands gripping you as if afraid the wind might steal you away.

- After that, Erik is ruthless in his protectiveness. He keeps you close, watches you with the sharp gaze of a predator waiting for the world to try and take you again. But in private, in the spaces where no one else can see, he is something else. His hands are reverent as they hold you, his voice is soft when he speaks to you, and his nightmares—the ones filled with loss—fade when you press a kiss to his temple.

- He does not believe in peace. He does not believe in forgiveness. But he believes in you. And that? That is the only thing in this world he will not let go of again.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭’𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: i said i wouldn’t do requests atm but this was requested by a very dear reader on wattpad and i just couldn’t say no 🙂‍↕️

summary: based on the song by bruno mars; masc rich lawyer!reader, bartender!natasha. nat has blonde hair here (no idea how important that detail really is tbh)

warnings: smut…(a bunch of it, actually — strap usage, fingering, oral (n receiving)), alcohol/being drunk; i think that’s it?

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

— LOS ANGELES, USA —

Exiting your car that night, you don't expect that, not too long later, you'll have her in your passenger seat. Like your own personal Cinderella, she'll be with you once the clock strikes midnight.

However, your evening doesn't start as fairytale-like as it'll end.

It's been a shitty day. A brutal case you'd been working on for months. As almost always, it entailed dealing with insufferable clients and their enormous egos, biased judges and ruthless opponents, 80-hour weeks and tons of stress — only to lose the case.

It was humiliating, leaving the court room. You'd trailed to your car like a wet dog and sat there, forehead on your steering wheel, for a solid five minutes. Only when you realized that the press was starting to surround your car, you'd pressed the start button and torn down the street.

Let's pretend you didn't hit a trash can on your way out. Maybe that'll make your day look less like a shitshow.

Being the child of two of Hollywood's most successful lawyers, everyone's eyes are on you. News articles, social media backlash, professional rivals that revel in your failure. You can't afford even a single misstep. Yes, in your case, even a lost case is a misstep. It's just more proof, they'll say. That you're only here because mommy and daddy funneled millions into your trust fund before you even turned 18.

You rarely frequent bars, since there never seems to be enough time for that. It's why you usually keep a bottle of whiskey in your office (telling yourself that's completely normal) — but tonight, you don't want to get drunk sitting in silence. Too many thoughts, too many worries. Instead, you pull up in front of LA's most famous bar.

Hollywood elites, business moguls, and the ultra-wealthy. Expensive champagne flows like water, its coloration matching the golden hues of the bars interior. You step inside and, for once, only feel mildly out of place.

You walk across marble floors and approach the bar. Sitting down, you undo the top button of your shirt and watch the woman in front of you turn around.

A bartender, but possibly the most gorgeous one you've ever seen. Blonde hair and a red dress, makeup so flawless you'd never be able to tell she's been working for over six hours now. If you weren't still pissed off about that stupid case, you'd be able to appreciate the sight a lot more, though.

You lean in and almost order a whiskey. But you have that in your office, so you change your mind.

"Just a martini", you mumble, already reaching for your purse. "Stirred."

She studies you with interest, not saying a word. The memory flits through her head — you, in this bar, two years ago. Middle length hair, slicked back, and a suit. Passed out in the corner. You have no idea this happened, as you were completely out of it, but she remembers.

"No 'hello'? 'Good evening'? What's the magic word again?"

You look up and stare at her, your Black Card between your fingers. "Sorry?"

She shrugs and reaches for the mixing glass. Ice clinks, the gin swirling like liquid silver under the bar's lights as she stirs.

"Maybe my expectations are too high", she says and pours the vermouth. "I should be used to people like you."

You raise your eyebrows, your jaw slackening slightly. "People like me?"

"Exactly. Let me tell you something, hotshot", she says, leaning over the bar. "Have you seen who enters this place? Rich people. Snobby people. The upper one percent. You sat your cute little ass down and muttered your order like you're being forced to sit here."

"Well", you say, struggling to find an excuse for your lack of manners, "I had a shitty day, okay? All I want is a few drinks."

"Not too many", she says, finally straining the liquid into the glass. She plucks an olive from its jar and rolls it between her fingers, her eyes on yours, before dropping it into the drink. "You don't hold your liquors too well, do you?"

"What?"

"Not important."

You accept the martini and take a tentative sip. You study her like she studied you, but with an air of irritation. Your day's been miserable enough already. No need for her to pile on.

"Listen", you say, "I'm not really in the mood to talk. I know you bartenders like to play shrink-"

"I prefer the word therapist, but go on."

"But", you say sharply, shooting her a halfhearted glare, "I had a bad day. A really, really bad day. You probably can't even imagine. So just let it go, alright?"

"Understood", she says. Her green eyes, however, twinkle with the kind of mirth that tells you she definitely will not let it go.

Can someone drive you up the wall but also be annoyingly attractive? Apparently. You're experiencing it in that very moment.

The silence lasts exactly two minutes. It's enough time for the bartender to prepare a Bloody Mary and hand it to a different customer, then she turns toward you again. You groan and let your head fall onto the counter of the bar.

"Ouch", you mutter.

"You're like a child", she states. "A petulant little child who didn't get their way. What happened, hotshot?"

"Leave me alone", you mumble, your breath fogging up the smooth surface of the countertop.

"It can't be that bad." She leans in, arms crossed on the counter, and lowers her head so her face is right in front of yours. You dare look at her and immediately regret it. The green in her eyes is sage with specks of seafoam, mint and apple, unfairly captivating.

Then, her breath hits your lips. Sweet and warm, with an undercurrent of mint.

Before you can imagine her bent over the counter in a very different situation, you quickly close your eyes and press your face against the countertop.

"Let me guess", she says, seemingly oblivious to your internal struggle, "you lost a deal? No, not that. Maybe your shoes don't match your suit? No? Fine. Oh, I got it. Someone had the audacity to say no to you today."

"Truly, fuck you."

"That's a bold thing to say to the woman making your drinks, darling."

You groan and sit up, strands of messy hair blocking your vision. She smirks and brushes them aside.

"This", you say, narrowing your eyes, "is why I don't go to bars."

"Oh, please." She tilts her head. "Me? Harmless."

"Harmless, but annoying. Like a damn housefly."

"How sweet", she says drily. "You know your way around women, huh?"

You give her a deadpan look. She has no clue (or maybe she does — whatever), but you haven't been involved with anyone in over a year now. That is, if you don't count hookups and one night stands and such.

Flirting is also not your strongest suit, but it is hers. You just haven't realized it yet.

"I'm a busy woman", you say. "The only women I see are clients and coworkers."

"Clients, as in...?"

"No." You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. "I'm a lawyer, not a hooker."

"A lawyer?" She smiles and tilts her head. "Wow. That's exciting."

Sarcasm, obviously. You roll your eyes and lean back a little. Good thing the barstool has a backrest, otherwise you'd be on the floor by now.

"Come on. All you do is pour booze into glasses and poke olives with toothpicks."

"Don't forget pouring water into ice cube trays."

She chuckles when you roll your eyes again. Leaning over the counter, she brushes her fingertips against the collar of your shirt.

Your cheeks heat up. She notices the rosy flush in your face and tilts her head, giving a soft hum.

"So, a lawyer", she says. "A lawyer who had a shitty day."

"Precisely."

"A lawyer who definitely isn't a hooker, either. So asking about the price per hour would be pointless."

You pause before exhaling sharply, dragging a hand down your face — exhausted, annoyed, still half-thinking about your case. But then her words settle, her meaning really sinking in, and despite everything, your lips twitch.

You open your mouth, then close it again. Finally, you lift your glass and down your martini. She laughs quietly.

"I'm Natasha", she says. "And it's a pleasure to meet you, hotshot."

"Y/N", you say, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. "Sorry. I'm tired and ready for bed."

"Me too", she says. She slides the empty glass from your fingers and puts it aside. "I assume you meant something else, though."

You let out a laugh and lean back, hands covering your face. You lower them and smile faintly, eyes running up and down her body. The bar covers everything up to her waist, but that doesn't matter. She's beautiful, and so is the dress she's wearing, and the irritation you felt earlier has shifted into something entirely different.

You're not sure whether there's some kind of rule about this — are bartenders allowed to flirt with customers? —, but, truthfully, you don't care. How long has it been since you felt this kind of attraction toward someone? How long has it been since someone flirted with you and you actually felt the urge to flirt back?

It hasn't been years, but it's been more than a while.

You sit there in silence, eyes still locked on Natasha. She leans over the counter and adjusts the collar of your shirt again. Skin peeks through the unbuttoned buttons at the top, her gaze lingering on it for a brief moment.

"Your shift", you say, watching her pull away. "When's it end?"

She glances at her watch. Midnight. "About two hours. Why? Planning to wait up for me?"

"Maybe" You hum, fingers drumming against the countertop. "You could leave early", you then suggest, tentatively, as if expecting her to say no.

But Natasha glances at the other bartender. Her hands move to untie the apron she's wearing, which she tucks under the bar, then she tells her coworker to cover for her. You can see her hesitate, scanning the space, before she walks around the counter to get to your side.

Before you realize what's happening, you're leading her out of the bar. The air is warm outside, but not suffocating anymore. You feel the light breeze — crisper, fresher, thanks to Beverly Hills being closer to the ocean — and breathe in. No overwhelming variety of perfumes and colognes. All you smell is the faint scent of whatever perfume Natasha is wearing.

You lead her to your car. She pauses when she sees the cracked headlight.

"Hit a trash can", you say before she can ask.

"I see." She glances at you, smiling. "I truly hope you won't get me into a car crash tonight, hotshot."

You crack a smile and sigh, running your fingers through your hair. She laughs and squeezes your arm, then moves to sit in the passenger seat.

You spend your first night together.

When you wake up to the sight of her, hair mussed and naked body wrapped up in thin bedsheets, you know there will be more moments like this.

. . .

— NEW YORK, USA —

Two months and a few meetups (dates? hookups?) later, you fly her out to Manhattan.

It was your idea. You'd gotten sick of having to travel to LA all the time, only to leave again days later. Your main residence is in New York, after all, not California. It's where your condo is, your law firm, where you spend a majority of your time.

Natasha agreed without having to reconsider. You didn't even have to mention it'd be one of your private jets, or that your chauffeur Richard would drive her to your place. She had no clue she'd be sipping champagne and testing caviar during the entire flight, and she said yes anyway.

She knows you have money. She knows you'll spoil her. She doesn't expect it, either. It does happen, though, and she does enjoy it a lot.

There's something special about being able to kick off her heels and stretch out on plush leather seats, letting the staff pamper her. With face masks from South Korea and fresh fruit straight from Thailand, the five hours she spends aloft suddenly seem almost too short.

Richard drives Natasha to the condominium you live in. Billionaires' Row is full of luxury buildings, but yours manages to stand out anyway. High ceilings, floor to ceiling windows, a grand porte-cochère. She spots Rolls Royces and Bentleys being parked by valets in pressed suits and subtly raises her eyebrows. It's starting to get out of hand.

In front of the elevator, she's handed a keycard. Richard instructs her how to use it, then she's on her own.

It takes her all the way upstairs into your penthouse, the elevator bypassing every other floor. Then it stops, the doors swish open, and she's in your condo. In your living room, to be more specific.

A fireplace, a stocked bar (top-shelf liquors, because why not), a glass coffee table. The sectional couch in front of her looks like it costs more than a standard car, too. She glances at the dark marble floor beneath her feet — probably from Italy — and takes a few steps into the condo. As soon as she's stepped out of the elevator, the door closes automatically.

Natasha knew you were rich, but goddamn, this is a lot to take in.

She takes another few steps into the living room and listens for any kind of noise. Unsurprisingly, she can't hear anything. The walls are most likely soundproof, so she won't be able to hear you unless she's in the same room.

Walking closer to the fireplace, she finds a note on it. A normal piece of paper, thankfully, not some expensive textured shit. She reads what you wrote and smiles faintly.

Natasha,

I'm in my office to work on a new case. Sorry I wasn't there to personally pick you up. Will make up for it later, I promise.

Lunch is in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I insist.

— Hotshot :)

Once she realizes she's smiling, she quickly shakes her head and puts the note aside.

Make herself at home? No need to tell her twice.

High heels in one hand, she pads through the long hallway and into the kitchen. Stainless steel appliances, a huge espresso machine she'll definitely play around with at some time, sleek kitchen furniture. A peek into the fridge tells her you — or your private chef, more likely — made paella. She closes it again and walks into the adjacent dining room.

Some plants that look like small palm trees, a long table for at least 16 people, a New Zealand wool rug.

Boring.

Back to the hallway she goes, the heated floors warm under her bare feet. Up the stairs, then back down, hand sliding over the glass railings. Two bathrooms, both with rain showers, a small wine cellar-like room, a huge balcony with a view of Central Park. Somehow, she ends up on the rooftop (and definitely makes sure to remember the pool there) before finally making her way back inside.

Your bedroom is next, complete with an en-suite bathroom and walk-in closet. She's seen the other bathrooms already and was, quite frankly, not impressed enough to look at this one as well. Instead, she decides to check out what kind of clothes you wear.

Natasha spins around in the massive space and scans everything. A minibar, a huge mirror, a seating area. It smells like fresh linen and that very same perfume you were wearing when you first took her home not too long ago.

Two months, she recalls. It's only been two months, and you're already whisking her away whenever you want.

She drags her hand along one of the black walnut shelves, inspecting handmade leather shoes and rows of accessories. Ties, watches, rings. She stops and eyes the tailored suits. Her hand moves to the back of her dress, fumbling with the zipper and pulling it down, then she lets the thin piece of fabric fall to the polished floor.

She steps out of the dress that's pooled around her feet and reaches for a crisp button-down. She puts it on and inspects herself in front of the mirror, then grabs some niche Parisian perfume from your fragrance collection. A spritz behind her ear, one on her wrist...

"Having fun?"

Natasha whips around and stares at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, trying to hide your smile. Despite being at home, where you should be comfortable enough to let loose for a little, you're in a suit. Your hair, however, is messy. A strand partially blocks your vision.

It took you ten minutes to find her. You didn't expect to walk in on her half-naked, barefoot, only wearing one of your shirts. Are you complaining, though? Absolutely not.

"You told me to make myself at home."

"So you did."

"Exactly."

"That's good." You push off the doorframe and stroll into the room. "Not gonna say hi?"

She meets you halfway, her arms coming up to wrap around your neck. Lips brush against yours, a fleeting contact, and your hands rub her waist. "Hi", she mumbles.

"Hey", you whisper, kissing her. First quickly, then a little more deeply. Your hands run up her sides, letting her shirt ride up, and you feel smooth warm skin under your palms. You pull away only to trail kisses along her jaw. "Missed you. How long have you been here?"

Natasha closes her eyes, her fingers raking through your short hair. "About an hour. Lonely?"

"It's a big apartment."

"Penthouse."

"Whatever", you mutter, catching her mouth again. Your thumbs hook into the waistband of her underwear and play with the lace. "Did you have lunch? The paella — I had it made for you."

"I wasn't hungry", she says, speaking in between kisses. "They served all kinds of stuff on my flight. First time trying mangosteen."

"Mhm, my favorite." You squeeze her waist before letting go of her. Walking further into the room, you pick up her dress from the floor and toss it over your shoulder. Her scent hits you, faint and sweet and familiar already. "Listen, I got another meeting in about an hour. Shouldn't take too long, though. You good here or should I ask Richie to give you the tour? He'll take you anywhere as long as it's not somewhere up in the clouds. Poor dude's got a fear of heights."

Natasha lingers where you left her, arms crossed over her chest. She watches you adjust things she never would've noticed are different: pushing the perfume bottle backwards the tiniest bit so it's perfectly aligned with the others, running your hand over the stack of button-ups to remove a crease she wouldn't be able to spot with a magnifying glass, nudging one of the shoes she touched.

"No", she says absently. "I'd rather stay here and wait."

"Whatever you want." You turn around and walk back to her. You wrap your arm around her waist and lead her out of the walk-in closet, faces inches apart, a smile on your lips. "I'd show you around, but I feel like that's pointless."

Natasha rolls her eyes and laughs, tugging at your shirt. You feel her lips against yours, the touch brief but charged with electricity. "You told me to make myself at home, so I did. Can't blame me for that."

"Not blaming you. Just happy you felt comfy enough to rummage through my clothes."

"I didn't 'rummage' through them."

"Oh no?" You grab the hem of the button-up she's sporting and smirk. "What's that, then?"

She doesn't say anything. Instead, she cups your face and pulls you into a deep kiss.

It's the first time in over three years that you cancel a meeting.

. . .

The rug you're on is soft and fluffy, the fireplace next to you way too hot for a September morning.

Sleep-warm skin and cashmere blankets, a half-empty bottle of wine left next to the coffee table. Natasha wakes, blinking lazily, and stretches her arms. You turn just enough to be able to kiss her forehead.

"Morning", you mumble.

"Morning", she replies, hands moving to your chest. Fingertips dance over bare skin, then she starts buttoning up your shirt. "We slept in."

"Yeah", you say, still tired, and lay back down. "Fuck. I have so much work to do."

"No, you have me to do."

"Obviously. Top priority."

Her hands splay out on your chest and smooth out the fabric of your shirt. She leans in, plush lips on your jaw, kisses that are warm and a little too arousing. It's 9 in the morning, and you need to get your ass off the floor and into the office.

However, there is a pretty, naked lady next to you, and that is much more enticing than a desk chair and a meeting with a bunch of old people. And her mouth is all over your skin, her hands starting to roam your body, and fuck it, maybe you can cancel again. Just one more time.

"Dammit", you curse, nails raking down her back. "You're costing me a shit-ton of money, baby."

"You have enough money as it is", she mumbles, voice muffled against your neck. Your arms wind around her. "There's only one woman in your arms, though. Your choice."

You hum, nose buried in her messy hair. Her kisses against your neck start to become wetter, more urgent, her hands squeezing and squishing every part of you she can reach. You moan and she knows she's convinced you.

You hastily take off your shirt and push all the blankets aside, then hold her close before rolling over. You're on top now, where you want to be, and start trailing hickeys along her throat. Her fingers run through your unruly hair and mess it up further.

Palms squeeze and run over smooth skin. Your hand kneads her thigh before moving between her legs. Wet heat against, then around, your fingers. You thrust in and out slowly, rhythmically, and listen to the way her breathing gets heavier.

Face buried in the crook of her neck, you leave lazy kisses on her skin. Slender fingers tug at your hair, insistently, telling you to go faster.

The fire next to you crackles, but it's nowhere near as hot as the space between you. Heavy breathing and muffled moans, fingers curling and nudging deeper. Your thumb circles her clit and you hear a little whine. Natasha comes around your fingers, clenching and unclenching, and you bite back your own moans.

"Shit", she mumbles, slumping into the rug again.

"Yeah." You lift your fingers to your mouth and quickly lick them clean. "I still got work."

"Breakfast first?"

A knock on the doorframe makes you both whirl around. Your eyes land on your private chef slash maid, who's got her eyes covered with her hand. You can see the timid look on her face, anyway.

"Sorry", she says. "I waited until you were...done. I made breakfast and didn't want to disturb you, Ms. Y/L/N. Also, Mr. Pasini is waiting for you."

"Linda", you say, grabbing a blanket and covering both you and Natasha with it. You're so aghast you don't even know what to say. "That's, uhm- that's good. Give us a minute? Please?"

She nods, stepping away and bumping into a potted plant.

"Of course. My apologies, Ma'am. I'll be in the kitchen."

The second she's gone, Natasha starts laughing. You narrow your eyes at her, but the smile on her face is too infectious to not crack one as well. You sigh and melt into her. A kiss is placed on her cheek.

"Alright, laugh it up."

She smirks and jabs a finger into your side. "Come on, that was hilarious. Does she usually stalk you like some creep?"

"No", you say firmly, sitting up and putting on your shirt. Your fingers tremble slightly as you button it up. "She doesn't. And she didn't 'stalk us', she just heard we were finished and came to inform me about breakfast."

"Sounds believable enough, hotshot. You're sure she doesn't have a secret crush on you?"

"She's 58 and married, dummy." You get up and look for your underwear. "I promise, she's just a sweet lady who helps my blood sugar spike. Try her madeleines, they're godly."

Natasha hums and gets up, still butt naked. She grabs her lace panties and the shirt she stole from you the night before and puts both on. You, one leg in your slacks and the other hovering in the air, watch her with wide eyes as she makes a beeline for the kitchen.

"Wait-"

"Breakfast", she says, unbothered, and adjusts her hair a little. "Hurry your pretty little ass up or all the madeleines will be gone."

The exaggerated French accent she used to pronounce the pastry makes you roll your eyes. You hurry to get into your pants before following after her, zipping up and fastening the button.

"You're naked!"

"Anything that could be considered inappropriate is covered."

"I can see your butt."

She glances at you over her shoulder, strolling into the kitchen. Linda glances at her, but doesn't seem too surprised by the sight. Instead, she plates breakfast for you. Avocado on sourdough toast, freshly squeezed juice, Eggs Benedict, buttery madeleines, some cappuccino.

As soon as she's done, she tells you to enjoy your meal. You catch the small smile on her face as she leaves the room to go on about her duties.

"You were right", Natasha says, sitting on a chair with her foot propped up on the seat. "These are godly."

"Told you", you say absently, scrolling through your work-related emails. "The best. Dip them in the cappuccino."

She hums, eating in silence and watching you respond to emails and texts. Her leg stretches out under the table to bump against yours. Then, she rests it in your lap. You squeeze her calf, eyes locked on your phone.

"Hey", you mumble, sliding your hand further down her leg and tapping her ankle, "how would you feel about a slight change of plans?"

"Hm?" Natasha tilts her head, a half-finished glass of orange juice in her hand.

You turn around and show her the email. She leans forward, eyebrows furrowed, and reads it.

"I said we'd spend the next two weeks here, but I gotta go to Tokyo. Work-stuff. Want to tag along?"

"Tokyo?" She looks up. "Just like that?"

"Yeah. Like I said, work-stuff."

She smiles faintly, then shrugs. "Sure. Why not."

"Great."

"All of this is normal, right?"

"What?"

"Forget it, hotshot." She gets up and kisses your temple. "See you in a minute. I have to try that rain shower before we leave."

The urge to get up and follow her like a lovesick puppy is strong. But then your phone buzzes, announcing another email, and you sigh as you realize you'll have to wait a bit longer.

. . .

— TOKYO, JAPAN —

You order the sushi in near-perfect Japanese.

Natasha leans into your side. Clad in the off-shoulder black dress with the deep neckline that you got her right after your arrival, she's been turning heads all night long. Her fingers toy with the shimmering necklace you put on her, oblivious to the 18k white gold's worth, and her eyes roam the restaurant's interior.

"Fancy", she whispers once the server has dashed off. "I wanted to come here for a while."

"This restaurant? I've been here a couple times."

"No, dummy. Japan. Tokyo." She smiles and looks at you. You flush under her gaze and nudge her cheek with your nose. Her hand cups your cheek, thumb against your lips, and you press a kiss to it. "You need to get out of your bubble more, you know."

"What bubble?"

"This bubble. Not every experience has a Michelin star, or costs a couple thousand bucks. There's more to life than just fancy dinners, hotshot."

You hum, studying here. There's a truth to her words that stings. You're privileged, and you know it, but your lifestyle and career make everything about you and everything you do so different. The way you live traps you in a bubble you either can't or won't escape, which limits the things you experience.

Natasha is the best example for that. You may have been lucky enough to run into her, sure, but only because of a coincidence. Again, you don't go to bars. You don't go out with friends, or even colleagues. You spend your Friday nights sitting at your desk with a dozen files opened on your laptop. Maybe you'll drink some whiskey or fall asleep ten minutes into a movie, too, but that's about it.

"You'd rather I take you to McDonald's tomorrow?", you ask, trying to deflect. She tilts her head. "Okay, okay. Not a fan of the clown. Got it."

"You know what I mean", she says, hooking a finger into the collar of your shirt. "Saving up for another car, or jet, won't make you happy."

"I know", you say earnestly. "It's why I got you. To spend that money on you instead. Now — sake or umeshu?"

"Oh, no. Wait. Did you just-"

"I'll spoil you rotten", you say, quickly pecking her lips, "and get happy in return. You make me happy. Now tell me what drink you want."

She rolls her eyes, but doesn't argue. It's not like she doesn't like the whole princess treatment you've been giving her ever since your first night together, after all. She enjoys it maybe even too much.

You enjoy it, too. Before her, all you knew was work and lonely beds. Pleasure mostly came from meaningless one night stands, never lasting longer than a couple hours, or — a classic — your own hand.

It's different now. You get to satisfy someone else, someone who's interested in you, who makes you smile, who's pretty. You can spoil her all you want. Dresses, champagne, jewelry, spontaneous trips to the most gorgeous places on earth. In return, she makes you happy. There's not even much she has to do to achieve that. You appreciate it a whole lot, anyway.

Her breath fans your ear, lips tickling your skin. You exhale sharply, silently, and close your eyes.

"Sake, please", she mumbles, voice sultry and soft. Her hand runs down your front, deliberately brushing against the buttons of your shirt, before coming to rest on your thigh. "And you. Sake and you."

. . .

Being in another country usually means vacation.

Not for you, though. You've been stuck behind your desk for over an hour now. Keyboards clack, the a/c hums, bedsheets rustle. In front of you are floor-to-ceiling windows, displaying Tokyo's skyline. Thousands of lights in every color imaginable adorn tall buildings, creating a sea of neon. Billboards and pulsing nights, and streets that never seem to sleep.

You're not sleeping, either. And neither is Natasha. While you're tapping a pen against your knee before responding to an email, she keeps rolling over in bed and trying to fight boredom.

You briefly glance at her. Only in a silk robe that hugs her curves and leaves little to the imagination, it's getting increasingly harder to not just call it a day and join her.

You turn to your laptop again and bite back a sigh. Another email popped up, this time by one of your employees, so you click the reply symbol and start typing. Right as you hit send, you feel a familiar pair of hands on your shoulders. You close your eyes when her palms slide down to your chest.

"Hey", she murmurs, warmth breath fanning your ear. Her lips press against your nape, then the side of your neck. "Still working?"

"It won't end. I just keep getting new emails."

She hums, continuing to trail hot kisses along your neck. Her fingers fumble with the buttons on your shirt, slowly undoing them. "You need to relax a little, you know. Forget about work and come to bed with me."

"Emails", you protest. Natasha smiles against your neck. Her hands move down to yours on the keyboard, gently peeling them off. "I need to finish this. It's important. Seriously."

No response. Heat shoots into your lower belly when she sucks on your pulse point. She runs her hands up your arms and to your biceps, squeezing the muscles there, then she slides the shirt off your shoulders. Fingers dance across your skin, trace your chest and your stomach, before teasing the waistband of your pants.

"I want you to fuck me", she rasps into your ear. "Show me I'm important, too."

Of course she's important. More important than the emails, more important than anything else. Can you say it, though?

No. The only thing that leaves your mouth is a quiet whine. You hear the laptop in front of you being shut. Natasha pulls at the back of your chair and swivels it around, your eyes opening automatically.

The sight is godly. She's standing between your legs, her robe thin and enveloping her body like a second layer of skin. You catch a glimpse of the bra she's wearing, black lace showing through the open top of the robe, and your fingers twitch with the desire to touch her.

You cave. Fingers find the end of the silk sash around her waist to give it a deliberate tug. The robe comes open and reveals creamy skin and black lingerie.

"When did you..."

"You left your credit card when you went downstairs to pick up those files", she says, fingers trailing along your jaw. Her hand cups your jaw. "Thought it'd be a nice surprise."

"Credit card fraud", you say, both amused and turned on. "Theft, too. Dammit."

"You like it, though."

Oh, you do. You can't even be mad. There's more than enough money on your bank account, and truthfully, purchases like this one benefit you both.

You put your hands on her waist and get up. Her body is flush with yours, her breath fanning your lips. You kiss her, tasting strawberries and sake, and trace the seam of her lips with your tongue. Her mouth opens, letting you deepen the kiss, and you swallow her moans.

Bodies up against the window, the heat between you fogging up the glass. Natasha's robe falls to the floor, and you start trailing kisses over her shoulder and chest. You pull away for a split second to drink her in. With the backdrop of the city's lights — bright and flickering and reflecting off her skin — you're once again proven that she's the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

The clasp of her bra comes undone easily. You push the straps off her shoulders, let the tiny piece of clothing slide off, then your mouth is attached to her body again. Hands squeeze and grope her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples, before running down her sides.

You hear a soft thud when her head falls back against the window. Breathy moans and mhh-sounds, nimble fingers raking through your hair. You lick a stripe over her breast and suck her nipple between your lips. Pushing aside the fabric of her panties, you find her cunt. Her pussy is soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease.

"Fuck", she moans, tugging at your hair. "Baby, slow down."

You look up, not able to speak through the mouthful of boob. She looks down at you, panting, and brushes some hair away from your forehead.

You don't want to slow down. Not now, not when she's looking at you like this, still wearing the panties she bought with your money, standing in the suite you payed for. She makes you happy. She chases the loneliness away. You want to give her everything, the entire world, and that includes a night filled with orgasms.

Holding eye contact, you thrust your fingers into her. Her hips buck to chase the feeling. Moans fill the space around you, whiny and needy, and her hips rut against your hand with more fervor.

Your mouth releases her breast. You litter it with kisses and hickeys, still fucking her with your fingers. You slowly sink to your knees to bury your face against her stomach, leaving kisses there as well, and continuing pumping your fingers in and out of her. Slickness covers your hands, dripping down your wrists, and Natasha meets every thrust.

"I'll buy you everything", you moan. "Anything. Whatever you want."

"Bribing me?" She tries to laugh, but it comes out strained. She grinds against your hand, forcing you in deeper. You nudge that spongy little part and hear another moan. "I'm not your trophy, you know."

"No." You kiss along her lower stomach, your free hand gripping her thigh. Your movements become quicker, harder, feeling her walls clench around you in desperation. "Never said you were."

Natasha wants to respond, but in that moment, she can't. She lifts one leg and hooks it over your shoulder, letting herself take you wholly. Goosebumps and kiss-bitten lips, hickeys and flushed skin. Your fingers curl, your lips wrap around her clit, and her body tenses up.

You feel her orgasm as if it were your own. Intense, all-consuming, wiping every thought from her brain. She keeps riding your hand until it all becomes overstimulating, then you pull out.

Looking up, the sight of her disheveled state brings a smirk to your face. She pinches your bottom lip.

"Ow. What's that for?", you ask, her fingers lingering on your mouth.

"You're getting cocky."

"Am not."

"You definitely are. Get up, hotshot."

You grumble and kiss her fingertips, but do as told. Natasha leans in to kiss you, her hands fumbling with the zipper on your slacks. She walks you backwards, pushes you onto the bed, straddles you. The bedsheets are cool against your skin, tangled from Natasha's earlier tossing and turning.

There's not much time to think about any of that, though.

. . .

— RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL —

A private pool that seems to spill out into the ocean below. A plate of fruit sits on the edge, the papaya and mangoes long forgotten about, with two empty coconut shells next to it.

Aside from the lapping of the water and the rustling of the trees, only your soft moans fill the air. Her hands on your shoulders and yours on her hips, you guide her up and down the strap rhythmically. She looks down, watching the girthy piece of silicone through the water. How its full length disappears inside of her, again and again, blurred by the water you're in.

Another moan. You lean in and press your lips to her collarbone, tasting sunscreen and something sweet. Her fingers mess up your hair and slide back down to your shoulders, fingernails raking over your skin and leaving marks.

"I'm close", she whimpers, hips rotating on the strap. You guide her every movement, pushing the toy in as deep as you can. You watch stupidly how her body moves on it.

"Sound like it, too", you rasp. After almost a year of this, you know every telltale sign. "Open wider, baby."

Her thighs part just the tiniest bit more, but it's enough for her clit to rub against the base of the harness. Her head drops forward, forehead resting against yours, and she cries out quietly.

"Fuck, I-"

"Almost there." You rub her sides and watch her ride harder, pushing herself over the edge. Once the climax has lost most of its intensity, she collapses against you. "Holy."

"I feel like we should stop. For our neighbors' sake."

You laugh and kiss her bare shoulder. You're both completely naked, thanks to the pool being directly attached to your suite. No one can see you, but you're sure many people can hear you.

"Need a break already?", you tease.

"No, hotshot", she replies, nuzzling your neck with her face. "I just want to enjoy this for a moment. No distractions."

This. You and her, intertwined, doing nothing in particular. It shouldn't surprise you, but it does, anyway.

Neither of you know where this is going. You don't know whether this is just going to end someday, or whether you actually have a shot at making it. But, truthfully, you don't know what 'making it' would entail, either.

Natasha also doesn't know. She still doesn't know whether you feel the same as her. Whether you're in as deep as she is. Maybe she is exactly what she fears most to be — a trophy. Someone you don't feel anything real for.

You don't talk about it. Starting a conversation like that is risky, because the worst case scenario is everything falling apart.

In the beginning, it was fun. It was passionate and indulgent, a sexy fantasy. It was all about sex and money and pouring champagne like it's water.

Then, feelings came into play. You're not sure whether that's ever ended well.

. . .

— PARIS, FRANCE —

"God, you're obsessed."

You look up, still kneeling on the floor with a high heel in your hand. You give her a deadpan look.

"Keep that up and you're sleeping on the balcony tonight. Now give me your foot."

"I'm just saying. You, on your knees for me? Should've rented out the jewelry store instead."

"What?... Oh. Ha. Uhm-"

Natasha laughs and does as told. You shake your head, cheeks pink and warm, and slide the heel onto her foot. You make sure it fits right and then hum in approval.

Aside from the two of you, the changing room is empty. In fact, the entire store is. You rented it out for the next few hours, making it easier for Natasha to look at clothes and try them on without being bothered.

"Not bad", she says, resting her leg over your shoulder. You turn your head and kiss her calf. "Maybe in another color?"

"Which one? Black, maybe? Or lilac? Those would look nice with that dress you-"

"Y/N", she cuts you off, "this one's fine. Really. I like it."

You give her a skeptical look, but she just raises her eyebrows at you. She seems to be telling the truth, so you squeeze her ankle before moving her leg off your shoulder. Straightening up, you reach for another dress.

Natasha grabs it and steps into the fitting room. She returns not too long after, and the sight renders you speechless.

A deep red gown, its fabric hugging every curve just right. The silk cascades down her body and pools at her feet, but the long slit at the side keeps it from looking too modest. Your eyes land on the plunging sinful neckline, then trace the delicate straps framing her shoulders.

She steps in front of the mirror and studies herself. In this lightning, the dress looks like molten wine clinging to her skin. You finally look up and catch her gaze in the mirror. Paired with the faint smirk, the timeless dress becomes something entirely different.

Dangerous. Unfair.

Heat crackles between you. You swallow heavily, eyes locked on the sight, fingers twitching and want throbbing in your body.

"You're staring."

You swallow again. "You're in that."

"I am."

Your hands ball into fists. You shift and try crossing your legs, but when she runs a hand down her side, it's over. You step closer, unable to stop yourself at this point. Your hands find her waist, your lips hover next to her ear. Then, you press a kiss to her earlobe.

Your hands wander further up her body, cupping the swell of her breasts. You toy with her hardened nipples, which are barely concealed by the dress's thin fabric. Natasha moans and leans into you.

"We're in a store."

"We're alone."

"The employees..."

"The employees won't come in unless we call them", you assure her, voice a strained mumble. Your fingers tug at the neckline of her dress until her chest is revealed, then you tuck the fabric under her breast. "Look at you. Fuck."

Her head drops against your shoulder. You kiss her neck, bared to you, and cup her breast. Your free hand runs down her body, finding the slit of her dress and dipping underneath it.

"Move the dress?", you mumble.

One hand on the back of your head, Natasha pulls the skirt of the dress aside until you can see everything clearly. Her thighs, her lingerie, the garter belt. Creamy skin, adorned by the faintest of stretch marks. Your face has been buried between those very thighs dozens of times by now, but you'll never get sick of the feeling.

You run your fingers over her underwear. It's soaked.

"That was quick."

"Really? You'll make fun of me now?"

"No, baby." You kiss her shoulder and pull away, only to step around her and get on your knees again. This time, for an entirely different reason. You hold onto her thighs and look up. Her breathing is slightly uneven. "This okay?"

"Anything else wouldn't be okay", she replies. You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pull it down. It drops to the ground and gives you a full view of her cunt. Hand on the back of your head, she guides you closer.

You bury your face between her legs and immediately feel the slick heat. It coats your cheeks, your tongue, letting you taste the tangy sweetness you've grown familiar with. You grip the backs of her thighs for more support and run your tongue through her folds.

Natasha feels every touch, every movement. She grips your hair to keep herself from falling over, nails digging into your scalp. You eat her out surrounded by mirrors, letting her see every angle of what you're doing to her.

. . .

Hand in hand, you walk down Avenue Montaigne.

The sun is beaming down at you, making the street look even more fairytale-like than it already is. Tall buildings, brick walls, trees lined up on either side of the road. You squeeze her hand.

"What's next?", you ask, looking at her. "Perfume? Maybe a purse?"

Natasha tilts her head. There you go again, asking about things that should be irrelevant. Things that, if she's being honest, never were relevant. All of this extravagance is fun. Being flown around in private jets, traveling the world, getting whatever she wants whenever she wants it — she enjoys it, no doubt.

But is that all she wants?

Of course not. In fact, it’d be a lie if she said it ever was.

From that first night in the bar, she wasn't trying to find someone who'd drown her in money. Otherwise, she would've found someone like that ages ago. The bar she worked in was one of the most prestigious in all of Los Angeles. It would've been easy to pick a random person and make them fall for her.

She didn't want that, though. She stuck to dating literally anyone else to avoid ending up as a trophy, as someone who isn't anything else but something to make her partner look good.

Then, you stumbled in. Not once, but twice. Everything about you was painfully similar to the other people sitting in that same bar that night, but you were also completely unlike them.

Everything about you screamed money. The stupid suit, the Black Card, the way you talked to her. But you weren't snobby. She'd known that from the first time she saw you there — when you got so drunk you passed out. Everyone else cares about their reputation, their public image, but you let yourself get black out drunk.

You returned. You sat down right in front of her. She took one look at your face pressed against the counter, hair a mess, and knew she'd love whatever is hidden underneath that hated suit you were wearing.

Your hair is always a mess. Even now, walking down the street in Paris's most luxurious shopping street, you look like you got caught in a storm. Short, unruly strands, some blocking your vision, others hastily tucked behind your ear.

Natasha stops in the middle of the street. She leans in and kisses you.

Another indulgence or something sincere — she doesn't know. Maybe she doesn't want to know.

"No more shopping", she says. You give her an unsure look. "Please."

"Okay", you mumble. You continue walking.

Her instruction should be simple enough to follow. No more shopping, no more expensive clothes, no more Michelin starred food. But how does someone who's spent their entire life surviving on money, and gifts, and everything material, suddenly change their ways? It's your form of affection.

It's more difficult than it should be.

You keep walking. You don't pay the big designer brands any mind.

That is, until you pass Chaumet.

A French jeweler specializing in refined pieces, romantic pieces. Jewelry with meaning.

Your eye catches the engagement rings. Natasha follows your gaze.

For a moment, neither of you move. Do you really have what it takes?

You look at her. She brushes the hair away from your eyes. Your hand squeezes hers once more.

A bell rings, a door closes.

It's your last big purchase of the day.

[yeyinde]

The 141 finding out you've never had sex.

Just casually drinking, playing cards. A joke causes it to slip out.

body electric: the virgin edition

Gaz, the instigator, mutters something about not having been fucked in ages. this springs up a sudden surge of comradery, because, yeah. neither have they.

Soap's devote Catholicism (i like to imagine) leaves little room for flippant intimacy. he tries to be a good boy. key word, of course, being: tries. but the last serious relationship was years ago. back when he was grunt. he's pent up. abstinence, yeah? he holds it tight in his hand. but the thing about fists is that they're often mistaken for anger. Soap's a realist masquerading as an optimist. he knows whoever falls into his jowls next will be a MacTavish by the time he's through with them. and commitment. well. his comes at a price. a hefty one.

Ghost prefers casual flings where he doesn't have to take any clothes off. unzips his trousers, frees his cock, and then tries to pretend he's a real, flesh and blood, human. to feel something, anything, except a vacuum between hollow bones. but his tastes are peculiar. on the side of unhinged. he hasn't found the perfect body yet satiate himself with.

Price. well. with his bloody hands, he thinks he'd rather not dirty the same people he swears to protect. and divorcing at the age of 30 does that to a man, maybe. his role as a captain (an excuse in retrospect) also keeps him from unleashing his wants. the very same ones that are probably best under lock and key, anyway. it's just for the best, really. something he ought to do because the moment he has another chance to sink his teeth into someone's neck, he'll tear them apart. break them into pieces.

despite bringing it up, Gaz knows the real reason he's single is because he's pushy. he wants. so he takes. and then takes some more. more. more. until his gullet is full of the person he's obsessed with. carrying them around in his breast pocket everywhere he goes. the perfect mate. the one he can shower with unfettered affection. a deluge, in all honesty. one with the ideation to drown. biblical floods. trapped beneath him. he likes it more than he should, but. singedom, then, he supposes.

and then you roll the dice. admit, sheepishly, that, technically, you have them all beat. zero is always lesser than five, ten, twenty. but it's this misstep—zero, never—that catches their attention.

suddenly, you're not surrounded by kin but a pack of wolves. all hungry in their own ways, all starving. it just makes sense to quench their hunger with you, doesn't it? friend, ally. pretty little thing. so sweet for them. and perfectly mouldable. putty they shape to their hearts desire. the perfect mate.

Soap grips his rosary. the sign of the cross, heavenly Father and Holy Spirit, digging into his palm like the burn of a baptism. what's devotion if not pain? he cuts himself on the gold. offers blood of the sacrament to whoever might be listening, and leans in, sniffing.

Price's knuckles are white. he leans back, hidden in shadows. all you can see is spark of burning orange from his cigar as he takes mouthful after mouthful of smoke, contemplating. assessing.

"that so?" he doesn't even need to look at his Lieutenant to know that the man has gone still. too bad for you, it's not from shock.

Ghost barely holds himself back. keeps tight in his seat. fists clenching. unclenching. he has a good enough read on the people around him to see the unfiltered desire ripping across their face. scorching. but to bite, with his mouthful of jagged, seraded teeth; ones meant to rip, break, tear, would ruin you. permanently. unequivocally. and—

"wanna give it a go?" all eyes turn to Gaz, electric in his seat. eyes smouldering umbre. "i mean, you trust us the most, don't you?" us. it's stunning, he thinks, the way Gaz can weave tapestry in the air like this with just his words. one tangled like shibari binds. "and we care for you a lot. we'll be gentle. it's up to you, of course, but—"

Soap's bloody hand disappears under the table. you gasp. "yer askin' fer it, ain't ye? beggin' so pretty fer it."

"n-no, i—"

"mind your manners." Price. his voice is chiselled into char, authoritative; low. a lulling command spoken in a breath of smoke. "and don't lie, love. or i'll have to take you over my knee."

the tension is thick. Soap's arm moves, slow. deliberate. Ghost has clench his jaw to avoid bearing his teeth. snarling.

Gaz cuts it with a knife. hews compliance into your skin with a fine needle point. "it's okay. we'll take such good care'a you. make you feel so good."

your submission is a heavy thing. oppressive. the shallow dip of your chin, the blistering heat simmering under your flesh, burning right, is the prettiest fuckin' thing he's ever seen. he does clench his jaw this time. tight, tight. tight

until something pops.

"okay." you yield. head bowed. beautifully submissive.

when he looks around, catches the predatory crackle in the air. his hackles raise. immediate. instinctual. and ah, right.

it's easy to forget he's surrounded by a wild pack of stray dogs. starving ones, too.

[atoltia]

Their Little Nest

In which MC reorganizes their house over time and Sylus, because of an offhand comment from the twins, thinks she's nesting.

Sylus x fem!MC fluff

Pregnancy thoughts and talk.

-0-

It started with the little things.

Tiny potted plants sat prettily on his shelves, the many side and coffee tables in the manor, their little pops of green and brightly colored petals brightening what once was a corner of shadow.

It wasn't like Sylus didn't keep plants in the house, no. It was just he didn't pay them any mind besides making sure the staff was taking care of them.

So it really came as a surprise when he suddenly found himself watching you and the twins hauling boxes into the house, chattering about plant growth and such as you took out several lamps.

"Kitten," he said from his position by the doorway, strong arms folded over his chest as he leaned against the frame. "With that much light, you're going to start to photosynthesize."

You turned, smiled at him as you tilted your head up to nuzzle into his chin when he strode towards you. You held up two different types of lamps for him to see. "They're lamps."

"I can see that."

You chuckled, leaned against him when he reached over to fiddle with the lamp in your hand. "I didn't know if I needed sun lamps or grow lamps for the plants so I got a lot of both."

"Mm." Sound logic enough, he thought. He patted her head. "Let's set them up, then."

And so they did.

(Even though both of you did bicker about adding a grow lamp - not the sun lamp - in his office for that tiny desk succulents you graciously added to his massive workspace.)

(He conceded, of course.)

But it didn't stop there. Not that he expected it to stop, knowing you.

It was a rough day. A negotiation that Sylus needed to get done didn't pull through as the moron representing the offending faction decided to get flustered and pulled out a gun at him, voiding the deal and thus resulting in a gun fight.

The situation was dealt with easily enough, but the cleanup needed his attention particularly because they had several protocores that he was aiming to acquire and wasn't going to leave without them. Alas, as they refused to make it easier for everyone involved, they had to waste not just his time but his ammo as well as his perfectly cut suit.

Sylus landed on the couch with a groan, relief finally flooding his bones as the tension in his body started to dissipate. He wasn't bleeding any longer, but the aches remained, a dull thrum consistently buzzing so much that it prevented him to experience the relief of sleep.

While the fog enveloped the N109 Zone to obscure it from the wrath of the sun, the instinctual yearn for daylight annoyed him. The mere ghostly memory of the sun on his skin made him purse his lips, the mere thought of it sapping his already drifting energy.

He turned his head, buried it into the pillow-

He blinked, propped himself on his good arm as he stared at the pillows. Gone were the hard blocks of stone that posed for a pillow that he just never bothered to replace, seeing as he was in pain often enough that the uncomfortableness of them barely registered to him anymore. What sat under and beside his head were soft, the slight fur on the covers lightly tickling his cheek as it cradled his head, rapidly easing his throbbing headache.

Long fingers flexed, his brows furrowing when softness once again surrounded his senses.

There was a thick blanket beneath him, separating his battered body from the worn and cold leather of the couch.

Now, Sylus is a perceptive man. Being observant of his surroundings and having the ability to react accordingly is part of his job description, his lifestyle. One misstep, a single moment of carelessness, and he could end up dead.

He was sure these pillows and blanket were not here before he left the house no less than eleven hours earlier.

"Sylus."

He turned, alert eyes softening at the sight of you, drinking up the image of you in one of his long-sleeved button-ups that hung over your significantly smaller frame, your hair mussed in multiple directions.

A lazy, crooked smile adorned your face as you hummed his name, your eyes still drooped with sleep. The adorable crow plushie was cradled lovingly in your arms.

You took your time to cross the room, loved the way he settled back onto the couch as he watched you, those wonderful scarlet eyes not once leaving you. You accepted his outstretched hand, your laugh softly lilting in the air when he pulled you into his embrace.

"Hi," you purred, your body molding perfectly into his.

"Good morning." There was a tenderness in the room, blanketing the both of you as you cuddled on the couch. You cherished moments like this. It's not so often that Sylus would get home when you wake, and while you know that your beloved wasn't all too fond of the mornings, you also know that the man made sure to make time for little moments like this despite his busy schedule.

"You changed the pillows," he muttered, his deep voice rumbling as he nuzzled into your hair.

"Did I?" You kissed his exposed clavicle, trying to hide your smile.

"You did."

"Maybe the twins did it."

He snorted, his fingers digging into your hips before massaging it as his other hand fiddled with the leather that held your knife strapped to your thigh. "They would've have bought a vibrating couch before they get to the pillows."

You laughed. "That's true."

A beat of silence. Just two lovers laying on a couch, sharing whispers and secret laughter as the sun rose far beyond the N109 Zone.

It was peace.

Oh, if only that peace lasted.

It's been a few weeks since that little moment on the couch, and Sylus couldn't fathom how they went from there to where you were at this moment.

He sat on a stool on the kitchen, watching you clean what seemed like the eighth room in the manor and you didn't have any indication of stopping soon.

None of them knew why you were in such a frenzy to clean, but you knew it was important do it Right Now. He offered to help you, of course, after having a quick round with him arguing that you should just leave all the cleaning to the staff, seeing as that's one of the primary reasons why he hired them in the first place.

"Sweetie," he said, exasperation leaking into his usual smooth voice. "If you keep at it any longer, I'm gonna have to clean you up from the floor."

You scoffed, hissed when he tried to grab the mop from you. "You better sit your ass down before I dismantle all of your guns again."

"Oh?" His voice, sickly sweet, as he trailed the tip of his fingers up your neck, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "Will you, now?"

Your eyes glinted, lips curling into a menacing smile as you passed the mop to your other hand, completely dodging his attempt to take it from you as you pressed your body sensually to his. Deft fingers from your now free hand lightly tapping playfully against his chest. You crooned. "You know I will."

A stare down. Something not too uncommon between the two of you. A pair of strong, stubborn people unwilling to yield.

Most of the time.

"Alright," he conceded. Sylus knew, even without peering into your desires, that you will not budge on this matter. So he sat, admitting full well that this isn't an issue that's worth having an argument over.

It only took one look from him to shut the twins' guffaw from the other side of the door. He could ignore the snickering, however.

"This is like the third time she cleaned this room," Kieran whispered to his brother.

"Fourth," supplied Luke as he enjoyed the way their boss was sulking at the counter. He didn't look like he was sulking, Luke knew that full well, but he just had that feeling. "You were too busy buying detergent when she cleaned this last Monday."

"Ah."

"Hm."

"Maybe she's nesting or whatever."

Luke hummed, shrugged. "Maybe."

Sylus was a man of composure. Not even the most lethal of situations are able to get a rise out of him, and even if it did, no one would be able to tell from his perfected poker face.

That was the only reason why he didn't fall out of his stool.

Could you be pregnant? But you two have been so careful, so sure that the both of you have done the necessary things to have safe sex. But it wasn't impossible, he knew. It was also possible for non-pregnant women to exhibit nesting behavior. Surely, you'd tell him immediately if something was amiss or... if you were experiencing some symptoms.

Children, huh? He didn't think he'd be a great father. If anything, he'd be a horrible one considering the simple fact that he brought danger with him anywhere he went.

He was hard lines and violence, bloodshed and death. The sins that he's committed - and will commit - was unfit for a father. A good father.

But... he supposed it would be nice to have children running across the house. His and your kids. A physical manifestation of your love.

It's not that he needed to have a mini version of himself. As far as he knew, he never had any inclination of even desiring to have them. That avenue of conversation hasn't opened up between you too, either. He didn't know if you even wanted to have children.

Children with him.

And he wouldn't mind it if you didn't want them. They were a commitment, not just some playthings to be discarded once the novelty wore off. It would take a lifetime.

Yet... It's a nice thought.

"Darling?" It was well into the night. You and Sylus were already snuggled up in bed but you knew something was off. Ever since your little event in the kitchen, Sylus has been drifting, sometimes zoning out into space. It was very uncharacteristic of him.

So you waited. He'd tell you eventually.

Yet you have to admit to yourself that you can be impatient.

Those eyes of his, momentarily dazed, focused on you. The room was dark, the steady thrum of the air conditioner droning in the background. And still you felt his eyes on you, focusing, focusing, his arms pulling you in closer to his body.

"Yes?"

"What's wrong?"

Of course you'd see it. Not that Sylus even attempted to hide it, seeing as you'd peer through him eventually. You waited for him to speak, frowned when you felt the spiking of his evol. "Sy?"

"Are you pregnant?"

You sputtered, pushed up from your position on the bed. Your hand quickly tapping the button for the lights.

Warmth illuminated the room as you stared into his eyes. You thought he was joking, thought he was pulling your leg, but the emotion that stormed his eyes moved you, surprised you.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Sy." There was distress in his voice, something that you thought you'd never hear. "My period finished a few days ago."

He closed his eyes as he let that information sink in, nodded. Released a breath. "Okay."

"Sylus." You nudged him, urged him to open his eyes. "Sweetheart, what brought this on?"

Sylus sighed, feeling as though the energy was tapped from him. Well, there was no reason to beat around the bush on this. "Kieran mentioned you might be nesting."

For all the time you've spent with Sylus, you knew that man rarely blushed. But the pink that dusted his cheeks and ears endeared you, the heartbeat that you loved listening to spiking.

"I'm sure, Sy."

"Right."

He didn't know if it was relief he felt as he held you, fingers kneading into the dip between your hips. He sighed. Gave you the smile that was only reserved for you.

"Why did you change the pillows?"

You tilted your head, smiled back, leaned down to kiss his nose. So it came back to the pillows.

"I wanted you to be comfortable whenever you collapse on the couch."

"The plants?"

"This place is stuffy without them."

"And the cleaning?"

"I don't like the way the staff cleaned our house."

He stared at you, those gorgeous garnet eyes of his looking at you with a mix of adoration and complete and utter confusion. He blew a breath.

"I was overthinking, then."

"You think so much all the time, I'm surprised it's taken you this long to short circuit."

"I didn't short circuit."

"You don't have access to seeing your expressions, darling."

You laughed when he pinched your sides before your hands slip up and cupped his face. "I love you, you know that?"

"I know." His voice dropped down an octave as he trailed open mouthed kisses from your shoulder to your neck. "I guess that's why you're making me insane."

You snorted. "You never needed my help with that, dumbass."

He nipped your neck, nuzzled. "I love you, too."

"Mm." But you took his hand, pressed it to your stomach, stared deep into his eyes. "Do you want to have children with me, Sy?"

Your eyes were impossibly deep that he couldn't look away. Couldn't even think of attempting it.

"Yes."

Straightforward as ever, Sylus is. You blew a breath.

Swung your legs over him and straddled him in one swift move.

"Maybe we can start trying now, then?"

-0-

this has been running in my brain for days and i just had to write it asfsdg

check out my other sylus fluff fic!

and another sylus fic but with a cat :>

[usedpidemo]

Brand new day (Twice Sana & Dahyun)

23.5k words

—————

The air in the JYP practice room hangs thick and used. It smells like stale sweat, the sharp tang of disinfectant trying and failing to win, and of faint, hot ozone smell from overworked electronics. The polished floor reflects the harsh overhead lights and nine exhausted figures slumped against mirrored walls. It’s Stray Kids, weeks away from their official debut—at least on reality TV. 

Limbs tremble. Chests heave. Hyunjin massages a vicious cramp in his calf, his face tight. Felix leans heavily against Changbin, his usual sunshine dimmed to a faint, flickering glow. Chan, ever the anchor, runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his eyes scanning invisible footage, dissecting every misstep, every beat slightly off from their brutal evaluation session.

"Alright," Chan rasps, his inflection rough as sandpaper. "Good effort today. Brutal, but good." He points toward Minho. "We tighten the transition into the second chorus. Minho, your pivot felt late."

Too spent for words, Minho just grunts. 

Silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the group’s ragged breathing. It’s the moment. The awful, suffocating moment you’ve carried for weeks, pressing down like the humid Seoul heat outside. It claws its way up your throat, bitter and sharp. The words drop like stones into the stagnant air. 

Now. 

"I’m quitting."

The ragged breathing stops. A bomb detonates in the stillness. 

Felix’s head snaps up. Changbin stops mid-sip, water bottle hovering halfway to his lips. Hyunjin’s hands freeze on his leg. Seungmin’s analytical gaze locks onto you, sharp and questioning. Jisung’s jaw drops. Jeongin blinks, wide-eyed, uncomprehending. Minho slowly pushes himself upright. Chan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t gasp. His eyes narrow, the exhaustion vanishing, replaced by a terrifying, laser-focused intensity. He takes a single step towards you, the squeak of his sneaker impossibly loud on the polished floor.

"What did you just say?"

You force yourself to meet his gaze. The weight of everyone’s judgment feels gargantuan. 

"I said I’m quitting. Dropping out. Before the reveal." 

The stunned silence shatters like glass.

"Quitting?" Changbin explodes, surging to his feet, fatigue instantaneously disappearing. The water bottle clatters forgotten. Disbelief and betrayal fuel his words. "Are you insane? Weeks away! After everything? The hell is wrong with you?" 

Hyunjin scrambles up beside him, his expressive face tight with confusion and dawning hurt. "Hyung, this isn’t funny. What are you talking about?"

Felix looks devastated, his deep cadence now sounding unusually small. "But—we're a team. Stray Kids. All of us."

Questions overlap, sharp as shrapnel.

"Did something happen?"

"Did the evaluation go that bad?"

"Is it pressure? We can help!"

"You can’t just leave!"

Chan holds up a hand. The room falls silent again, tension crackling through the place like static electricity. He takes another step closer. Not shouting. Worse. It’s low and controlled, vibrating with a fury simmering beneath the leader’s calm. 

"Explain. Right now. Because this?" His gesture is sharp, encompassing the room, the years of grueling training, the imminent debut they’ve bled for. "This isn’t just about you. You don’t get to just quit because you're tired, or scared, or had a bad day." His eyes bore into yours, searching for weakness, for the selfishness he thinks he sees. "You owe us that much. An explanation for this—this selfishness."

His accusation, the emphasis on selfishness, hits harder than any vocal coach’s criticism. It echoes the doubt gnawing at your own insides. You flinch. You see the flicker of confusion in Chan's eyes—he sees the flinch, but not the defiance he expected. He sees exhaustion deeper than practice, pain unrelated to sore muscles.

Your shoulders slump. The weight you’ve carried alone, the secret festering in the dark corners of your mind while you smiled through practice—it all crashes down. Your eyes drop to your worn sneakers, the laces frayed from countless hours in this room. The sterile image of a hospital floods your senses, replacing sweat and floor polish.

"My brother," you mutter. The word hangs heavy, thick with brotherly dread. You force your head up, meeting Chan's gaze again. His rigid anger falters, replaced by wary confusion. "My younger brother. He's—he's sick. Really sick." 

Your voice cracks. "They called me earlier. Today. After evaluation." 

You swallow hard. The memory of your father's voice, thick with a fear you've never heard before, scrapes your nerves. "He's been in the hospital. For weeks. They—they didn't want to tell me. Didn't want to distract me." A bitter, hollow laugh escapes your throat. "Distract me."

Utter, deafening silence. Even the hum of the air conditioning seems to fade. All eyes lock on you, their anger replaced by dawning horror.

"They thought it was just a bad flu at first. Then it wasn't." The words come out flat, mechanical, like reciting a terrible script. "His fever won't break. His lungs—they're struggling. The bills—" You shake your head, the sheer, suffocating weight pressing down. "My parents—they're trying. Selling things. Borrowing. But it just keeps growing. It won’t stop.”

You look around at the faces of your team—your brothers in everything but blood. Sudden realization replaces anger on Changbin’s face. Empathy floods Felix’s eyes. Protective concern hardening Hyunjin’s jaw. Jisung covers his mouth. Minho looks stricken. Seungmin’s analytical gaze fills with painful comprehension. Jeongin looks like he might cry. 

"And I'm here," you continue, the guilt and weight of responsibility spilling over. "I'm here, dancing, singing, worrying about hitting a note or nailing a step, while he's fighting just to breathe. While my parents are drowning." 

Your voice rises, trembling. "How can I stand on stage? How can I smile for the cameras? How can I chase this dream when my family is breaking apart? I don't deserve it. I haven't earned the right. Not now." You rake a hand through your hair, unable to face them any further. "That's why—why I've been off. Why the energy's gone. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't tell you. I just—I couldn't find the words. Didn't want to burden you."

The silence that follows is profound and heavy. Saturated with newly-shared pain. Chan’s rigid posture dissolves. The fury is gone, replaced by deep, aching sorrow. He takes the final step, closing the distance. Not to confront, but to connect. His hand reaches out, hesitates, then lands firmly on your shoulder. 

It’s not the grip of a leader. It's a friend’s. An anchor.

"Oh, man," he breathes, anger suddenly gone, leaving only compassion. His despair thickens. "Why—why didn't you say something?"

Before you can answer, Changbin moves. He steps forward to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a tight, almost crushing hug. 

Right there, everything shatters. 

A sob escapes you, muffled against his shoulder. Hyunjin is there, adding his weight, his hand gripping your arm. Then Felix presses in, his smaller frame radiating warmth. The others soon converge into a wave of silent, overwhelming support. 

Arms encircle you; heads press close. A tangle of limbs, shared breath, and tears you can no longer hold back. Chan’s hand remains on your shoulder, grounding you within their rigid, unconditional solidarity. The weight in your heart doesn’t lift, but for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you're carrying it alone.

The practice room door swings open with a cheerful squeak, shattering the tear-stained silence.

"Delivery service!" Sana’s bright, melodic timbre rings out, instantly followed by the rustle of plastic bags and soft footsteps. "We brought fuel for the warriors! Who's ready for—" Her words trail off as she takes in the unusual scene.

The other Twice members stand framed in the doorway, laden with takeout and drinks. Jihyo leads, her confident expression morphing into wide-eyed surprise. Nayeon peers over her shoulder, eyebrows arched high. Momo tilts her head, confused. Tzuyu blinks slowly. Mina’s gaze softens instantly. Chaeyoung nudges Jeongyeon, who frowns. Sana, holding a bag aloft, freezes mid-step, her infectious smile vanishing in real-time, replaced by pure bewilderment. Beside her, Dahyun’s sharp eyes scan the huddled mass of Stray Kids, lingering on your tear-streaked face pressed against Changbin’s shoulder, then flick to Chan’s hand on your arm, to the emotions etched on every face.

Jihyo recovers first, gentle and cautious. "Whoa. Did—did we interrupt something? Bad time?" She lowers her bags slowly.

The Stray Kids huddle loosens slightly, but the protective circle around you remains. Chan clears his throat, roughed up with tears. "No, it's—it's okay. Just—some heavy news."

Still holding you, Changbin shifts. "His brother," he states simply, "Really sick. Hospital. Terrible."

The explanation ripples through the Twice members. Concern overrides confusion. Nayeon’s playful energy vanishes. Momo’s expression turns serious. Mina takes a small step forward, eyes filled with quiet empathy.

You pull back slightly from Changbin, wiping your face roughly with your sleeve. Feeling exposed under nine more pairs of eyes. You take a shaky breath. "Yeah. My little brother. He's—been in the hospital. Weeks. It's—not good. The bills—it's a lot." You swallow, every word sounding more repulsive. "I just—I told the guys—I need to quit. Go home. Be with my family. I can't—I can't do this right now. It wouldn't be fair. To them. Or to Stray Kids."

A soft murmur of sympathy runs through them. Jihyo nods slowly, understanding. Nayeon bites her lip. Momo whispers something, her expression pained.

Sana moves first. She carefully places the bag down and walks towards the group, her bubbly energy replaced by profound, gentle solemnity. She stops close, large, expressive eyes fixed on yours, shimmering with unshed tears. 

"Your little brother—that's—" She shakes her head, unable to find the word, devastation clear. "I'm so, so sorry."

Her sincerity is a warm balm on a raw wound.

Dahyun steps up beside Sana, quieter but intensely present. Her sharp, observant gaze holds yours, cutting through the haze of your grief. She doesn’t offer platitudes. "That's—incredibly heavy," she states, devoid of her usual wit. "Family comes first. Always." 

There's quiet strength in her conviction. Then, something softer, more personal, crosses her features. "We're—really going to miss you around here, you know?" 

The admission is quiet, almost shy, but lands with surprising weight. It’s not just about a trainee; it’s about the person they’d come to know.

Jihyo steps forward, placing a comforting hand on Sana’s shoulder. "They're right," she says, firm yet kind. "Your family needs you. That's where you belong right now." She offers a small, encouraging smile. "Be strong for them. And for yourself."

"Yeah, kick that illness's butt for your brother! We’ll be rooting for him!" Nayeon adds, her cheerfulness is genuine, if a little misaligned. Mina nods silently, her gentle eyes radiating support.

The combined empathy, from both your brothers-in-arms and the seniors you admired, is overwhelming. Beyond measure. The Stray Kids group hug tightens again briefly, a final show of unified strength.

Chan finally speaks, thick but resolute. "Don't you dare apologize for wanting to be with your family. That's not selfishness. That's—that's love." He meets your weary eyes. "We'll hold it down here. Go. Be where you need to be."

As the hug dissolves, Sana reaches out. Her hand finds yours, giving it a quick, firm squeeze. Her touch is warm, grounding. "Be strong," she whispers. Dahyun offers a small, solemn nod beside her, her dark eyes holding yours for a second longer. 

The unspoken ‘We'll miss you’ hangs thick in the air. 

—————

The wind bites. Always does up here, even in late spring. It whips across the hillside like a restless spirit, tugging at your worn flannel shirt, carrying the scent of damp earth, animal dung, and wild thyme. 

Eight years. Eight years since you left Seoul’s neon haze, the mirrored practice rooms of sweat and desperation. The crushing weight of a dream deferred not for failure, but for family. Now, your kingdom is this: a thousand shades of green rolling towards a misty horizon, the plaintive bleating of sheep, and the low, contented rumble of the dairy herd grazing further down the slope.

Your brother wrestles with Bessie. Or rather, Bessie—a placid, hulking Friesian with eyes like chocolate marbles—tolerates his attempts to coax her away from a particularly lush patch of clover crowding the fence line. He’s sixteen now, all limbs and earnest clumsiness, the traces of his childhood illness lingering only in the slight, almost imperceptible fragility around his eyes, the way he sometimes gets winded quicker than he should. 

He’s healthy, though. Vibrantly, stubbornly alive. That’s the miracle you tend every day, more precious than any debut stage.

"Come on, Bessie," he pleads, pushing uselessly against her broad flank. "The good grass is over there. See? By the water trough?" 

Bessie swings her massive head, regarding him with bovine indifference before tearing another mouthful of tasty green.

You lean on the weathered fence post. A little smile plays on your lips. "Try the magic word."

He shoots you a withering look, the kind only a teenager can muster. "She doesn't speak English, big bro. Or Korean. Just—cow."

"Try 'please.’ Universal language." 

You push off the post, your boots sinking slightly into the soft, rain-damp earth. The reflex—the one that makes you scan for the wobble before the fall, the tremor before the shout—it’s ingrained now, deeper than any dance move ever was. You catch it: your brother, frustrated, plants his feet wrong on the uneven ground as he gives Bessie a firmer shove. His boot slips on a slick patch of mud hidden beneath the clover.

"Whoa!" His arms pinwheel: a comical, slow-motion ballet of impending disaster. Startled, Bessie finally shifts—but away from him, her heavy hoof coming down perilously close to his sprawled leg.

You’re moving before the gasp fully leaves his lips. Not the flashy acrobatics of another life, but the efficient, grounded motion of someone who knows this land and its animals. Two long strides, a firm hand grabbing the back of his jacket, hauling him upright and clear right as Bessie’s hoof squelches into the mud where his ankle had been.

He stumbles against you, breathless, face flushed with adrenaline and embarrassment. "S-sorry, brother. Didn't see the mud."

"Neither did Bessie," you grunt, steadying him. Your heart hammers against your ribs with that old, unwelcome thrum of responsibility. "Alright, move her properly. Shoulders against her shoulder, not her ribs. Steady pressure. She’ll follow." 

You demonstrate, guiding his hands, feeling the immense, warm bulk of the cow yield under your combined, gentle insistence. 

The clover is abandoned. The water trough is reached. A small victory on a windswept hill. 

It’s the Parker luck in play: saving the day, getting mud on your jeans, no applause or recognition given.

—————

The drive back to the cottage is a bumpy affair along the rutted track cutting through the endless grassy plains. Sheep scatter like grey clouds before the battered SUV. Your brother chatters beside you, retelling the Bessie incident with increasing dramatic flair, his earlier clumsiness forgotten in the glow of near-miss heroics. You half-listen, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the open window frame, whistling the radio’s tune. 

The air here is clean, vast, scoured free of the cloying exhaust and frantic energy of city life. It smells of sun-warmed grass, distant pine, and the faint, mineral tang of the stream cutting through the lower pastures. Disconnected. Safe. A world away from everything that came before. You breathe it in, trying to let the wide sky push the lingering image of polished practice room floors from your mind. 

Eight years is a lifetime. Almost.

The cottage emerges from the landscape like a stone itself: low, sturdy, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. Home. Scents of roasting chicken and herbs hit you before you even kill the engine, warm and welcoming, weaving through the crisp air.

Lunch is a noisy, affectionate affair around the scarred wooden table. Your mother fusses, piling your plate high. Your father recounts the morning’s minor dramas with the tractor. Your brother, mouth full, mimes his epic struggle with Bessie, earning indulgent laughter. Sunlight streams through the small kitchen window, catching dust motes dancing in the air. It’s simple. It’s good. It’s everything you ripped your old life apart for.

Your father clears his throat, reaching for the chipped ceramic jug of water. "Had a bit of an odd post this morning," he says, pouring slowly. "Foreign. Fancy envelope. Addressed to you."

You pause, a forkful of chicken halfway to your mouth. A post for you. Odd indeed. Here, it’s rare. Bills, farm suppliers, that’s it. "Foreign?"

"Mm-hmm." He takes a sip of water. "Looked official. Had a name on it—" He frowns, scratching his temple. "J.Y. something? Park? Looked like one of those investment scams, you know? Promising millions if you just send them your bank details first. Nearly tossed it in the burner." He chuckles: a dry, warm sound. "Your mother said hold on, it might be important. Wasn't heavy. No gold bars inside, eh?"

JYP.

The name hits you like a wicked blow, low and sudden in the gut. The taste of chicken turns to live coal in your mouth. The warm kitchen seems to tilt slightly. The laughter, the sunlight, the scent of herbs—it all recedes, muffled, replaced by the phantom echo of a metronome clicking in a sterile room, reeking of disinfectant and teenage ambition, and the crushing weight of a phone call received in a JYP hallway eight years ago. 

Your fingers tighten around the fork. JYP. The letters you wrote, painstakingly, hopefully, for years after leaving—2020, maybe 2021—bleeding your confusion and lingering grief onto paper, sent into a void that barely whispered back. Silence, mostly. A few brief, polite responses that felt like formalities, the distance widening with each unanswered letter until you finally stopped sending them. Gave up hoping. Blocked it out. Buried that part of your life deep beneath cattle shit and rolling green hills.

"It's—it's not a scam, dad," you manage, sounding strangely calm despite the tremor in your hands. You set the fork down carefully. "It's—the company. From before. In Korea. The one I trained with."

The table falls quiet. Your brother stops miming. Your mother's eyes, ever perceptive, fix on your face, filled with quiet concern. Your father nods slowly, understanding dawning. 

"Ah. That lot. Them singers." He pushes his chair back. "Well, it's on the sideboard. Didn't look like it would explode." 

He gives you a brief, reassuring pat on the shoulder as he gets up, heading towards the small sideboard near the door.

You don't taste the rest of your lunch. You force it down, mechanically, while the conversation cautiously resumes around you, skirting the sudden tension. The envelope sits on the sideboard like a warrant. A grenade with a JYP logo.

—————

The stairs to your small room under the eaves creak their familiar protest under your weight. The envelope feels unnaturally heavy in your hand, the thick, expensive paper stock alien against your calloused fingertips. You close the door, the solid wood a flimsy barrier against the past flooding back. Dust motes shimmer in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the small window, illuminating the simple bed, the worn desk, the shelves holding farming manuals and a few well-thumbed novels. 

No trainee manuals. No dance shoes. No posters of idols. Just the smell of old wood, sun-warmed plaster, and the faint, ever-present scent of grass carried on the breeze.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning softly. The return address is unmistakable: JYP Entertainment, Seoul. Your name, written in neat, unfamiliar handwriting. European postmarks layered over Korean ones. It feels like a message from another planet. Or a ghost.

With fingers that feel thick and clumsy, you tear open the flap. Not a bill. Not a scam offer. A folded sheet of thick, cream-colored paper, and nestled within it, four smaller, glossy rectangles. Tickets.

Your eyes scan the handwritten note first. The script is neat, precise, familiar in a way that twists something deep inside you.

Hey Mate,

Long time. Seriously long. Hope this finds you well, wherever you are. We were sorting tour logistics for the European leg (crazy, right?) and your name came up. Chan-hyung remembered you mentioned moving your family somewhere out there for your brother's recovery after—everything. Took some digging (blame Minho, he’s weirdly good at that stuff), but we figured out the rough area.

We’re playing a show in Zürich next month (attached dates/location – hope it’s not too far!). Feels like a lifetime ago, that practice room. Remembering the chaos, the laughs—and how you walked away for the right reasons. Always respected that. We talk about it sometimes, how brave that was.

Just wanted you to know we remember you. Hope life’s treating you kindly. Found some old photos the other day – you looked about twelve, hair ridiculous. Made us all laugh.

If you’re around and fancy a blast from the past (no pressure, seriously!), we’ve put four tickets aside. For you, your brother, your folks. Backstage passes too, if you want to say a quick hello. Be genuinely good to see you, even just for five minutes. No expectations.

Take care of yourself.

 - Bang Chan, Lee Know, Changbin, Hyunjin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, I.N

(Stray Kids)

The words blur. Zürich. Next month. We remember you. 

The casual mention of your brother’s recovery—a fact you’d shared in one of those early, desperate letters, seeking connection. They’d kept it. They’d looked.

A wave of heat rises up your neck, pricking behind your eyes. Not sadness, exactly. Not joy either. A confusing surge of something raw and long-buried. The tickets are real in your hand, cool and smooth. Four gateways to a world of screaming crowds, blinding lights, and the deafening beat of music you once knew by heart. A world you associated with sterile hospital waiting rooms, frantic phone calls home, the gnawing guilt of pursuing a dream while your family fractured.

You haven’t listened to K-pop in years. Blocked the channels. Deleted the apps. The very sound of an idol song could trigger a visceral recoil, a flood of memories associated with the worst period of your life. Stray Kids’ music belonged to the ghosts. To the boy who wrote those hopeful, unanswered letters, clinging to a thread of brotherhood that seemed to fray with every silent month.

You stare at the tickets. Premium seats. Backstage passes. A tangible, expensive olive branch flung across eight years and a continent. 

No pressure, seriously!

The urge is immediate: crumple the letter, shred the tickets, toss it all into the small woodstove in the corner. Watch the past turn to ash. Move on. Finally move on completely. 

You don't need this. You have the hills, the sheep, the smell of earth, your brother’s clumsy grin. You have peace. Simplicity. A life rebuilt brick by brick, far from Seoul’s gilded cage.

You stand up, the letter trembling in your hand. Walk towards the stove. The small iron door hangs open, cold ashes inside from last night.

But your feet stop.

You look down at the signatures. Bang Chan’s neat script. The little doodle Felix always used to add—a tiny sunshine. The earnestness in the words: We talk about it sometimes—Always respected that.

The unanswered letters—the silence—it hadn’t been malice. Just distance. Growth. The insane, all-consuming trajectory of becoming Stray Kids. They’d been kids too, back then. Now they were megastars, yet they'd remembered. They’d reached out.

A deep, shuddering breath escapes you. You lean your forehead against the cool plaster of the wall beside the window. Outside, the vast expanse of your present life stretches out. The green hills, the grazing sheep, the distant line of pines against the sky. Peaceful. Isolated.

The tickets feel heavy. They’re more than just paper; they’re a key. A key to a door you’d welded shut years ago. Opening it means letting the noise, the light, the complicated ache of the past flood back in. It means facing the ghosts: the boy you were, the dream you abandoned, the lingering "what if" you’d worked so hard to submerge beneath the rhythm of quiet rural life.

But beneath the fear, beneath the instinct to burn it all, something else stirs. A flicker of that old fondness. Not for the stage, not for the dream, but for them. The shared struggle in those mirrored rooms. The stupid jokes during breaks. The passionate, fleeting bond forged in the pressure cooker of trainee life. The respect in Bang Chan’s words.

You don’t want any part of it. You carved out this new life, here, for a reason.

And yet the tickets are here. An invitation, not a summons. Like they said: no expectations.

Your fingers smooth the crumpled edge of the letter. Carefully folding it back around the tickets. You don’t open the stove door, instead walking back to the bed and sitting down heavily as the envelope rests on your knees like a sleeping animal. You stare out the window at the endless green, the wind rustling the long grass, carrying the faint, comforting bleat of a sheep.

The past has caught up. It’s sitting in your lap. And suddenly, throwing it away feels less like moving on, and more like running away. Again. The Peter Parker luck: responsibility, even when you don't want it. Especially then.

Decision coils in your chest, tight and unresolved. You’ll tell them. At dinner. Show them the letter. Hear what they say. See what you say when the words actually leave your mouth. 

The farm, the peace, the quiet life you built—it feels suddenly fragile, balanced on the edge of four glossy pieces of cardstock. The hillside feels vast, but the world, with its flashing lights and pounding bass, just got a whole lot closer.

—————

Dinner smells like rosemary and burnt crust—mom’s attempt at shepherd’s pie, a staple that usually tastes better than it looks. Tonight, it sits heavy in your stomach before you even lift a fork. 

The letter, folded tight and square, is a lodestone in your pocket, pulling your thoughts down, away from the warm lamplight and the comfortable clatter of cutlery. Your brother inhales his food with teenage fervor, regaling your parents with an over-the-top dramatization of the Great Bessie Standoff, complete with sound effects. Meanwhile, you silently push peas around your plate.

The moment stretches, thick as the gravy. You catch your mother’s eye—that quiet, knowing look that misses nothing. Your father chews methodically, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window, on the darkening hills. The peace you fought for, bled for, feels suddenly fragile and paper-thin.

"Dad," you start, cutting through your brother’s enthusiastic bovine impersonation. "That letter. The one from—JYP."

Your brother freezes, his fork suspended mid-air. "JYP? Like the JYP? Park Jin-young? The company?" His eyes widen, saucer-like, darting between you and your father. "What'd they want? Are they scouting me? Did they see my TikTok dance covers?" He vibrates in his seat, a live wire of sudden, impossible hope.

Your father swallows, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Not a scam, then. As you said." He nods towards you. "Well? What was in it?"

The weight in your pocket feels like stone. You pull out the envelope, the crisp paper stark against the worn wood of the table. The attached tickets slide out slightly: glossy rectangles, stark black and neon against the cream. You lay them down without fanfare. 

"Concert tickets. For Stray Kids. In Zürich. Next month." The words taste like dust. "Four of them. Backstage passes too. For all of us."

Silence. Thick, stunned silence. The only sound is the wind picking up outside, whistling faintly around the eaves.

Your brother’s jaw drops. Literally. His fork clatters onto his plate. "Stray Kids?" he breathes, the name a reverent whisper. He lunges for the tickets, snatching them up before you can react. He stares, transfixed, tracing the embossed logo, the dates. "Premium seats—Backstage passes— big brother, how?" His gaze snaps to you, bewildered, ecstatic. "Do you know someone? Did you win a contest? Is this because of my fan letters?" Hope, bright and blinding, radiates off him.

Your mother reaches over, gently placing her hand over yours where it rests, white-knuckled, on the tablecloth. Her touch is warm, grounding. "They remembered you," she says softly. It’s not a question; it’s fact.

You can’t look at them. You stare at the half-eaten shepherd’s pie, the congealing gravy. "Chan wrote. Bang Chan. He—remembered I mentioned we were out here. After." You gesture vaguely, the word ‘after’ hanging heavy, encompassing hospitals, fear, the desperate flight away from Seoul. "They’re touring. Thought—we might like to go." You force a shrug, aiming for nonchalance, landing somewhere near brittle. "Sentimental, I guess. Or PR. Who knows."

"What will you do?" your father asks, low and steady. Practical. Always practical.

The answer bursts out, harsh, surprising even you. "Nothing. Burn it. Like you should have, dad." 

You meet his gaze finally. There’s no anger there, just a deep, weathered understanding. "That life—it’s done. Over. It belongs to hospitals and endless debt and feeling like I was drowning while trying to stand on a stage. I don’t want it back. Not a single echo." 

The bitterness is acrid on your tongue, a taste you thought you’d buried deep under the peat and the cattle. "We have peace here. We have him." You nod towards your brother, who’s still staring at the tickets like they’re holy relics. "Healthy. That’s the only dream that mattered. That’s the only one that came true. I’d choose it again. Every time."

Your brother flinches. The radiant excitement on his face flickers, dimming as your words sink in. He glances from the tickets to you, his expression shifting from starstruck awe to gradual, horrified comprehension. When it comes, his voice sounds small, stripped of its usual energy.

"You—you were training? With JYP? With—with Stray Kids?" He stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like the calloused hands, the mud-stained boots, the quiet man who fixes tractors and wrestles cattle, has suddenly peeled away to reveal a complete stranger. "You were—you could have been—one of them?"

The unspoken accusation hangs in the air: You gave it up? For me?

You see the guilt flood his eyes, swift and devastating. He looks down at the tickets in his hand like they’ve turned radioactive. 

"Oh," he whispers. Then, louder, more frantic, "Oh, big brother, no. I didn’t—I didn’t know." He shoves the tickets back across the table towards you, recoiling as if burned. "Burn them. Yeah. Burn them. Right now. I don’t want them. I don’t want anything from them." 

His voice cracks. "I stole your dream."

"Hey!" Mom is sharp, cutting through his rising panic. "Don’t be foolish." She turns her stern gaze on you. "And you. Stop talking like a martyr. You made a choice. A hard one. A good one. For family. There is no shame in that. Only strength."

Your father nods slowly, his gaze moving from your brother’s stricken face to yours, shadowed with the ghosts of the past. "Your mother is right. Throwing away kindness, even from an old life, solves nothing. It just leaves ashes." He picks up one of the tickets, studying it thoughtfully, the glossy surface reflecting the lamplight. "Stray Kids—they were your friends? Brothers, even, for a time?"

Emphasis on were. The thought stings. Like jellyfish bubbling up to terrorize unsuspecting souls on the beach.

"Something like that," you mutter, looking away. "A lifetime ago."

"And they remembered," your mother presses, her hand tightening slightly on yours. "After all this time. In the middle of their big world tour, they tracked you down. Sent tickets. For all of us." She gestures around the table. "That’s not nothing. That’s—human."

"Think of the experience!" your brother blurts out, his guilt momentarily overridden by the sheer, overwhelming magnitude of the opportunity. "Zürich! A real concert! Backstage! Big brother, they’re legends!" His inherent enthusiasm is reasserting itself, battling the shock. "Twice trained there! ITZY! NMIXX! JYP is everything! And you knew them? Before they were—them?" The fanboy in him is re-emerging, wide-eyed and desperate.

You sigh, pinching your temples. The headache is back, a dull throb behind your eyes. The thought of the noise, the crowds, the sheer, overwhelming presence of that world—the world you fled—makes your skin crawl. The polite distance in those late, sparse replies to your letters echoes in your mind. 

No expectations, Chan wrote. Easy for him to say, standing in the spotlight.

"But why go back?" you ask, the question directed more at yourself than them. "It’s done. I moved on. We moved on. Why dredge it all up?" The bitterness is still there, but it’s fraying at the edges, worn down by your brother’s puzzled awe and your mother’s quiet insistence.

"Maybe," your father says slowly, placing the ticket back down, "it’s not about going back. Maybe it’s about seeing how far you’ve come." He looks at you, his gaze steady and kind. "Maybe it’s about showing your brother a different kind of stage. And maybe—" He pauses, a rare hint of something softer in his eyes. "—maybe it’s about letting those boys see the man their old friend became. The one who chose right."

The silence returns, but it’s different now. Less charged with your resistance, more filled with a quiet, shared contemplation. The wind moans outside, a reminder of the vast, isolating peace beyond the cottage walls. Inside, the lamplight glows warm on the four tickets lying on the scratched table.

Your brother looks at you, his earlier guilt tempered by a dawning, hesitant excitement. "We—we could just go? For the music? As fans?" He bites his lip. "I mean—if you really don’t want to see them backstage—we don’t have to. But—the concert, big bro—it’s supposed to be insane. Felix’s voice—Changbin’s rapping—" He trails off, the fanboy winning out, his hope quarreling with the fear of pushing you too far.

Your mother squeezes your hand. "We’ll be with you. All of us. Whatever you decide."

The options crystallize: Burn the past—literally. Watch the expensive paper curl and blacken in the stove, a final, defiant act of closure. Or step, just once, back into the roaring river you escaped, armored with your family, to see if you can stand on the bank without being swept away. To see if the ghosts look different in the strobe lights.

You look at the tickets. At your brother’s anxious, hopeful face. At your parents’ steady, supportive presence. The Peter tingle twinges—not the spider-sense, but the deeper one: responsibility to the hope in your brother’s eyes, responsibility to the kindness offered, however complicated, responsibility to finally face the shadow of the boys you left behind in that practice room, not with animosity, but perhaps with a quiet acknowledgment.

The hills outside are dark, silent, immense. Safe. Zürich feels like another planet, loud and bright and terrifyingly full of memory.

You take a deep breath, the scent of rosemary and home filling your lungs. It doesn’t erase the phantom scent of disinfectant and ambition, but it anchors you. Here. Now.

"Alright," you say, the word leaving your lips before you fully register the decision. It feels less like surrender, and more like stepping onto shaky ground. "Alright. We’ll go. To the concert." You meet your brother’s ecstatic, disbelieving gaze. "As fans." 

You pick up one of the tickets, the glossy surface cool against your calloused fingers. The past stares back, bold and neon. "But we’re keeping the backstage passes. Just—just in case." 

Just in case you can stand it. Just in case the ghost recognizes the man.

The sigh that escapes you is heavy, laden with eight years of avoidance. But beneath it, tangled in the roots of your bitterness, a tiny, stubborn shoot of something else pushes through. Not excitement—not yet—but curiosity. And maybe, just maybe, the faintest echo of that old, complicated fondness, reaching back across the wind-scrubbed plains. 

—————

The roar hits you first. A physical thing, a wall of sound that slams into your chest the moment you step into Letzigrund Stadium. It vibrates up through the soles of your worn boots: sturdy, practical, utterly alien in this glittering cavern of neon and anticipation. Eight years of wind-whipped silence shatter in an instant. Beside you, your brother vibrates like a plucked guitar string, with eyes wide as saucers darting everywhere—the dizzying light rigs, the colossal screens flickering with pre-show animations, the sea of screaming, lightstick-wielding fans.

"Look!" he shouts over the din, grabbing your arm. "Look at the size of it! And our seats!" He points upwards, towards the section cordoned off near the mixing desk, away from the pulsating heart of the crowd. Premium. Detached. Safe. Exactly what you’d hoped for. An observation deck above the storm.

You simply nod, your throat tight. The sheer scale of it all is overwhelming. The smell–popcorn, sweat, cheap beer, and an undercurrent of expensive perfume–is a relentless sensory assault compared to the clean, grassy tang of home. You feel like a ghost haunting a future you abandoned, translucent and out of place. Your parents flank you, your mother’s hand finding the small of your back. 

"Alright?" she mouths, her eyes searching yours. You force a tight smile. 

Fine. You’re fine. You have to be. For him.

Your brother bounces on the balls of his feet as you navigate the steep steps to the seats. "The passes," he hisses, barely containing himself, fingers twitching towards the lanyard tucked inside your jacket. "We have to use them after! Promise? Please?"

"Focus on the show first," you tell him, rough against the rising tide of noise. The command comes out sharper than intended, a reflex honed by years of watching him stumble towards danger—cliffs, bulls, now this glittering precipice of teenage obsession. "Just—be here. In the moment. Okay?"

He deflates slightly but nods, eyes already glued to the empty stage as the house lights dim. The roar intensifies, a primal, collective intake of breath. Then darkness. A single, searing spotlight punches down. And they’re there.

They’re not the boys you knew. Not anymore. Amplified, electrified, moving with a synchronicity that’s almost alien. Bang Chan stands center stage, a figure carved from shadow and confidence, his opening cry booming through the stadium, a mature leader forged in the crucible you once shared. Felix’s impossible baritone resonates in your bones, Hyunjin’s limbs carve arcs of pure kinetic energy through the air, Changbin’s rapid-fire verses crackle like lightning. It’s polished and powerful, a machine operating at peak performance. You watch with arms crossed, a statue carved from bitter stone. 

This is what you walked away from. This is the dream you sacrificed.

The first few songs are a blur of noise and light, observed through a thick pane of detachment. You catalogue the changes: Minho’s sharper angles, Seungmin’s effortless vocal control, the sheer presence radiating from Jeongin. They’re men now. Stars. Worlds away from the sweaty teenagers crammed into that mirrored room, sharing cheap tteokbokki and dreams between punishing rehearsals. 

Your brother is lost, screaming lyrics, waving the borrowed lightstick like a maniac. You keep a hand lightly on his shoulder, an anchor in the raging waves of his enthusiasm, your own gaze distant, analytical. Safe.

Then, halfway through, it happens. A familiar synth line weaves through the bombast, a melody from the early days—one they’d struggled with, argued over, practiced until dawn in that cramped studio. A song about perseverance, about holding onto hope when the path seems dark. Chan cracks, just slightly, on a high note. Not a mistake. Raw emotion. And suddenly, you’re not in Zürich.

You’re eighteen, slumped against the practice room mirror, muscles screaming, lungs burning. Chan crouches beside you, offering a water bottle, his own face pale with exhaustion. "We’ll get it," he rasps, that same stubborn certainty in his eyes. "One more time. For us." 

Changbin throws a sweaty towel at your head, laughing. "Yeah, unless you’re scared, old man!” Felix just grins, offering a fist bump. 

The shared struggle. The stupid jokes. The fragile, resolute belief in each other. The memory hits like a sucker punch. 

Another song follows, a ballad this time. Seungmin steps forward, pure and achingly vulnerable. The lyrics speak of distance, of time passing, of bonds that stretch but don’t break. You see Minho, not the dancer on stage, but the quiet boy who’d silently shared his lunch when yours was forgotten. You see Hyunjin, not as the flamboyant performer, but the kid who’d nervously asked for feedback on his first self-composed rap. The faces of brothers, not idols. The shared hardship, the relentless grind, the dumb, joyful moments that made it bearable—it floods back in, a torrent breaching the walls you’d built brick by brick over eight long years.

Your vision blurs. You look down, blinking fiercely, focusing on the rough fabric of your jeans—the same ones stained with mud from the hillside. The contrast is jarring and painful. As the music swells, the crowd sings along, tens of thousands united. Your brother grabs your arm, his face alight with pure, unadulterated joy. And something deep within you, something frozen and buried, begins to thaw. It’s not envy. Not regret. It’s a profound, bittersweet ache: the recognition of a bond that never truly died, only hibernated through the long, seemingly endless winter of your absence. The stone in your chest isn’t cold anymore; it’s heavy with a warmth you’d forgotten, a warmth that feels suspiciously like grief for the brothers you left behind.

The final notes crash, the lights explode in a blinding crescendo, and the roar becomes a physical force shaking the arena. It’s over. Just like that. 

The house lights flicker on, harsh and revealing. People begin shuffling out, buzzing with post-concert euphoria. You stand frozen, adrift in the sudden silence within the fading noise, the echoes of the music and memories still reverberating through your bones.

"Hey." Your mother’s gentle touch on your elbow startles you. Her eyes are soft, knowing. "They were incredible." 

Beside her, your father nods in agreement, a rare look of deep respect on his face. Your brother is practically vibrating again, his earlier plea forgotten in the afterglow until he remembers.

"The passes!" he gasps, eyes wide, desperate. "Can we? Please? Now? Before they leave!"

You look at his face, flushed with excitement, eyes shining with the magic of the night. You look at your parents, their quiet support unwavering. The thought of facing them—those polished stars who were once your ragged brothers—sends a fresh wave of uncomfortable dread through you. The farm boy amidst the glitter. The one who walked away. 

But the warmth, the bittersweet ache in your chest, the responsibility to this kid who looks at you like you hung the moon—it wins.

"Yeah," you hear yourself say, the word thick. "Okay. Let’s go."

Backstage is a different kind of chaos. A labyrinth of concrete corridors buzzing with roadies hauling equipment, harried staff barking into headsets, and the lingering smell of sweat and hairspray. A security guard checks the passes with bored efficiency, then waves you through a heavy door marked ‘Artist Only.’ The noise drops to a muffled hum. Your brother clutches your arm, suddenly wide-eyed and silent, the enormity hitting him.

They’re gathered in a large, brightly lit lounge area, still abuzz with adrenaline, towels draped around necks, sipping water. The transformation is jarring up close. Stage personas are shed; they look exhausted, human, drenched in sweat but grinning. Chan spots you first. His eyes widen, then crinkle into a smile that’s pure, unguarded warmth—the same smile he’d given you after nailing that impossible choreography sequence years ago.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he calls out, hoarse but genuine. He strides over, bypassing your outstretched hand and pulling you into a brief, hard hug. The scent of stage makeup, sweat, and something uniquely Chan—earnest and familiar—hits you. "You made it!"

The others turn. A chorus of surprised shouts, your name echoing off the concrete walls. Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. Changbin grins, slapping Felix’s arm. "Told you he wouldn’t chicken out!" Hyunjin beams, Seungmin offers a shy wave, Jeongin bounces over. The initial awkwardness you feared evaporates in an instant. There’s no distance, no starry aloofness. Just eight guys momentarily forgetting they’re Stray Kids, greeting an old friend. The brotherhood wasn’t gone. It was just sleeping.

"These must be your parents," Chan says, turning with impeccable politeness, bowing slightly. "Sir, Ma’am. It’s an honor." The others follow suit, a wave of respectful bows and murmured greetings. Your usually stoic father looks genuinely touched. Your mother beams, immediately launching into praise for the performance.

"And this," you say, gently nudging your shell-shocked brother forward, "is the number one fan. Knows every lyric, every dance move since—well, probably since he was eight."

Your brother turns beet red, stammering. Felix crouches down slightly, his sunshine smile dialed up to eleven. "No way! Really? What’s your favorite song?" 

The floodgates open. Your brother’s earlier nervousness vanishes, replaced by hyperactive fanboy energy. He breathlessly gushes about Felix’s voice, Changbin’s rapping, Minho’s dancing, and so much more. Minho ruffles his hair playfully. Changbin challenges him to a (very) brief rap battle. Jeongin shows him a silly handshake. They treat him not just as your brother, but as one of their own: a kid sharing in their joy. You watch, a lump forming in your throat again, the protective tension easing from your shoulders. 

They’re good people. Always were.

After a whirlwind of photos, autographs (your brother nearly faints), and your parents expressing heartfelt thanks, your father clears his throat. "We should get this young man home," he says, placing a hand on your brother’s shoulder. "Big day tomorrow, early start." He looks at you, then at the group. "You’ll be alright getting back? You remember the city?"

You nod. Zürich’s efficient trams are a world away from navigating muddy hillsides. "Yeah. I know my way around."

Your mother gives your arm a squeeze, her eyes saying everything. We’re proud. We’re here. Talk to them. 

"Don’t be too late," she murmurs. Your brother, still riding that high, gives you a quick hug.

"Thanks, bro. Best. Night. Ever." 

And then they’re gone, absorbed back into the corridor’s dimness, leaving you alone with the echoes of your past.

The atmosphere shifts. The playful energy settles into something quieter, more intimate. Bottled water is passed around. They collapse onto couches, the exhaustion of the performance finally showing. You lean against a table stacked with equipment cases.

"So," Chan starts, stretching his arms. "The farm life? Suits you. You look—solid." There’s no judgment, just observation.

"Hard work," you admit. "Different kind of tired. But good. My brother—he’s healthy. Strong. That’s what matters." The words are simple, but they carry the weight of eight years of struggle and relief.

Felix nods vigorously. "We saw the photos Chan dug up. Kid looks great. Seriously." There’s genuine warmth in his words.

Changbin leans forward. "And you? Really alright? Not just saying it?" The directness is pure Changbin, cutting through the pleasantries.

You meet his gaze. "It was hard. Leaving. The guilt—the what-ifs—they don’t vanish overnight. But seeing him run, laugh, be a normal pain-in-the-neck teenager—yeah. I’m alright. More than." You take a breath. "Meanwhile you—this?" You gesture around the room, encompassing the venue beyond. "It’s insane. You built this."

Minho snorts. "Built it? Sometimes feels like we’re still holding it together with duct tape and hope backstage." But he’s smiling.

They talk, not as global superstars, but as young men catching up. The grueling tour schedule, the creative pressures, the weird food cravings in different countries. Chan mentions a particularly disastrous attempt at making pasta in Madrid. Hyunjin complains about losing his favorite sketchbook. Seungmin talks about missing his dog. Mundane details, shared exhaustion, lingering humor—it’s familiar. The years melt away. The brotherhood isn’t a relic; it’s a living thing, picking up threads as if you’d just stepped out for coffee.

During a lull, Chan pushes himself off the couch. "Almost forgot," he says, walking towards a cluttered desk in the corner. He rummages through a bag and pulls out a small, elegantly wrapped gift box: silver paper, a simple black ribbon. "Got handed this before the show. Strict instructions: give it to you, only after the concert, and only when you were alone with us." 

He holds it out, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No hints. Sworn to secrecy."

You stare intently at the box. Suspicion quarrels with confusion. Who in this world, connected to this orbit, would send you a gift. 

You take it, the paper feeling smooth and cool under your work-roughened fingers. The others watch, puzzled and curious. Untying the ribbon, the silence feels suddenly thick. Peeling back the paper reveals a plain white box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, are two things.

First, a small, exquisitely crafted silver pin in the shape of a stylized candy. Instantly recognizable. Second, a folded note card. You open it. The handwriting is bubbly, playful, unmistakable even after all these years.

Surprise! Bet you never thought you’d hear from us! Saw Chan-ssi was tracking you down (don’t worry, we made him swear secrecy!) and just HAD to say hello properly. We remember the practice rooms, the shared struggles—the real stuff. Heard about your brother—so happy he’s well! Just letting you know we’ll be in Paris next week for Lollapalooza. If you’re feeling brave (or just nostalgic!), come find us. We’d love to see the man our quiet trainee friend became. No pressure, just old friends!

– Sana & Dahyun ♡

(P.S. The candy’s for luck—and because Sana couldn’t resist!)

You stare at the note, the elegant pin gleaming in your palm. Sana. Dahyun. The other pillar of that shared generation, the sunshines whose success and determination mirrored your own struggles in different practice rooms down the hall. 

Memories flash: Sana’s infectious laugh echoing in a cafeteria, Dahyun’s quiet, observant wit during rare breaks, a shared nod of exhausted solidarity passing in a hallway. You’d been ships in the same storm, focused on survival, not friendship. Yet they remembered. They also reached out.

A disbelieving laugh escapes you, shaky at first, then genuine. You look up. Eight pairs of eyes watch you, various expressions of amusement and curiosity on their faces. Chan’s knowing smile is the widest.

"Candy?" Felix asks, peering at the pin.

"From Sana and Dahyun," you manage, holding up the note. "They—they want to meet. In Paris."

Changbin whistles. Minho smirks. 

"Twice? Man, you’re moving up in the world!"

Chan chuckles, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. "Told you they remembered. Our generation sticks together, even across the years—and sheep pastures." His gaze is warm, understanding the earthquake this simple gift represents. 

"Looks like your past," he says softly, nodding at the pin now resting in your palm, a tiny, gleaming bridge across years and continents, "isn’t quite done catching up with you yet."

Laughter bursts out before you can stop it—a dry, brittle sound in the plush backstage quiet. The hibernation, it seems, is well and truly over.

"Paris? With Twice? Come on, guys." You pocket the silver candy pin, its edges sharp against your thumb. "This whole thing," you gesture vaguely at the lingering concert energy, the expensive lounge, them, "it was a gift. For him. One incredible night. That’s enough."

Felix leans forward, sunshine dimmed to earnest warmth. "But they asked for you. Sana and Dahyun—they remembered. Like we did." His tone softens. "The quiet trainee who fixed our choreography mistakes and never bragged."

"Yeah, and also stole our snacks.” Changbin scoffs, but it’s fond and in light jest. “Point is, it’s not just about the past. It’s about now. Seeing you." He locks eyes with you, the playful rapper replaced by something steady. "We missed you, man. Properly."

Their sincerity hits like a physical pressure against your ribs. You look away, focusing on a scuff mark on your worn boot. "Missed you too. More than I let myself remember." The admission scrapes your throat. "But this life—the farm, the sheep, my brother waking up healthy every morning—that’s my now. It’s good. Solid. I’m not chasing ghosts in Paris."

Chan’s hand lands on your shoulder, a familiar anchor. "No one’s asking you to chase ghosts. Just—reconnect. See familiar faces who care. Consider it a break. A thank you." He glances at his members, a silent agreement passing between them. "We’ll handle everything. Flights, accomodation—consider it added tour perks."

The offer hangs, bountiful and impossible. You shake your head, a tight smile playing on your lips. "Generous. Seriously. You guys are doing the most. But gifts won’t shear sheep or mend fences. The farm doesn’t run on autopilot." 

You meet their concerned looks. "This," you pat your chest, over the pocket holding the pin, "this was the universe throwing me a wild curveball. Seeing you guys—hearing that old song—it was—healing an old wound. But Paris? That’s a different league. I’m content right here."

Minho raises an eyebrow, a trace of his old smirk returning. "Content? Or scared?"

The question nips because it rings true. He’s right. You’re scared. Of the noise, the lights, the sheer weight of that glittering world you fled. Of seeing Sana’s dazzling smile up close, Dahyun’s sharp gaze dissecting your farm-calloused hands. Of wanting something you swore you’d buried.

"Maybe a bit of both," you admit, the honesty surprising you. "But mostly, it’s responsibility. My responsibility is here."

Seungmin, ever perceptive, nods slowly. "We get it. Just—think about it? The offer stands. No pressure." He offers a small, understanding smile. "The brotherhood doesn't expire, you know. Eight years, eighty, or even eight hundred—you’re still one of us."

One of us—the phrase lodges in your chest, warm and undeniable. 

You clasp hands, a wordless echo of the solidarity that held you up years ago in that sterile practice room. The connection hums, strong as ever across time and continents. 

"Always," you rasp.

—————

Dawn at the farm is a symphony of baaing sheep and low murmurs of the dairy herd. Mist clings to the rolling hills as you help your father wrestle a stubborn feed bin lid. The crisp, homely air smells of damp earth and wild thyme, a grounding contrast to the lingering scent of stage smoke and expensive cologne in your memory.

Over breakfast–over thick slices of your mother’s soda bread and strong tea–your silence feels heavy. 

"The guys—they offered something else," you start, tracing the rim of your mug. "After the concert. Twice—well, Sana and Dahyun, to be more exact—they sent a gift. With an invitation. To Paris. Next week."

Your mother’s spoon stops against her porridge bowl. Your father pauses, a chunk of bread halfway to his mouth. "Paris?" your mother echoes. "The singers? The ones you trained with?"

You pull the silver candy pin from your pocket, placing it gently on the worn wooden table beside the butter dish. It glints, alien and elegant. "Yeah. They also remembered. Wanted to—reconnect."

Dad chews slowly, studying the pin. "And Stray Kids offered to send you?"

"They did. Flights, hotel—the lot." You push the pin slightly with your fingertip. "Said it was a thank you. A break."

"And you said no," states Mother, softly—not a question. Her eyes, wise and tired, hold yours.

"Of course I said no," you reply a touch too quickly. "The farm—the season—the lambs due next month—"

"Lambs can wait a week," your father interrupts, gruff but gentle. He sets down his meal. "Son, look at me." 

You meet his steady gaze. "You’ve spent eight years living for this family. For your brother. For these hills. You dug us out of a hole so deep I thought we’d never see daylight." He gestures around the cozy, cluttered kitchen, encompassing the house. "This peace? This life? You built it with your own two hands, and your sacrifice. Don’t think we don’t know the cost."

Mom reaches across the table, covers your hand with her own, worn and toughened by work. "He’s right. You poured yourself out, love. Every drop. For us." Her thumb strokes your knuckles. "Seeing you yesterday—when you came back after that concert—there was a light in your eyes we haven’t seen since before Seoul. Since you were that hopeful boy with a dream."

"It was just a night out," you protest, but the words lack conviction.

"It was more," she insists. "It was a piece of you coming back. The universe doesn’t send tickets and backstage passes and—“ she huffs, “—fancy candy pins for no reason. Maybe it’s not just a thank you from them. Maybe it’s a thank you to you. A chance to step out of the furrow for a minute. Breathe different air." 

She gently squeezes your hand. "You deserve a break. More than anyone."

Suddenly, the kitchen door bangs open. Your brother bursts in, cheeks flushed from the morning chill, eyes still wide with the afterglow of yesterday’s concert. "Bessie’s being a menace again! Whoa, what’s that?" He spots the pin immediately, pouncing on it. "Shiny! Is it candy?"

"It’s a pin," you say, watching him turn it over in his grubby hands. "From—from Twice."

His head snaps up. "Twice?! Like the Twice? Nayeon? Momo? Chaeyoung?!" His shriek hits a pitch only dogs should hear.

You explain briefly: the gift, the invitation, Stray Kids' offer, your refusal. His face falls, crumpling into disbelief. "You said no? To meeting Twice? In Paris?!" He looks at you like you’ve announced you’re joining a monastery on Mars. "Are you fucking insane?!"

"Language," Mom chides automatically, but she’s smiling.

"Think of the farm, kiddo," you say, trying to reason aimlessly. "The work—"

"Dad and I can handle Bessie!" he declares, puffing out his chest. "And the feed! And the fence by the stream! For a week!" He leans across the table, the pin clutched tight. "You have to go! It’s Twice! It’s Paris! It’s—it’s magic!" 

Alight with pure fan fervor, his eyes lock onto yours. Then, a sly grin spreads across his face. "Okay, fine. But you gotta promise me one thing."

"What’s that?" you warily ask.

He thrusts the pin back towards you. "You bring me back Dahyun’s autograph. No, wait—Sana’s! No—both! Definitely both." He nods decisively. "That’s the price. Go to Paris. See your idol friends. And come back with proof!"

The sheer audacity of it all, the collision of your tangled past and his simple, starstruck present, breaks the tension. A surprised laugh escapes you, rough but genuine. Your parents join in, the sound warm and filling the kitchen.

Looking at their faces—your father’s quiet pride, your mother’s tender insistence, your brother’s ridiculous, unwavering excitement—the resistance inside you, the wall built of duty and fear and eight years of careful isolation, finally begins to crumble. Not with a bang, but with the soft, persistent pressure of love.

The candy pin feels warm in your palm. Paris still feels impossibly loud, terrifyingly bright. But maybe—just maybe—facing those particular ghosts, with the weight of this family’s blessing at your back, isn’t running back to the past. Maybe it’s just—stepping into a different field for a while. Taking the break you never allowed yourself.

You close your fingers around the pin. "Alright," you say, the reluctant acceptance feeling strange, like a new flavor on your tongue. "Alright. I’ll think about it. Seriously." You meet your brother’s triumphant stare. "But you’re definitely helping Dad fix that fence."

He whoops, bouncing on his heels. The farmhouse walls seem to vibrate with his energy, a chaotic, hopeful counterpoint to the quiet green hills outside. The past had crashed back in, demanding attention. And for the first time in eight years, you weren’t immediately building a wall against it. You were just—holding the door open a crack, letting in a sliver of unexpected light.

—————

The private jet’s engines whine down to a whisper as the stairs unfold onto the Parisian tarmac. Three days early. Three days too early, your gut insists. 

The air here smells different. Jet fuel and damp concrete, not earth and sheep. Chan echoes in your head, gruff but insistent: "Take the jet. Seriously. Consider it—farm equipment for the soul." 

You’d laughed then, a nervous bark swallowed by the roar of your tractor back home. But now, stepping onto French soil in clothes that cost more than your best ram, the joke feels heavy and sour.

A man in a sharp black suit emerges as you diverge from the Arrivals terminal and step out the airport, holding a discreet sign with your name. Only your name. Not ‘the farmer’ or ‘big brother.’ Just you. 

"Welcome to Paris, sir. Your car is this way." 

The greeting is smooth, impersonal. 

Sir. It sounds—off. Like it’s meant for anyone but you.

Internally, you flinch. Eight years of calluses don’t disappear beneath soft Italian cashmere. The Stray Kids stylist had worked miracles: dark, perfectly fitted trousers, a sweater the colour of storm clouds that felt like touching a cloud, shoes that gleamed with a predatory shine. The result speaks for itself. You look—polished. Powerful. Like someone who belonged in this chrome-and-glass world. But you feel more like a prize bull dressed for market, acutely aware of every stitch.

The car is a silent, obsidian beast, purring like contented machinery. Inside, it smells of leather and something faintly citrus. Cold. Sterile. You sink into seats softer than any hay bale, watching Charles de Gaulle Airport blur past the tinted window. Rain streaks the glass, turning the world outside into a smudged watercolour. 

Flashbacks flicker, unwanted:

Changbin shoving a sleek garment bag into your arms backstage in Zürich, grinning. "Got you covered, farm boy. Try not to get sheep shit on the Armani."

Felix bouncing beside him. "Think of it as—undercover work! Blending in with the pop star elite!"

Minho, quieter, handing you a platinum card. "For essentials. Food. Don’t—don’t go buying a tractor with it." A rare, almost shy smirk.

Blending in. Right. 

As the car glides onto the highway, sleek buildings rise like monuments. Paris unfurls: grand, imposing, a stark contrast to your rolling green hills. This is the life they live. The life you could have lived. Private jets, luxury cars, clothes that feel like armor. It’s not envy that twists inside you, but a profound dislocation. This opulence isn't freedom, it’s a gilded cage—a dizzying glimpse into an alternate timeline where you stayed, where the farm faded into a bittersweet memory, not becoming your bedrock. 

You fiddle with the impossibly smooth cuff of your sweater, missing the familiar roughness of your worn flannel.

The hotel is more than lavish; it’s a silent opera of wealth. Marble floors gleam like frozen lakes. Crystal chandeliers hang like captured constellations. The air inside the main reception hums with quiet efficiency and the scent of money—of polished wood and expensive flowers. Your suite occupies a corner of the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of rain-slicked rooftops and the distant, hazy outline of the Eiffel Tower. It’s breathtaking. And utterly alien. 

The silence in your new room is oppressive after the constant lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep. You drop your small duffel bag—the only thing from home besides the candy pin tucked in your pocket—onto a bed wider than your tractor seat. It feels like sinking into a cloud. Unreal.

The video call chime echoes sharply in the vast room. You fumble with the sleek tablet provided, relief flooding you at the sight of your parents' familiar faces, pixelated but warm against the stark hotel backdrop.

"Look at you!" Your mother gasps, leaning closer to their screen. "Like a movie star!"

Your father just nods, a slow, appraising look in his eyes. "Suits you, son. But—you alright? Looks—big."

"It is," you admit, running a hand through hair still unused to the expensive cut. "Feels like I’m trespassing in someone else’s life." You motion vaguely at the background of opulence behind you. "This—it’s not me."

"Don’t be daft," your mother chides gently. "It’s part of you. The part that deserves a bit of shine after so long in the muck. Enjoy it! Soak in that fancy bathtub! Eat something ridiculous!"

"Everything’s fine here," your father adds, ever the steady anchor. "Bessie’s behaving. Fence by the stream’s half done. Your brother—" He glances off-screen, a faint smile touching his lips. "He’s out there right now, wrestling with that new post-hole digger like it owes him money. Determined to earn those autographs."

The mention of your brother’s obsession pulls a real grin from you. "Tell him the pressure’s on. Sana and Dahyun’s signatures or bust."

"He knows," your mother laughs. "He’s already cleared a spot on his wall. Now stop worrying about sheep and rain. Look out that window! You’re in Paris! Breathe it in. Let yourself—be here. For us, if not for you."

Their unwavering support is a tangible warmth cutting through the hotel’s dull chill. "I’ll try," you promise, the tightness in your chest easing slightly. "Love you."

"Love you more," your mother beams. "Now go! Explore! Have fun!"

The screen goes dark. Silence rushes back, but it feels less hollow now. 

You walk over to the window, pressing a hand against the cool glass. Paris sprawls below: a glittering, rain-washed labyrinth. Let yourself be here. Easier said than done. You’re still the man who checks fences at dawn, not the man who orders room service in a suite that costs more per night than your monthly feed bill.

A soft knock interrupts your train of thought. Opening the door, a bellhop stands there, holding a slim, elegant envelope. "Complimentary welcome gift, sir."

It’s thicker than the first. Cream-colored paper, slightly textured. Your name is written in the same bubbly, energetic script as before, but there are two distinct hands this time. Opening it carefully, you find not just a note, but a small, beautifully wrapped box.

The note unfolds:

Surprise Again! ✨

Guess who just landed early (well, we did! Shhh, don’t tell management!)?! Paris is calling and we couldn’t wait! Saw you got in safe (Chan’s very sneaky with updates!).

Tomorrow feels too far away. We want to see our quiet hero NOW!

Meet us? Please?

Under the Iron Lady herself—the Eiffel Tower! South Pillar, 5 PM sharp?

We’ll be the ones looking wildly out of place (or maybe not, knowing Paris!). Look for the candy! 🍬 (And maybe—some very excited hugs?)

P.S. Open the box! Sana insisted. (Dahyun thinks it’s cheesy, but secretly loves it too.)

– Your Parisian Partners-in-Crime (and Candy!),

Sana & Dahyun ♡♡

P.P.S. DON’T BE LATE! Or Sana might cry. (Okay, maybe not. But she’ll definitely pout.)

A warmth, different from your family’s, blooms in your chest. Their energy leaps off the page: Sana’s infectious enthusiasm, Dahyun’s dry wit beneath the surface. The mention of ‘excited hugs’ paints a vivid picture of their closeness, that easy, touchy-feely bond you’d sometimes glimpsed years ago in crowded JYP hallways. It’s personal. Intimate. A direct line from the past, abuzz with anticipation.

You open the small box. Nestled in black velvet are two additional gifts: another exquisite silver candy pin, identical to the first, and—a tiny, ridiculously soft plush sheep, no bigger than your thumb. 

A handwritten tag hangs from its fleece: ‘So you don’t feel too homesick! - S&D’

You burst out laughing, a genuine, surprised sound that echoes in the luxurious silence. The sheep is absurd. Perfect. A tiny piece of your muddy, woolly reality nestled right here in this concrete canyon. 

Sana’s playful care, Dahyun’s thoughtful grounding—it’s all there. You hold the little sheep in one hand, the new candy pin in the other. 

Paris seems less imposing now. Less like a monument to a life you missed, and more like—a city. Just a city. One where two women who remembered the quiet trainee, who sent candy and sheep, and wanted to see him again. Tomorrow, 5 PM. Under the Eiffel Tower.

You pocket their gifts, the room key feeling a little less alien against them. The reservations are still there, the unease blending itself with the cashmere armor. But underneath, a flicker of something else ignites. Not the swagger of new clothes, but the quiet, stubborn anticipation of seeing a familiar face—or two—under the Parisian lights. 

You trace the tiny sheep’s fleece. Okay, universe. Point taken. Let’s see what Paris has in store. 

The gilded cage door feels ajar. You might just step through.

—————

Late afternoon the next day, Paris hums of exhaust fumes, baking bread, and damp stone as you approach the Champ de Mars. The Eiffel Tower looms, an impossible lattice of iron against the bruised plum and gold streaks of the setting sky. 

You feel absurdly conspicuous. The storm-grey cashmere sweater Chan’s stylist insisted on feels alien against your skin: too soft, too quiet. The dark trousers are impeccably tailored, the shoes polished, unscuffed mirrors. A man carved from a different life, varnished and presented back to the glittering world he fled. A walking ‘what if.’ The little plush sheep in your pocket is your only anchor to reality.

Then you see them.

A cluster of figures near the South Pillar, radiating an aura of contained chaos even from a distance. Nine women. All impossibly recognizable faces. Not images on billboards, magazine scans, or screens, but flesh and blood, breathing the same Parisian air. The sheer magnitude of their presence hits you like a physical wave: global superstars, Asia’s girl group, casually waiting under the Iron Lady. Your feet stutter on the cobblestones.

They spot you almost simultaneously. A ripple goes through the group. Then, they’re moving towards you, a wave of warmth and vibrant energy crashing over the cool reserve. The greetings unfold like a carefully choreographed, yet beautifully organic, dance of reconnection.

Mina—she’s first, her approach graceful, almost hesitant. A soft, shy smile rests on her lips. Her handshake is gentle but warm. "It’s truly wonderful to see you again," she murmurs, like falling water. Her eyes, large and observant, hold a quiet, sincere affection. "Paris suits you."

It’s a silent kindness, a bridge carefully rebuilt over eight years of silence.

Momo bounces forward second, crackling with coiled energy. "Woah! Look at you!" she exclaims in Japanese, before seamlessly switching to Korean-accented English, grinning. "City slicker now, huh? Almost didn't recognize you without the—uh—farm smell!" 

Her laugh is loud and infectious. She gives your arm a playful punch, the familiarity startling and welcome.

Tzuyu’s third. Towering and elegant. She offers a deep, respectful bow, her expression serene but her eyes bright with curiosity. "Hello," she says, clear and melodic. "It has been a very long time. You look well." The greeting is formal, yet imbued with a quiet sincerity that cuts through the initial awkwardness.

Chaeyoung’s up fourth. She sidles up with an artist’s assessing gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She doesn’t offer a hand, just nods. "The quiet one returns. With a makeover." Eyes flick over your clothes, then back to your face, sharp and intelligent. "Suits the Parisian vibe. Good call." Her approval feels like a hard-won prize.

Nayeon’s fifth. She steps forward with unapologetic confidence, her gaze sweeping over you with playful intensity. "Well, well, well," she declares, hands on her hips. "The prodigal trainee! Look at you, all fancy (ooh)! Did Stray Kids finally drag you out the mud?" 

Her laugh is bright and teasing, but there’s a layer of genuine amazement underneath. She pulls you into a brief, surprisingly strong hug. "But seriously—so good to see you."

Next up is Jihyo. The leader steps forward, radiating a calm, powerful warmth. Her smile is wide and sincere, lighting up her whole face. She takes both your hands in hers, squeezing them firmly. "Welcome back," she says, resonant and full of emotion. "Truly. Seeing you here—it feels right." 

Her gaze holds yours, acknowledging the years, the distance, the sheer unlikeliness of this moment. "We’ve missed your quiet presence."

Jeongyeon follows right after. She approaches with a more grounded energy and a wry smile on her face. "Took you long enough," she says, her gruff but affectionate. She claps you firmly on the shoulder—a solid, mooring touch. "Glad you made it. Heard you’ve been busy building an empire of—sheep? Her chuckle is dry. "Respect. Now, let’s get up this monstrosity before Sana vibrates out of her skin." She subtly herds the group towards the elevator entrance.

Fame is a tangible entity. A hum in the space around them, drawing glances, hushed whispers, phone cameras discreetly raised. Yet, within their circle, it feels—surprisingly normal. Or as normal as reuniting with nine celebrities under the Eiffel Tower can be. They talk over each other, tease, laugh—a dynamic, living tapestry of personalities you remember in fragments, now vividly real.

Then, the final two detach themselves from the group hug forming around Jihyo.

First, Sana. She practically launches herself at you. Without hesitation. 

Her arms wrap tightly around your neck, her face buried momentarily against the expensive cashmere. "You’re here!" she breathes, thick with unbridled excitement, muffled against your shoulder. That trademark smile and those animated eyes gleam radiance, but softer, more personal. She holds your face in her hands, her touch warm and insistent. "Look at you! So handsome! And tall! Did you get taller?" Fussing with your collar, her fingers brush your neck, permeating unfiltered joy and affection. "We got your message! You liked the sheep? Dahyun thought it was silly, but I knew!"

And finally, Dahyun. She hangs back a beat, letting Sana have her moment. Her smile is quieter, more contained than Sana’s infectious charm, but no less warm. Sharp and observant as ever, she scans your face, taking in the changes, the lingering traces of the farm in your eyes despite the foreign clothes. 

When Sana finally releases you, Dahyun steps forward. Her hug is different: firm, grounding, one arm around your waist, the other hand a steady pressure between your shoulder blades. It’s a hug that says I see you. I remember. "Welcome to Paris," she says, low and modest, a counterpoint to Sana’s effervescence. She pulls back slightly, keeping a hand on your arm. "Glad the jet didn’t scare you off. You look—good. Really good." 

There’s a depth in her gaze, an unspoken understanding that bypasses the years.

Sana immediately loops her arm through Dahyun’s free one, pulling her close, resting her head briefly on Dahyun’s shoulder—that easy, tactile intimacy between them as natural as breathing. Dahyun leans into it, a small, private smile touching her lips as she looks at Sana, then back at you. 

"She hasn’t stopped talking about this since she heard the guys were going to Zürich," confides Dahyun, her thumb rubbing a small circle on your forearm where her hand still rests. "Practically packed a month early."

The elevator ride to the summit is a blur of sparkling city lights unfolding beneath the glass walls, mingled with the warm cacophony of catching up. Higher and higher, the panoramic view is staggering: Paris laid out like a jewelled map, the Seine a dark ribbon catching the last fiery glints of sunset. But the view inside the elevator is equally captivating.

Jihyo asks about the farm, her eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "Sheep? Really? Is it—peaceful?"

Nayeon interjects, "Peaceful? It sounds muddy! But tell us about your brother! Is he really strong now? Stray Kids said he’s a fan!" Her grin is infectious.

Jeongyeon adds dryly, "Yeah, apparently we owe him autographs. Pressure’s on."

You find yourself talking. About the rhythm of farm life, the satisfaction of hard work, the breathtaking relief of seeing your brother healthy and strong. You mention Stray Kids' concert gift, the shock of seeing them again, the casualness of the reunion, the overwhelming generosity. "They’re—incredible," you admit, your words feeling inadequate. "Like no time passed at all."

Momo bounces. "They’re monsters now! World domination! We see them sometimes, award shows, backstage—they’re still loud."

Chaeyoung smirks and raises an eyebrow. "Loud? Understatement of the century. But good loud. They work hard."

Jihyo nods in agreement, pride evident. "We all started in those same practice rooms. Seeing them soar—it feels like a shared victory." She gestures around the elevator, encompassing her group. "We’ve been lucky too. Tours, albums, been going nonstop—Lollapalooza feels like another dream." She mentions their own world tour plans, with a casual throwaway about Zürich next year. "You’ll have to come," she adds, looking directly at you. "Bring the brother. Front row this time."

Tzuyu smiles serenely. "The mountains there are beautiful. Different from your hills, but—peaceful too, maybe."

Mina simply nods in agreement, her quiet presence a calming counterpoint to Nayeon’s playful and random interrogation about whether Bessie the cow has a favorite song.

Throughout the ascent, Sana remains glued to your side, her arm hooked through yours now, her warmth a constant. Dahyun stands closely parallel, her shoulder occasionally brushing yours, her presence a steady, watchful pillar amidst the swirling conversation. Their casual touches—Sana squeezing your arm when you mention your brother’s health, Dahyun’s hand briefly resting on your back when the elevator gives a slight lurch—speak volumes of their connection to you, a silent reassurance cutting through the grandeur.

Near the top observation deck, Sana tugs gently on your arm. "Come! Dahyunnie and I want to steal you for a minute! The view is best over here!" 

She shoots a look at Jihyo, who nods with a knowing smile. Dahyun gives a small, confirming nod, her fingers briefly brushing yours as she guides you subtly away from the main group clustering near the eastern railing.

You follow them to a slightly less crowded spot facing west. The city lights are fully awake now, a breathtaking sea of diamonds stretching to the horizon. The Eiffel Tower’s own lights begin their hourly sparkle, bathing you all in a fleeting, magical shimmer. The noise of the crowd and the other members fades slightly, leaving a bubble of intimacy high above the world.

Sana leans her elbows on the cold railing, gazing out, but her body angles towards you. Dahyun mirrors her posture on your other side, closer than necessary, her arm pressed lightly against yours. The city’s hum is a distant thrum beneath you.

"It’s really good," Dahyun starts, words almost lost in the breeze, but her eyes are fixed on your profile, "seeing you like this. Healthy. Properly settled." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "We—we heard things. Back then. When you left."

Sana turns fully towards you now, her usual effervescence replaced by a profound seriousness. Her eyes search yours, glistening under the tower’s intermittent sparkle. "It was awful," she whispers, the word sharp against the world’s panoramic beauty. "We heard about your brother—the hospital—the bills." She swallows hard. "Everyone at the company was worried, but you—you just vanished. Stopped answering."

You nod, the old knot of helplessness and fear tightening in your chest despite the years. "It was—a nightmare. Everything happened so fast. The debt—it was crushing. We were drowning." Looking down at your hands, the city lights reflect dully in the polished leather of your borrowed shoes. "Leaving Korea—was difficult. Switzerland—it was the only way. A clean start. A chance for him."

Dahyun’s hand finds yours on the railing. Her touch is cool and firm. "We know," she says simply.

You look up, confused. "Know?"

Sana takes a deep breath, exchanging a glance with Dahyun, who gives a nearly imperceptible nod. "We—helped," she answers, trembling slightly. "Not—not officially. Not through the company. It would have been—complicated."

Dahyun picks up the thread effortlessly, grounding Sana’s emotion. "We had—resources starting to come in. Not like now, but enough." She looks out at the city, averting your glare, as if confessing to the lights. "We found out which hospital. We—anonymously settled the outstanding balance. The biggest one."

The world tilts. The glittering city below blurs. The sound of the wind rushes in your ears, louder than the tower’s hum. 

"You—what?" The words are a choked whisper.

Sana nods, tears spilling over now, tracing paths down her cheeks. "And the debt collectors—the ones your parents were terrified of—Dahyun knew someone who knew someone—" She sniffles, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "They made them—go away. Quietly."

Dahyun squeezes your hand. "It wasn’t charity," she adds firmly, finally meeting your stunned gaze. Her dark eyes hold yours, intense and sincere. "It was—investment. In your family’s survival. In your peace. We saw you fight, in those practice rooms. We saw the weight you carried, even before—before everything collapsed. We saw the kindness." She glances at Sana, whose tear-streaked face is now lit by a watery smile. "Sana wouldn’t stop crying about it. We had to do something. Something real."

The revelation crashes over you. The inexplicable easing of the financial pressure back then, the way the most aggressive sharks suddenly backed off—it hadn’t been luck. It hadn’t been a bureaucratic miracle. It had been them. Sana’s ardent compassion and Dahyun’s quiet, strategic intervention. Their secret generosity had been the unseen current that carried your family to the shores of Switzerland, to the hillside, to this very moment high above Paris. The weight of it all: the magnitude of their unasked-for, unacknowledged gift—it steals your breath.

"I—" You struggle, the words tangling in your throat, dense with unshed tears. "I never knew. We could never—we can never repay you. That money—"

"Stop." Sana’s interruption is sharp, cutting through your stammering. She places both hands on your cheeks, forcing you to look into her tear-filled, determined eyes. "Look at me. Look at Dahyun." 

Turning your head slightly, Dahyun’s gaze is equally unwavering. "Seeing you here," Sana continues, trembling but strong, "seeing your brother healthy, hearing about your farm—your life—that’s the payment. That’s all we ever wanted. Happiness. Peace. For you and your family." 

She strokes your cheek with her thumb, an irrevocably tender gesture. "You paid it back a thousand times just by surviving. By building that life."

Dahyun nods, hand still clasping yours. "Sana’s right. We didn’t do it for gratitude. We did it because it was right. Because you were one of us, once. Because we cared." She gives your hand another squeeze. "Knowing you’re okay—knowing your family is safe—that’s worth more than any amount of money we could ever have."

The Tower chooses this exact moment to erupt in its full sparkling glory. Thousands of lights dance like captured stars. It illuminates Sana’s tear-streaked, radiant face, Dahyun’s steady, compassionate gaze, and the overwhelming surge of gratitude, disbelief, and profound love that floods you. This is more than borrowed luxury or what-ifs. This is about the enduring, invisible threads of human kindness that had held your world together when it was falling apart. Threads spun by these two women standing beside you underneath the Parisian stars.

You pull them both into a hug. Sana melts against you instantly, while Dahyun stiffens for only a fraction of a second before relaxing into the embrace, with her arm wrapping firmly around your waist. Holding them tight, the glittering Eiffel Tower is a silent, magnificent witness. Words feel inadequate. The embrace says everything: shock, gratitude, and the profound, humbling realization of a debt you can never repay, but that they refuse to acknowledge. It’s a silent communion high above the city, a moment suspended in light and shared history.

Eventually, Jihyo gently calls out, "Hey lovebirds! Group photo time before security kicks us out for monopolizing the view!"

Reluctantly, you separate. Sana wipes her eyes again, beaming, her usual brightness returning tenfold. Dahyun smooths her jacket. A faint blush forms on her cheeks, but her eyes hold yours with a deep, satisfied warmth. "Told you we’d find you," she murmurs, echoing her note.

The descent is filled with laughter and the bright chatter of nine women planning out their next few days. At the base, amidst the throngs of tourists, the goodbyes are warm but tinged with the understanding that tomorrow is the calm before their Lollapalooza storm.

"Front row Saturday," Jihyo reminds you firmly, pulling you into another quick hug. "Don’t be late!"

"Bring earplugs!" Nayeon yells over Jeongyeon’s shoulder.

“Wreck your hotel room!” Jeongyeon smirks beneath that matter-of-fact cadence.

"Enjoy Paris!" Tzuyu simply smiles.

"Find some good cheese!" Momo adds.

"Think of Bessie for me!" Chaeyoung laughs after.

Mina simply waves, her serene smile saying it all.

Finally, Sana and Dahyun step forward together. Sana throws her arms around you one last time. "Explore!" she commands, pulling back but keeping hold of your hands. "Be fancy! Eat everything! See everything! Our treat!"

Dahyun hands you yet another sleek envelope. This one feels heavier, containing what you suspect is a second access card and likely another alarmingly generous gesture. "Don’t argue," she instructs, anticipating your protest, her eyes holding that familiar, grounding intensity. "Consider it operational funding for—reconnaissance. French sheep markets, maybe?" 

A tiny smile touches her lips. "We’ll see you at Lolla. Front and center."

They then melt back into the group. Sana immediately links arms with Jihyo, chattering excitedly, Dahyun falling into step beside Jeongyeon, already checking her phone. They disappear into the night, a whirlwind of talent and light heading towards their next arena.

You stand alone on the Champ de Mars as the Eiffel Tower sparkles majestically above you. Paris’ nighttime air feels clean in your lungs. The weight of the past, the secret burden of your family's salvation, has been lifted, replaced by a profound, humbling lightness. The envelope in your hand feels less like a key to forbidden luxury now, and more like a key to possibility—a chance to explore this dazzling city, not as an imposter, but as a man finally seeing the full, unexpected map of his journey. You touch the little sheep in your pocket, then the silver candy pin on your lapel. 

High above, the Tower’s lights shimmer like a promise. In two days, the music. Tonight, Paris. Tomorrow, the world is yours.

And beneath it all, the unshakeable foundation of a quiet pasture, a healthy brother, and the enduring, secret kindness of stars. You take a deep breath and step forward into the glittering Parisian night.

—————

The plush sheep digs into your thigh as you shift on the hotel bed. Dawn bleeds gray light through rain-streaked windows. Paris sighs under a quilt of clouds, its grandiosity softened by light drizzle that paints the boulevards in liquid silver. A reminder of home, you trace the sheep’s frayed ear, before tucking it beside the silver candy pin on the nightstand. 

Dahyun’s advice echoes in your head: "A day for you. Just you."  

So you wander. Not far. Just enough to feel the city’s pulse beneath its muted veneer. 

The Seine glistens like tarnished pewter, barges cutting through mist. In a cramped boutique near Pont Neuf, you find gifts: for your brother, a miniature Eiffel Tower paperweight ("So he remembers not to be too provincial," you mutter); for your mother, lavender sachets that smell of Provence; for your father, a leather-bound notebook. Practical. Grounded. Unlike the tremor in your hands when you spot them.  

First, Mina and Chaeyoung materialize outside a patisserie, huddled beneath a single umbrella. Chaeyoung’s laugh—a wind chime in fog—carries across the street. Mina nods solemnly at a macaron, as if judging its soul. You slip away before they get an opportunity to notice.  

Then, as fate would have it, Sana and Dahyun meet you before lunch.  

They find you at a tiny tea shop, steam fogging the windows. Sana bursts through the door like a sunbeam piercing clouds, rain jewels caught in her hair. Dahyun follows, a shadow in a charcoal trench coat, calm as still water.  

"Farm boy!" Sana sing-songs, sliding into your booth. Her knee bumps yours. Electric. "Playing hooky?"  

Dahyun’s eyes scan your modest pile of gifts. "Lavender? Smart. Hides the smell of sheep dung." 

Blunt. She’s always been blunt to a fault.  

You laugh, but your chest tightens. Sana’s proximity is a live wire: her cherry-blossom perfume, the way her sweater sleeve brushes your wrist. Dahyun watches you, that unnerving stillness in her gaze. They see too much. 

"You should try the madeleines," suggests Dahyun, pushing a plate toward you. "They’re like edible sunlight."  

Sana steals one, nibbling the edge. "He needs adventure, Dubu. Not more carbs." She leans in, conspiratorial. "There’s a vintage kimono shop in Le Marais—"  

"Which you’ll get lost finding," Dahyun interrupts dryly. "Stick to the plan. His day. His choice."  

They buy you a box of pistachio macarons ("For your family! Tell them Twice approves!"). As they leave, Sana squeezes your hand, lingering. Dahyun’s fingers brush your shoulder—a fleeting anchor. "Dinner at our hotel tonight," the younger woman reminds you, handing you a small card with their address written on it. "You’re invited. Don’t be late."  

Later that evening, the hotel ballroom is a lavish collision of worlds. Crystal chandeliers scatter light like fractured diamonds. Velvet drapes pool on marble floors. The normally packed restaurant had been closed off for dinner tonight, despite the presence of countless affluent guests. And then you see why—them.  

Twice descends the grand staircase like jewels spilling from a high-security vault. Jihyo in emerald silk, a queen commanding storms. Nayeon’s crimson gown slashes the air like a blade. Momo, a shimmering obsidian statue come to life. But your breath snags on two.  

Sana floats toward you in champagne satin, the dress whispering secrets with every step. It bares one shoulder, the line of her collarbone a masterstroke. Her hair spills in molten waves, lips stained pomegranate-red. She’s luminosity incarnate: a supernova in human form.  

"Like it?" She spins, the skirt flaring. "Dahyun said it’s ‘excessive.’" She pouts. "I say it’s you-worthy."  

Then, you settle on Dahyun.  

She wears midnight blue—sleek, severe, a blade sheathed in velvet. The dress cuts straight lines, revealing only the sharp wings of her shoulders. No jewelry. Just her eyes, dark and fathomable, pinning you beneath chandelier glow. Her hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant tension in her neck.  

"Stop staring," she says, but it lacks bite. A faint smirk plays on her mouth. "Sana insisted we ‘dazzle’ you."  

You’re not dazzled. It’s more than that. You’re ruined.  

The realization hits like Bessie’s hoof to the ribs: this isn’t gratitude. Not admiration. It’s love: terrifying, improbable love. Not for one, but both. Sana’s effervescent warmth, Dahyun’s grounding steel. They flank you at dinner. Sana’s laugh bubbles over as she steals a bite of your foie gras. Dahyun dissects the wine’s notes with clinical precision, then quietly swaps your glass for water when she sees your daze.  

"They planned this," Jihyo smiles from across the table, gesturing at the excess of opulence. "Said you needed proof that farm boys clean up nice."  

Sana beams, squeezing your arm. Dahyun sips her wine, eyes never leaving yours. "Paris deserves to see you shine," she mumbles. "Even if it’s just one night."  

You choke on flattering compliments. "You look—transcendent, Sana. And Dahyun, you’re stunning. Like midnight given form."  

Sana preens. Dahyun’s cheekbones flush faintly. The other members quietly giggle and laugh at the remarks. 

Only Jeongyeon has something to say, and it’s quite the tell: “Guy hasn’t seen a pretty woman in eight years. Good excuse to stare, honestly.”

But beneath the glitter and gold, the call of the hills tugs hard. Sheep due next month. Fences unmended. Your brother’s expectant grin. This isn’t your world. These women—goddesses in couture—aren’t your future. 

You lock the unspoken confession away, burying it under layers of restraint and expensive meat.

—————

Saturday arrives ruthless and bright. Paris sheds the gray skin it’s worn for days, now basking in honeyed sunlight. A town car whisks you to Lollapalooza. The festival erupts in neon and noise: a fever dream of tie-dye, lightsticks, and deafening screams.  

Then Twice takes the main stage.   

The first synth notes of Feel Special crackle like static electricity. Jihyo’s voice is a clarion call tearing through the crowd. Fifty thousand strong roar back the chorus. Nayeon commands the center, her wink setting off seismic screams. Dahyun weaves through formations, her rap a lightning strike—sharp, brilliant, gone too soon.  

Fancy ignites the field. Sana becomes pure incandescence—hips swaying, smile lethal. She blows a kiss toward your VIP perch. Your heart stutters. Mina dances like water given will, fluid and ethereal, a counterpoint to Momo’s precision detonations.  

The Feels is a sugar-fueled pop rush. Dahyun’s rap slices through the bubblegum beat, crisp and deadpan. Her eyes find yours mid-verse: a quick, knowing flicker. Jeongyeon’s thunderous vocals anchor the chorus, while Tzuyu’s sheer presence—regal, untouchable—silences entire sections of the crowd.  

Talk That Talk is a shared heartbeat. The crowd chants the chorus like a prayer. Jihyo soars. Sana and Dahyun lock hands during a shared run, their harmony seamless—sun and moon colliding.  

Strategy closes their over hour-long set. A masterclass in controlled frenzy. Formation shifts are knife-sharp. Dahyun’s smirk as she nails a complex footwork sequence. Sana’s ad-libs, playful grenades tossed into the roar. The final pose: nine warriors, breathless, drenched in sweat and triumph. The crowd’s screams could shatter sky.  

Backstage is humid victory. Confetti clings to extensions and hair. Security funnels you through a scrum of crew and cameras. Twice surrounds you—hugs, laughter, the smell of stage smoke and ambition.  

"You saw?" Sana pants, grabbing your hands. Her stage makeup is smudged, eyes blazing. "We killed it for you!"  

Dahyun wipes sweat from her temple with a towel. "Mostly for the crowd. Partly for you." Her bluntness cracks your tension.  

Jihyo throws an arm around your shoulders. "Afterparty at our hotel! Bigger. Louder." 

Nayeon shoots a playful wink. "Better champagne than last night!"  

You agree. Of course you agree. Who are you to turn down angels like them. But as you turn toward the exit, a cold wire snags your gut. Something’s off. 

The plush sheep in your pocket feels suddenly heavy. Dahyun’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Sana’s hug lingers a second too long—less joy, more—farewell. You brush it aside as festival adrenaline and emotional whiplash. Nothing more.  

Yet the unease coils, tight and silent, as the limousine pulls away.

————— The limousine swallows you whole. Plush leather, chilled air, the fading roar of Lollapalooza replaced by the hushed purr of the hybrid engine. Sana vibrates beside you, a live wire still buzzing from their set, a thigh pressed firmly against yours. Dahyun sits across, a silhouette against passing Parisian lights, her unreadable gaze fixed out the window. The champagne flute in your hand feels alien, a prop in someone else’s life. The plush sheep is a hard lump in your pocket, a grounding point against this dizzying unreality.

Strange tension lingers. That cold wire in your gut tightens with every city block passed, amplified by the silence stretching between Sana’s excited chatter about the crowd’s energy and Dahyun’s quiet contemplation. The invitation feels weighted with finality. It’s not just an afterparty, but a destination with a definitive conclusion.

Their hotel is a fortress of glass and light. Security melts away as you step into the private elevator, Sana humming Talk That Talk’s melody under her breath, and Dahyun hitting the button efficiently to a shared penthouse suite. The ascent is swift, silent, charged. Doors slide open directly into a living space of staggering affluence: floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the glittering Eiffel Tower, low-slung white sofas, abstract art that probably costs more than your farm yields in a year. It smells faintly of Sana’s cherry blossom perfume and Dahyun’s clean, ozone-like scent.

"Home sweet home!" Sana chirps, kicking off her designer heels with a sigh. She pads barefoot across the deep pile rug towards a minibar gleaming under recessed lights. "Champagne? Whiskey? Water? We raided the good stuff." Her smile is bright, but her eyes flicker towards Dahyun, seeking confirmation, seeking—something.

Dahyun doesn’t move from the window, her back to you, a dark, still figure against the city’s glow. "Sit," she orders, refusing to turn. Less a request, more a command.

You perch on the edge of a sofa, feeling impossibly out of place in your slightly rumpled clothes amidst this sterile showcase of luxury. Sana brings over two flutes of champagne, her fingers brushing yours as she hands you one. Her touch lingers, startling and putting you on edge. She sits close, tucking a leg beneath her, her satin stage shirt shimmering.

Dahyun finally turns. Her face is indecipherable in the dim light, her sharp features sculpted by the city’s glow behind her. She walks towards you, silence thickening with each step. Stopping before you, she glances down. Her gaze travels over your face, lingering on the fading marks on your neck from Seoul—from a lifetime ago, from a different continent. 

There’s no judgment behind her eyes, just assessment.

"You look tense, farm boy," she remarks, matter-of-fact, blunt as ever.

Sana shifts beside you. "Dubu—" she murmurs, a gentle warning.

"No," Dahyun cuts her off, her eyes still firmly locked on yours. "We’ve danced around this long enough. Since Zürich. Since the Tower. Since the fucking farm. Why are you here?"

Dahyun’s question hangs, sharp and heavy. You take a shaky sip of champagne. The bubbles feel sharp on your tongue. "You invited me," you manage, rough with nervous tension.

Wrong answer.

"Don’t play stupid," she snaps, a flicker of impatience breaking her calm. "We sent the tickets. We hunted you down. We paid your brother’s hospital bills, for fuck’s sake. We brought you to Paris. We dazzled you with dinners and stages. Why?" She takes another step closer, invading your space. Her perfume is subtle but potent now, a clean, expensive scent that makes your head swim. "Out of the goodness of our hearts? Nostalgia for the quiet trainee who fixed our choreography?"

Sana places a calming hand on Dahyun’s arm. "Dubu, please. Be gentle."

Dahyun ignores her, her dark eyes boring into yours. Into the depths of your soul. "There’s something underneath all that, isn’t there? Something you feel. Something we feel. And it scares you. Because of the sheep. Because of the fences. Because you think this," she gestures around the room, encompassing everything including herself and Sana, "isn’t your world."

Her words strip away any form of pretense. The farm responsibilities, the deep-seated love for your family, the sheer impossibility of it all—it crashes over you. 

"It isn't," you rasp, setting the champagne flute down with a clatter. "You’re stars. You live in luxury cars and penthouses. I fix tractors and shovel manure. You gave me an incredible gift, Dahyun. You too, Sana. More than I could ever repay. But this—" You gesture between the three of you. "This fantasy? It ends tonight. I have to go back. I need to go back."

Sana’s hand tightens on your knee, her eyes wide and shimmering. Dahyun doesn’t flinch. She studies you, that unnerving glare never wavering.

Then, a slow, deliberate smile touches her lips. It’s not warm. It’s fierce. Possessive. 

"You think this is about dragging you into our world? Making you an idol?" She shakes her head, a dark lock falling across her forehead. "We don’t want you in our world, farm boy. We want you. The man you became because of the sheep, the fences, the fucking manure." Dahyun then drops to a husky whisper. "We saw it in Zürich. The strength. The quiet loyalty. The man who chose his family and built a life with his hands. We’re proud of you."

Sana surges forward, her hand cupping your cheek, turning your face to hers. "So proud," she breathes, thick with unshed tears. "And we missed you. Not the trainee. The man." Her thumb brushes your lower lip. "We love you. Both of us. Have done, for longer than we admitted, even to ourselves."

The shared confession hangs in the air, fragile and monumental. The carefully constructed walls around your heart, reinforced by years of distance and duty, crumble. The love you’ve repressed since those trainee days, buried under responsibility and the sheer audacity of the thought, surges forward, now undeniable. More than admiration. More than gratitude. A deep, consuming love for Sana’s radiant warmth and Dahyun’s grounding steel. For them.

"I—" The words cling to your tongue, stifled by emotion. You look at Sana, her eyes luminous pools of affection and hope. Then at Dahyun, her pride softened into something vulnerable, expectant. "I love you too," you finally whisper, the truth tearing itself free. "Both of you. Since back then. Seeing you again—it didn’t just reawaken that, it just made it impossible to ignore any longer."

Sana lets out a soft, gasping sob of relief and joy. Dahyun’s sharp intake of breath is the only sign of her own emotion. 

“Finally.” 

The word is simple, weighed with years of unconfessed desire.

Dahyun’s hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back. The other grips your jaw. Her lips crash down on yours—hard, demanding, a collision of pent-up longing and fierce possession. It’s fire and steel: a kiss that sears away doubt, that brands you as hers. Groaning into her mouth, your hands instinctively fly to her waist, pulling her flush against you. Her sweet taste—champagne and something uniquely Dubu, sharp and clean—floods your senses.

Before you can fully process Dahyun’s assault, Sana is right there. She doesn’t wait for an invitation. She captures Dahyun’s lips in a deep, hungry kiss, her fingers tangling in Dahyun’s hair. It’s a sight that steals your breath: two idols, lost in each other for a heartbeat, sharing breath and fire, united in their desire for you. 

Then Sana breaks away, her eyes wild, and descends on you. Her kiss is different: passionate, seeking, full of sweet desperation. Cherry blossom and champagne, warmth and yielding softness. You kiss her back with equal ferocity, one hand still anchored on Dahyun’s hip, the other burying itself in Sana’s impossibly soft hair.

Dahyun breaks the kiss first. Her eyes, dark and dilated, hold a predatory glint. "Bed," she commands, rough but flared with authority. "Now."

She doesn’t wait for compliance. She pushes you backwards. You stumble, falling onto the impossibly soft expanse of a king-sized bed covered in dove-gray silk. Before you can right yourself, they’re all over you.

Sana moves like liquid sunlight, straddling your chest, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of your head. Her stage shirt is already halfway down her waist, revealing the swell of her tits encased in delicate lace. She grinds down, the heat of her core palpable even through the layers of fabric separating you. 

"Missed this," she purrs, leaning down and nipping at your earlobe. "Missed you." Her fingers work the remaining buttons of her shirt, shrugging it off to reveal a matching lace bra.

Dahyun, meanwhile, kneels between your legs. Her movements are efficient, deliberate. She unbuckles your belt, the rasp of leather loud in the sudden quiet. Her fingers pop the button of your jeans, drags down the zipper. Cold air hits your skin, followed immediately by the warmth of her hand palming the hard outline of your cock straining against your boxers. A low groan escapes you.

"Eager," remarks Dahyun, her cadence a low thrum that vibrates through your bones. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of your boxers and jeans, peeling them down your thighs in one smooth motion. Your cock springs free, already achingly hard, glistening precociously at the tip. The younger woman’s eyes track its movement, a flicker of pure hunger in their depths before her usual composure slams back down. "Sana," she says, her gaze never departing your shaft. "Get him ready for me."

Sana doesn’t need a second telling. With a mischievous grin, she shuffles backwards, settling her hips directly over your face. The scent of her is overwhelming: musky, sweet, distinctly Sana. Already drenched panties, a scrap of lavender silk, press against your lips. 

"Make me feel good, farm boy," she breathes, full of lewd want. Grinding her ass down on your face, her damp underwear feels sharp against your mouth.

There’s not a moment of hesitation. You tilt your head up, nuzzling against the heated fabric, inhaling her deeply. Your hands grip her thighs, holding her steady as you mouth her through the slit, feeling her jerk and whimper above you. Hooking your fingers into the sides of her panties, dragging them down her legs. They catch on her ankles, kicked away impatiently.

She’s bare. Gloriously bare. Her pussy is a perfect, glistening pink, already swollen and wet, the delicate folds parted slightly, the pull outright irresistible. The sight, the scent, the proximity—all intoxicating. You dive in. Your tongue is a flat stroke up her center, gathering her slick, salty-sweet and addictive. 

Sana cries out, her hands flying to your hair, fingers gripping tight. "Yes! Oh God, yes!" 

You focus, swirling your tongue around her clit, finding the hard little nub beneath its hood. Sucking gently, then harder, flicking with the tip. Sana bucks against your mouth, her moans escalating, high and breathless. Then you slide a finger down, finding her entrance slick and welcoming. One finger slips inside easily, then a second, curling upwards, searching for that sweet spot.

"Fuck! There!" whines Sana, pressing down hard on your fingers and mouth. "Don’t stop! Please—please don’t stop!"

While you devour Sana, Dahyun undresses efficiently. The sleek dress pools at her feet, revealing a simple sky blue bra and panties that do little to hide her divinely-crafted figure. Climbing onto the bed, she straddles your hips, facing Sana. Her ass is a perfect curve just above your aching cock. Reaching back, her hand wraps around your shaft, giving it a firm, purposeful stroke that makes your hips jerk all over the bed. Her thumb swipes over the leaking tip, spreading the precum around her fingers.

"Watch him, Sana," Dahyun commands, coiled with steel, fueled by bubbling arousal. "Watch him make you cum." 

Dahyun lifts herself up, positioning the head of your cock at her own entrance. Bare too now, her panties forgotten somewhere on the floor. You catch a glimpse of her pussy, neat and glistening, before she sinks down.

It’s tight. Unbelievably, suffocatingly hot. 

Slowly, Dahyun takes you inch by dangerous inch, eliciting a low groan rumbling in her chest. Slick, but the stretch is intense. You feel every ridge, every clenching muscle as she sheathes you completely, her ass finally resting comfortably against your hips. She’s deep, impossibly deep. You cry out against Sana’s heat, the vibration making her shriek.

She begins to move. Not frantic, not yet. 

A slow, deliberate roll of her hips, grinding down on you, taking you deep with every rotation. Her walls clench rhythmically around your shaft, milking you. She leans forward slightly, bracing her hands on Sana’s thighs, bringing their flushed, pleasure-laden faces close.

"Look at him," Dahyun rasps to Sana, her own breath hitching. "Look how hard he makes you cum." She captures Sana’s lips in a searing kiss as she continues to ride your cock, her pace gradually increasing, catching you off-rhythm.

It leaves you lost in overwhelming sensation. The wet, hot suction of Sana’s pussy on your mouth and fingers, the rhythmic clenching of Dahyun’s tight channel around your cock, the sight of them kissing above you, sharing your body. All overpowering and decadent. You redouble your efforts on Sana, curling your fingers hard inside her, sucking her clit desperately.

Sana detaches from Dahyun’s mouth with a charged gasp. "I’m gonna—Oh God, I’m cumming!" 

Her body locks up, her luscious thighs clamping harshly around your head. A guttural cry tears from her throat as her pussy pulses violently around your fingers and face, drenching your chin. Wave after wave rocks her, her moans dissolving into whimpers as she collapses forward onto Dahyun’s shoulder, trembling.

Dahyun watches Sana’s climax, her own movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. Her hips piston faster, slamming down onto your cock, taking you to the hilt with each stroke. The slap of skin on skin fills the room, a symphony of passionate cries and stupendous sensations. 

"So good," she grunts, her composure fracturing, her breathing reduced to ragged gasps. "Fuck, you feel so good inside me." She reaches back, her hand finding yours where it grips her hip, intertwining your fingers. Her clutch is iron, inescapable and unforgiving.

The pressure in your balls is a molten coil, tightening beyond your control. Watching Dahyun ride you, feeling her tight heat, seeing Sana spent and trembling beside her—it’s all too much. 

"Dahyun—I’m close," you warn, strangled, losing your intonation.

"Not yet," she gasps, increasing her pace, bouncing against you hard. "Fill me. Cum inside me. Now!" 

Her command is sharp, undeniable.

The coil snaps. With a cry muffled by Sana’s thigh, you explode. Thick, hot pulses of cum erupt deep into Dahyun’s inviting cunt. She cries out, her body convulsing around you, her inner walls fluttering wildly as her own orgasm rips through her, triggered by your own release. She grinds down hard, milking every last drop of cum from you, her head thrown back, a look of relentless ecstasy dawning on her face.

You both crash back onto the bed in a sudden collapse, gasping, slick with sweat and utter release. Sana stirs beside Dahyun with a lazy, satisfied smile on her face. She traces a finger down the younger woman’s sweat-slicked spine. "My turn," she murmurs, husky and already spent.

Still recovering, Dahyun manages a weak smirk. She slides off you, your softening cock slipping from her with a wet sound. She gestures towards Sana. "Flip her."

The command kindles renewed energy. Still reeling from your own orgasm, you move, gently guiding the pliant Sana onto her hands and knees on the bed. Her perfect ass is presented to you, still glistening, dripping down her legs. You kneel behind her, running your hands over the smooth curves of her back, down to her hips. She arches her back, pushing herself flush against you. A needy whimper escapes her lips as your cock faintly ghosts her inviting hole.

Dahyun arranges herself on the bed in front of Sana. She lies back against a mountain of pillows, spreading her legs wide. Her pussy is flushed, glistening, her folds still swollen from her recent climax. She looks utterly debauched and in command. 

"Come here, Sana," she orders, regaining her low thrum.

Sana eagerly crawls forward, settling between Dahyun’s thighs. Dahyun reaches down, tangling her fingers in Sana’s hair. "Make me cum," she demands, guiding Sana’s face towards her exposed core. "Use that pretty tongue of yours."

Sana needs no further encouragement. She dives in with a hungry moan, her tongue lapping eagerly at Dahyun’s slick folds. The sight is incendiary, lighting a fire within you: Sana’s head buried between Dahyun’s thighs, Dahyun’s head thrown back, her eyes slammed shut, a low moan starting deep in her chest.

Positioning yourself behind Sana, your cock hardens again, fueled by the erotic tableau unraveling before your very eyes. You guide the tip through Sana’s slick folds from behind. She’s incredibly wet, freshly sensitive, her inner muscles fluttering as you push inside her warmth. Sana gasps against Dahyun’s pussy, her moan sending shockwaves against Dahyun’s clit.

"Fuck her," Dahyun commands, her eyes suddenly opening, dark and intense, briefly locking onto yours. "Fuck her while she eats me. Make her scream."

You and Dahyun’s goals align. It’s a demand that sets you off. 

Gripping Sana’s shapely hips you thrust deep, burying yourself to the hilt and in her welcoming heat. She cries out, the sound muffled sharply against Dahyun’s cunt. Setting a punishing rhythm, dragging your shaft almost all the way out before slamming back in, the force drives Sana’s face harder and closer against Dahyun’s core. Sana moans continuously, a desperate, pleading sound, her tongue working furiously on Dahyun even as you pound relentlessly into her.

Dahyun’s composure shatters. Her hips buck off the bed, meeting Sana’s mouth. Her moans escalate, sharp and gasping. "Yes! Oh fuck, yes! Just like that, Sana! Harder!" 

Her fingers tighten painfully in Sana’s hair, holding her in place. "And you," she pants, flashing a glance in your direction, her eyes wild with ecstasy, "fuck her harder! Make her feel it!"

Redoubling your efforts, your thrusts become brutal and focused. The bed creaks in protest. The sounds are obscene: the sloppy clap of your hips against Sana’s ass, her muffled cries and desperate licks, complemented by Dahyun’s escalating gasps and sharp commands. You watch Sana’s back arch to your rhythm, hear the pitch of her cries change, becoming higher, more frantic. She’s close again.

"Now, Sana!" Dahyun sighs, her body tensing like a bowstring. "Make me cum! Now!"

Sana responds with a muffled cry, her tongue lashing Dahyun’s clit with haphazard intensity. At the same time, you slam into her deep and hold, grinding your cock against her ass, thrusting the depths of her cunt with relentless pressure.

The older woman screams, her body convulsing around your cock, her orgasm ripping through her with violent force. Her inner walls clamp down on you like a vise, draining you even as she shakes.

Above her, Dahyun lets out a guttural cry, her back arching clear off the bed. "Fuck! Sana!” 

Her thighs clamp around Sana’s head as her own climax crashes over her, intense and shuddering. Torrential slick pulses visibly, wetness coating Sana’s chin and cheeks.

Holding deep inside Sana as she rides out the last of her tremors, your own orgasm held back only by sheer will. As Sana collapses, spent and trembling, you continue to fuck into her cunt. Dahyun is panting, her eyes closed, a dense sheen of sweat covering her body. Still, she manages to cry out orders. “She’s earned it. Cum in her.”

There’s no denying it; not even your body can hold on any longer. 

Stretching her pussy, groaning from the depth of your lungs, hands wrapped on her silky waist. The orgasm wrecks through your very soul. Shot after shot of thick load, you unload in Sana’s creamy, warm cunt. The sensation burns through your muscles, your body enduring far more punishment than any amount of labor, leaving you utterly breathless. She cries faint, airy whimpers, taking all your worth, earning every well-deserved drop.

As the embers die out, you’re clung to her hip, your only anchor as you struggle to steady yourself through the aftermath of your climax.

Dahyun opens her eyes, her gaze finding yours, still dark but softened and sated by overwhelming pleasure. She gestures weakly towards Sana, then pats the space beside her on the bed. "Bring her."

Gently gathering the boneless Sana, you lift her from her hands and knees. Reduced to incoherent murmurs, she nuzzles against your chest. You carry her to the side of the bed opposite Dahyun and lay her down. She curls onto her side immediately, already half-asleep.

You move to the other side, collapsing onto your back between them. The mattress dips. Dahyun shifts closer, her body radiating heat. She turns onto her side, facing you, one arm draping possessively over your chest. Her fingers trace the fading sheep bite mark on your neck. On your other side, Sana mirrors her, snuggling close, her head pillowed on your shoulder, one leg thrown over yours. Her hair fans out like a silken blanket.

The collective silence is profound, broken only by their slowing breaths and the distant hum of Paris far below. Exhaustion, deep and bone-melting, settles over you. The scent of shared sex, sweat, Sana’s cherry blossom, and Dahyun’s ozone-clean skin mingle in the air. Home feels a million miles away, yet its pull remains—not a demand in this moment, but a deep, resonant hum beneath the sated stillness.

Sana sighs in contentment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach before they stop on your chest. "Love you, farm boy," she murmurs, already drifting off.

Dahyun’s fingers cling to your neck. She doesn’t speak, but she presses a soft, lingering kiss just below your ear. It’s an answer; a promise. A temporary surrender to a fantasy that feels, in this exhausted, sex-slicked aftermath, heartbreakingly real.

You close your eyes. A faint command from Dahyun’s lips emanates in your ear: Stay. 

The combined weight of them: Sana’s warmth, Dahyun’s solid presence—they anchor you in the luxurious present, even as the image of green hills and bleating sheep flickers, persistent, on the edge of your consciousness. Spent and utterly conquered, you let the darkness claim you, sandwiched between impossible stars.

—————

Early the next day, cerulean dawn filters through gauzy curtains, painting Sana’s sleeping face in ethereal silver. Her arm rests possessively across your chest, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of your bare chest. Dahyun’s back presses warm and solid against yours, her slow, even breaths a metronome in the stillness. 

Peace. Deep, syrupy, and utterly alien. The city murmurs outside, a distant hum beneath the cocoon of shared warmth and soft linen. You exist in a suspended bubble, the plush sheep a forgotten lump beneath your pillow, the pair of candy pins gleaming dully on the nightstand like discarded constellations. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. A calm that feels like heaven.

Then, the shriek.

It claws through the tranquility: your phone, vibrating with frantic urgency on the polished oak surface, shatters the silence like dropped crystal. Sana jerks awake, a soft gasp escaping her lips, eyes wide open and disoriented. Dahyun shifts instantly, her body tensing, a calm anchor replaced by wary alertness.

"Whose—?" Sana mumbles, dense with bedroom haze, reaching blindly towards the offending device before you can react. Her thumb swipes the screen. "Hello?" Her tone is polite, confused.

The change is instantaneous. Her sleep-soft features harden. The color drains from her cheeks, replaced by a waxy pallor. Her free hand flies to her mouth, eyes locking onto yours, wide with a dawning horror that chills you to the marrow.

"—Slow down, please. Slow down." Sana trembles. "Who is this? Looking for—? Him?" 

Her gaze bores into you, filled with a panic that mirrors the frantic crackle suddenly audible from the receiver. She thrusts the phone towards you as if it were scalding. "It’s—it’s your parents. They sound—terrified."

In an instant, the peaceful haze evaporates. Ice floods your veins. You grab the phone, your own fingers numb and clumsy. "Mom? Dad? What’s—"

The voices on the other end are a distorted wail of pure panic. Words tumbling over each other, choked with pained sobs. "Where are you?! We need you! Your brother—he’s—"

Your world tilts. The plush Parisian room, Sana’s terrified face, Dahyun’s steadying hand suddenly on your arm—it all feels vain and hollow. All you hear is the despair in your mother’s voice, the phantom echo of sirens screaming down a rural lane eight years ago. The polished wood floor beneath your bare feet might as well be the cold linoleum of a hospital corridor you know all too well. The scent of Sana’s cherry blossom perfume twists into the sharp, nauseating tang of needles and antiseptic.

"Where?" You gravel, scraping your throat. "Which hospital? Tell me!"

—————

Eight years of peace dissolve. You’re eighteen again, lost and drowning in a familiar, traumatizing smell.

The fluorescent lights of University Hospital Zürich buzz like angry wasps, casting a sickly green pallor over everything. The scent hits you first—that same brutal cocktail of disinfectant, fear, and stale coffee that plagued your nightmares for years. It’s a direct punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs the moment you push through the heavy ER doors. 

Your parents are huddled on rigid plastic chairs, looking impossibly small and helpless. Mother’s face is ravaged, tear tracks cutting through the exhaustion. Dad stares blankly at the scuffed floor, his shoulders slumped under an invisible, crushing weight. They look up as you sprint towards them, your suitcases forgotten somewhere near the entrance.

"Mom. Dad." You hush, falling to your knees before them, gripping your mother’s cold hands. "Where is he? What happened?"

"He was helping me," your father rasps, sounding like stones grinded together. He won’t meet your eyes. "Fixing the fence by the stream—Bessie spooked—he slipped—fell backwards—hit his head on a rock." He swallows convulsively. "So much blood—Oh God, the blood—"

Your mother clutches your hands, her grip desperate. "He just—crumpled. Didn’t get up. Didn’t make a sound—" A fresh sob wracks her frame.

The description ignites a flashback, vivid and cruel: not of Bessie, but of a feverish younger brother gasping for breath in a sterile bed in Seoul, beeping monitors a frantic counterpoint to your own heartbeat. The helplessness. The crushing weight of responsibility you couldn’t shoulder alone. The smell—it was always the smell.

You push past them, drawn like iron to a magnet towards the curtained bay the nurse wordlessly indicates. Your footsteps echo too loudly in the hushed corridor before yanking the curtain aside.

He lies unnervingly still on the narrow gurney, dwarfed by wires and blinking machines. A thick bandage wraps his head, stark white against his too-pale skin. His face, usually animated with clumsy teenage energy, is slack. Peaceful, almost. Worryingly so. An oxygen cannula snakes under his nose. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor is the only sound, its every pulse a direct blow against your ribs.

The awful sight completely upends you. 

You stagger, bracing a hand against the cold metal rail of the bed. The room spins. The sterile white walls bleed into the memory of another hospital room, another still form, another desperate vigil. Eight years. A lifetime of vigilance, of sacrifice, poured into keeping him safe, healthy, alive. And the one time—the one fucking time you choose something for yourself, choose the glittering lights, choose them—

A tsunami of self-loathing, guilt, and remorse crashes over you. It’s corrosive, burning through any relief at arriving in time, disregarding any gratitude for the doctors. It floods your mouth with the taste of bile.

Your fault.

The words scream inside your skull, drowning out the monitor’s steady beat.

You left.

You abandoned your post. You shirked the one responsibility that truly mattered. You played the tourist in Paris while he bled on your family’s land.

Parker luck. 

The bitter phrase tastes foul. Power? No. Responsibility. And the universe exacts a brutal toll for forgetting it. Every. Single. Time.

If you’d been there—

The what-if is agonizingly clear: you, strong and steady, grabbing his jacket collar just in time, hauling him back from the slippery edge, Bessie’s hoof thudding harmlessly into mud. You would have seen the loose rock. You would have anticipated the spook. You would have been there.

Instead, you were sipping champagne under chandeliers, drowning in the impossible warmth of Sana’s smile, the quiet intensity of Dahyun’s gaze. Loving them. Choosing them, however briefly, over him.

A choked sound escapes you—part sob, part snarl, but complete frustration. Slamming your fist against the metal rail, the sharp clang echoes in the confined space. Your parents flinch behind you.

"Idiot!" The word hisses out, venomous, directed squarely at yourself. "Selfish, stupid idiot! Goddamn it!"

Outside the curtain, the nurse in charge stirs, muffled but concerned. "Sir? Is everything—?"

You can’t stay. Can’t breathe this antiseptic-scented air dense with your own failure. Can’t look at his still face and be reminded that you failed him. Again. 

Turning blindly, you shove past the curtain, past your parents’ startled, tear-stricken faces. Your father reaches out, his mouth opening, probably to say the doctor had been by, that the scans were clear, that he was stable, that he’d wake soon. 

But you don’t hear it. You don’t want to hear it. The good news doesn’t matter. It doesn’t erase the fact that it happened. The reality of the situation is this: it came about because you weren’t there.

You stalk down the corridor, away from the beeping monitors, away from the damning proof of your catastrophic lapse in judgment. Effulgent lights above buzz their relentless verdict. The ghost of that sick, traumatized eighteen-year-old boy walks beside you. A constant, accusing shadow. 

Responsibility isn't a choice. It’s an obligation. And you’d just proven, brutally, what happens when you try to break free. 

—————

Inside the hospital room, the atmosphere is cautiously lifting. The harsh overhead lights seem less accusing now. Your parents sit beside the bed where your brother rests, still pale but breathing steadily without the oxygen tubes. A doctor had just left, confirming the scans were clear, the concussion moderate, and complete recovery expected. 

Relief hangs palpable in the air, fragile but real.

The door clicks open. Your mother looks up, expecting you, but her eyes widen in surprise. Standing hesitantly in the doorway are Sana and Dahyun. Sana clutches a ridiculously oversized, bright bouquet of sunflowers and daisies, while Dahyun holds a tasteful basket of fruit and what appears to be premium ginseng packets.

"Um! Hi!" chirps Sana, a little too loud for the hushed ward, her usual effervescence tempered by visible nervousness. She bobs a quick, awkward bow. "We're—friends. Of your son. We heard about—" She gestures vaguely towards the bed with the bouquet.

Dahyun steps smoothly beside her, offering a deeper, more composed bow. "We apologize for the intrusion. We just—wanted to offer our support and well wishes." 

Her gaze flicks to your brother, then back to your parents, calm but watchful.

The air inside crackles with awkwardness. Your parents, weathered by farm life and recent events, stare at these two impossibly glamorous young women who look like they stepped out of a magazine spread. 

Your father clears his throat. "Thank you. That's—kind. He's—the doctors say he'll be alright. Woke up groggy but knew his name. Just needs plenty of rest." The relief as he delivers the good news is profound, softening the lines of stress on his tired face.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Sana exhales, her shoulders slumping visibly. Tension in the room eases a fraction. She beams, the genuine warmth in her smile momentarily banishing the sterile gloom. "We were so worried!"

Dahyun nods, placing the fruit basket carefully on a side table. "That’s excellent news. We're very glad to hear it." She hesitates, then meets your father’s eyes directly. Her usual calm is present, but there’s an atypical gravity bubbling underneath. "Actually, while we’re here, there’s something we’ve been wanting to say for a very long time."

Sana fidgets with the sunflower stems, suddenly pensive and straight. "Yes. Eight years, actually."

Your parents exchange a confused glance. "Eight years?" your mother echoes.

Dahyun takes a small breath. "When your son left Seoul—when your family faced—the medical bills. And the debt collectors." She pauses, ensuring she has their full, bewildered attention. "It was us. Sana and I. We arranged for the debts to be settled. We paid the main hospital bill. And—the more troublesome collectors were persuaded to leave you alone."

Your mother’s hand flies to her mouth. Your father stares at Dahyun, then Sana, his jaw slack with disbelief. 

Sana rushes to fill in the gaps; her words come tumbling out. "We didn't do it for thanks! Or anything! We just—we knew him from his trainee days. We saw how hard he fought, how much he loved you all. And we heard—how bad it was. We had just started earning—it wasn't a lot, but it was enough to help. We wanted you to have peace. To focus on getting your son well." Again she gestures towards your sleeping brother. "We wanted him," she nods towards the door, indicating you, "to be able to breathe."

Tears well in your mother’s eyes, emotion spilling over. "You—you did that? All those years ago?"

Dahyun nods once. Simple, definitive. "Yes. Anonymously, because the company—it was complicated. And we didn't want to intrude. Or create obligation."

"Obligation?" your father rasps. He shifts his gaze from Dahyun’s calm demeanor to Sana’s earnest one, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Young ladies—you gave us our lives back. You gave him," he too nods towards the door, now filled with gratitude, "a chance to save his brother without drowning." He shakes his head, overwhelmed. "We could never—thank you enough."

Sana waves her hands dismissively, blushing. "No, no! Please! Seeing him now—seeing the man he became? Strong, kind, responsible—loving." She softens. "You raised an incredible son. We're—we're just so proud to know him. Proud of him." 

As she looks at your brother one more time, a soft smile touches her lips. "And we're so glad this one is going to be okay too."

————— The antiseptic glare of the hospital corridor feels like an accusation to your decision. You slump on a cold, molded plastic bench just outside the sliding entrance doors, the weak morning sun doing nothing to calm the jitter in your bones. Paris feels like a fever dream, a gilded cage you foolishly stepped into. The scent of Sana’s cherry blossom shampoo still clings faintly to your borrowed sweater, a bitter foil to the pervasive smell of bleach and despair. Every breath rasps in your chest, full of self-loathing.

Your brother’s pale, bandaged face, so terrifyingly still, merges with the ghostly memory of him gasping in a hospital bed eight years ago. The crushing weight of responsibility you’d carried since then—the early mornings, the calloused hands, the buried dreams—feels like it’s physically pressing you into the cheap plastic. And for what. To have it all unravel the moment you dared to want something for yourself. To feel something beyond the relentless rhythm of the farm.

Your fault. The words are an incessant drumbeat banging through your skull, synchronized with the phantom beep of the monitor inside. 

You left him. You chose champagne and chandeliers over fences and feed bins. You chose—them. You chose—poorly.

"Stupid," you mutter, the self-reproach scraping your throat. You rake trembling hands through your hair, pulling hard enough to sting. "Selfish. Fucking. Idiot." 

Parker luck. A gift disguised as a curse. Responsibility always collects its due, with interest. The universe doesn’t forgive moments of weakness. Especially yours. You picture the slick mud by the stream, the loose rock, Bessie’s startled movement. If you’d been there, your reflexes honed by years of anticipating disaster, you would have grabbed his collar, hauled him back. Simple. Instinctive. Your job. Instead, you were—

The memory ambushes you: Sana’s luminous smile across a candlelit table, Dahyun’s quiet intensity as her hand brushed yours. The dizzying warmth of their hotel room, the taste of Dahyun’s lips, the sound Sana made when— Guilt, sharp and acidic, floods your mouth. You weren’t just shirking responsibility; you were betraying it. Indulging in deep-rooted fantasies while your brother bled to death. "I touched them," you whisper hoarsely to the uncaring concrete. "I wanted them. While he—" 

The sentence chokes off. It’s replaced by a rather harsh yet familiar call.

"Rough night, farm boy?"

Your head snaps up. Blinking against the harsh light, you see them. Not ghosts, but anomalies. Nayeon, Jihyo, Momo, Mina, Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, Jeongyeon—filtering through the hospital entrance like a needed burst of unexpected color in the dull gloom. They’re dressed down—jeans, sweaters, faces free of makeup—but their presence is still jarring. Surreal.

Nayeon arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her arms crossed. "You look like you wrestled Bessie and lost." Her tone is light, but her eyes are sharp and assessing.

Jihyo steps forward, her usual commanding presence softened by concern. "We heard," she states simply. "How is he?"

"How—how are you here?" you stammer, awed and confused at their uncanny presence here, of all places. "You had flights—schedules—"

Jeongyeon shrugs, her hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. "Sana and Dahyun happened. Once they got the full picture after you bolted from Paris like your pants were on fire—" She shoots a glance at Jihyo. "Let’s just say they can be very persuasive when motivated. Especially together. And honestly? After Lolla, our schedule had some breathing room. They insisted we come. We wanted to."

Momo nods, her expression unusually serious. "They were frantic. Worried about you. About him." She gestures vaguely towards the hospital.

Tzuyu offers a small, solemn nod of agreement. Mina’s large eyes hold only quiet empathy.

"But why?" The question bursts out, edged with anger simmering beneath the despair. "You shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have been there. None of this—" You gesture wildly, encompassing the hospital, your brother’s health, your own shattered state, "This is all on me! I left. I took my eyes off the ball for one second, one selfish trip, and look!" 

Your voice cracks. "He could have died! Because I was off playing tourist, drowning in—in—" 

You can’t bring yourself to say it outright. Not in front of them. In Sana’s laugh. In Dahyun’s touch. In the terrible, beautiful feeling of falling for them both.

Chaeyoung crouches down in front of your bench, her sharp glare fixed on yours. "Playing tourist? Is that what you call facing down a past you buried for eight years? What you call finally letting yourself breathe something other than animal shit and regret?"

"You don't understand!" The words tumble out, bitter and scathing. "Responsibility isn't a choice! It's a chain! And I dropped it! I let myself get—distracted. By lights. By music. By them. I wanted something—something just for me. And the universe punished me for it. Hard. Because that's how it works! You step out of line, you face the consequences. My brother paid the price for my—my fucking overindulgence." 

The implication of your time with Sana and Dahyun hangs heavy in the air, unspoken but perfectly understood.

Jihyo sits beside you on the bench, the plastic groaning. Her presence is solid, anchoring. "Listen to me," she answers, low but resonant. "Love isn't indulgence. Wanting happiness isn't betrayal. What happened to your brother was a freak accident. A slip on wet grass. A spooked cow. That’s bad luck, not divine punishment for daring to visit Paris."

Mina speaks softly, her timbre like clear water. "You carry so much weight. For so long. You built a life, a safe place, for your family. That is not nothing. Taking a few days, letting people care for you—that isn't dropping the chain. It's giving your hands rest, if for a moment."

Jeongyeon leans against a pillar, her expression pragmatic. "Accidents happen, kid. On farms, in cities, on stage. You think one of us hasn't slipped during practice? Gotten hurt? Does that mean the others weren't doing their jobs? That they were 'indulging' by taking a breath? Life is messy. It doesn't follow a script where the hero’s vigilance prevents every fall."

Nayeon crouches next to Chaeyoung. "Stop martyring yourself," she says, surprisingly gentle despite the bluntness of her remark. Something your mother told you not that long ago. "It's exhausting to watch. And honestly? Unfair. To you, and to them." 

Tzuyu jerks her head towards the hospital doors. "You think your brother would want you bound to that farm forever out of guilt? That your parents would?"

Their words of wisdom get lost in translation. In your mind, it feels like they’re speaking a different language. 

You shake your head, tears finally welling, teeming with anger and shame. "You really don't get it. I should have been there. I knew Bessie. I knew that slope. If I hadn't gone—if I hadn't let myself—" The image of tangled limbs and whispered promises in a Parisian hotel room flashes, sharp and painful. "Wanted them—"

"You think wanting love makes you weak?" Jihyo questions softly. "Or human?"

A choked sob escapes, then another, tearing from your chest with ragged force. The carefully constructed walls of control, the stoicism worn like armor for eight years, disintegrate into dust. You fold forward, elbows on your knees, face buried in your hands, shoulders shaking with the burdensome pressure of grief, guilt, and sheer, overwhelming exhaustion. The tears are a flood, silent at first, then wrenching gasps that cut through your very soul.

You don't see them move, but suddenly, they’re there. Arms encircle you. Not just one or two, but many. Jihyo’s firm grip on your shoulder. Momo’s arm around your back. Mina’s hand resting lightly on your arm. Chaeyoung and Tzuyu pressing close. Nayeon’s hand rubbing slow circles on your shoulder blades. Jeongyeon’s mature presence by your side. It’s a cocoon of warmth, comfort and unconditional, wordless support. A silent fortress against an unforgiving world.

Suddenly, two more sets of arms slide themselves into the embrace. You feel them before you see it. Sana, pressing her cheek against the top of your head, her frame trembling slightly. Dahyun, her hand finding yours where it grips your knee, her fingers interlacing with yours in a grounding squeeze. No words, just their presence, anchoring you in the storm. Solid. Real. 

The collective strength of nine women who crossed an ocean for you finally cracks through the impenetrable core of your isolation and self-pity. You weep freely; the sobs wrack your body. Years of buried fear, relentless responsibility, and newfound love pour out onto the shoulders of an unlikely sanctuary.

—————

The sliding doors hiss open. You step back into the hospital corridor, feeling vulnerable but strangely lighter. Lingering tear tracks stiff on your face. The group hug had dispersed, with the members giving you space but following close by like a protective constellation. Jihyo meets your eyes, a silent question. You manage a shaky nod. He’s okay. She smiles, small and reassuring.

You need to see him. To say the words burning holes through your guilt-ridden heart. 

He’s awake. Propped up slightly, looking groggy but blessedly alert. His eyes, the same warm brown as yours, focus blearily on you as you approach the bed. Your parents offer small, encouraging smiles. Sana and Dahyun stand quietly near the window, Sana giving you a tentative, hopeful thumbs-up.

The sight of him awake and alive unleashes a fresh wave of sadness laced with shame. You reach the bedside, your hand hovering over his before gently grasping it. 

"Hey—kiddo."

He blinks slowly. "Hey, big bro." 

He sounds raspy and frail. You feel the pang of guilt coming back stronger the longer your gaze lingers on his fragile state.

Tears threaten once more. You fight them, swallowing hard. "I—I am so sorry. So, so sorry. I wasn't there. I should have been there. I promised—I promised I’d always be there to watch your back. And I wasn't." The words spill out, drenched in regret. "I let you down. I got—distracted. I was selfish. And you got hurt because of it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry." 

Your head bows, weighed from countless failures pressing down.

A beat of silence. Then, a weak chuckle. You look up, startled.

"Bessie," he murmurs, a trace of his usual grin stirring his lips. "Being—Bessie. Dumb cow." He takes a shallow breath. "My fault—wasn't watching—my own feet. Slippery mud—after the rain. Dad yelled—but I was too slow." 

He squeezes your hand weakly. "Sorry I—scared you." His eyes drift closed for a second, then reopen, focusing with greater clarity. "Shoulda—called you—for backup. You’re better—with her."

His simple, matter-of-fact absolution, blaming only the cow and his own clumsiness, is a balm you didn’t know you needed. It doesn’t erase the guilt—far from it—but it cracks its suffocating hold. 

A watery laugh escapes you. You squeeze his hand back. "Yeah. Bessie’s a menace. That damned cow." 

He manages a slightly wider grin. "Signatures?" he whispers, the childish gleam momentarily overriding the grogginess. "You got 'em? Sana? Dahyun?"

You look over at Sana and Dahyun by the window. Sana beams. Dahyun offers a small, knowing nod. Behind them, the others’ eyes are peeking through. 

Then you turn back to your brother, smiling. "Better than signatures, kid."

Stepping back towards the door, it opens wide, and you beckon.

They file in. Not just Sana and Dahyun, but all nine. A sudden, vibrant explosion of gentle energy fills the small hospital room. They crowd near the foot of the bed, offering shy waves, warm smiles, and soft hellos.

Your brother’s eyes widen—and widen. They’re dying to pop out.

His jaw drops. He stares, utterly starstruck, his gaze darting from one face to another. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out. His face flushes bright red. Then, his eyes roll back slightly in his head, and he slumps dramatically back against the pillows, feigning a dead faint, a ridiculous, over-the-top grin still plastered on his face before he ‘passes out.’

A beat of stunned silence. Suddenly, laughter erupts. Bright, genuine, relieving joy. 

Sana claps her hands, giggling. Dahyun shakes her head, a smile finally breaking through her calm facade. Nayeon snorts. Momo laughs out loud. Chaeyoung cheekily grins. Tzuyu looks adorably confused. Mina covers her mouth, suppressing her own chortle. Jeongyeon casually chuckles. Jihyo shakes her head, smiling warmly at the performance.

Your parents stand together, your mother wiping happy tears from her eyes, your father’s arm around her shoulders. They watch you through the window—their son, surrounded by these bright stars who crossed an ocean for him, looking at your brother with exasperated affection—and their faces radiate with pride. Not just for surviving, but for building a life strong enough to hold both responsibility and unexpected love. For becoming a man worthy of such loyalty, such kindness, and yes, such chaos.

The farm is still there. There are fences that need mending. Bessie is probably plotting her next move. But in this sun-dappled hospital room, the future feels less like a burden and more like a wide, open field, waiting.

————— (A/N: Please fucking help me I can't— In all seriousness, this was a story I never thought I could crack. I've actually put it off for like more than a year cause there wasn't anything I could come up with that clicked. But upon one more revisit of the prompt, I figured the best way to tackle it was to tell a fish out-of-water story from his perspective. Combining his personal duty to family with a pang of nostalgia helped ease in the gaps. Beyond that, Sana and Dahyun are a very special pair, so hopefully I did them both a service! Full album on the way, member solos, Tzuyu's homecoming, and a massive world tour? Something tells me this might be their last big activity for a good while. Thank you for reading!)

[navybrat817]

Hold You Tight: Part 1

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Series Masterlist | Part 2

Chapter Summary: You encounter an unexpected visitor in your home.

Chapter Word Count: Over 2.8k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, breaking and entering, stalking, coercion, threats (not against reader), creepy and unhinged behavior, flashback, possessiveness, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: Welcome to the Turn It Up AU! Thanks to @starlightcrystalline for helping bringing this unhinged Bucky to life and @targaryenvampireslayer and @tavners for the support. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You yawned as you flipped on the light switch in your apartment and set the keys on the table. It was early, but you were ready to settle in for the night after a busy shift. Maybe you could make a cup of tea and curl up with a book to unwind after dinner. Or maybe even a nice, hot bath and a glass of wine.

If only Addison could hear your thoughts now. She’d tease you for not living it up and enjoying the single life. Nothing new.

Your mouth fell open as you walked into the living room, but no sound came out as you skidded to a stop. Your heart nearly burst out of your chest and plummeted to your stomach at the same time as your phone fell from your hand. It was like you couldn't breathe. Because a man was sitting on your sofa.

And you lived alone.

“What…” you exhaled, no louder than a whisper.

The man didn't speak as he stared at you. He didn't even blink. The staring contest gave you a moment to take in his appearance. Intimidating even though he was sitting, his dark suit looked tailored to perfection on his broad frame. Dark brown hair framed his face and matched the stubble on his face, with the exception of a few gray hairs. The dangerous glint in his hard blue eyes did little to put you at ease, but there was something soft there as well.

In any other circumstance, you would've said he was handsome.

You bent down to pick up your phone before he let out a tsk, a subtle warning for you not to try anything. “Who are you? Why are you in my home?” You asked as you straightened up, hoping your tone didn't betray how terrified you were.

Nothing looked out of place. If he was there to rob you, there wasn't much worth taking. While you weren't struggling, you were far from rich.

He smirked and leaned back further into the cushion, his eyes roving over your body. You hadn't noticed right away, but the hand draped on the back of the sofa appeared to be metal. Or was it a glove? He didn't have to stand for you to know he was larger than you. If things got physical, you wouldn't stand a chance.

“Okay…” If he wasn't going to give you any sort of answer or clue as to who he was or why he was there, you’d just leave. You could go to a neighbor’s place or Addison’s to call the cops. But he didn't seem to like it when you took a step back since he pinned you with a glare and crooked his finger, beckoning you to go to him.

Your legs wobbled with the first step, but you righted yourself as you continued to move forward. If he noticed your misstep, he didn't acknowledge it. You swallowed, worried that bile would rise to your throat from how sick you felt when you stopped in front of him. That feeling only grew when he leaned in to grip your waist and roughly pulled you toward him.

A scream escaped this time around, but his hand clamped over your mouth to smother the sound. The cold fear that trickled down your spine would stick with you for days to come as he pulled you onto his lap and shook his head with another tsk. There was no mistaking the evident lust in his gaze as his eyes bore into yours.

What was he going to do to you?

You put your hands on his shoulders to push yourself away, but the hand on your hip held you tighter. You squirmed in his lap before you brushed against the outline of his cock, your body stiffening when he let out a low groan. With wide eyes, you decided moving wasn't a wise decision.

“Keep moving your hips if you want, but don't scream again,” he warned, his deep voice rumbling from his chest as you breathed through your nose. “There’s time for that later.”

Blood rushed to your ears as your heart pounded faster. You wished you could've stopped the tears from filling your eyes, but you weren't that strong. Was he going to hurt you? Kill you? If so, why?

The brunette cooed as a tear slid down your cheek. “I’m not going to hurt you, okay? But I will gag you if I remove my hand and you scream again,” he promised, his tone lighter than a moment ago. “Blink once if you promise not to scream.”

You blinked, another tear falling from your eye.

A pleased look crossed his face when he removed his hand and you complied. “Good girl,” he whispered and you ignored the new kind of shiver that rolled down your spine. “I didn't mean to startle you, but I couldn't wait any longer to see you.”

You exhaled as he used his thumb to wipe the tears away, your body still stiff as you focused on trying to stay calm. Couldn't wait to see you? You had never seen this man before in your life. “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name is Bucky Barnes. And don't worry. I already know your name.” He smirked as he rested his hand on your cheek. You managed not to flinch at his calloused touch. “Did you have fun at my club?”

Confusion flickered in your gaze. “What?”

“My club, The 107th. I own it. Did you have fun?” He asked again, looking at you expectantly.

The 107th was the most luxurious and expensive nightclub in the city. Chic and glamorous in design with a friendly staff who waited on people hand and foot, you felt like royalty as you hung out in the VIP section. The upscale venue wasn't one you frequented often. In fact, you had only been once.

For Addison’s bachelorette party.

“Y-Yeah,” you replied, still confused as to what he wanted. “It’s a nice club.”

He hummed, his thumb brushing across your trembling lip. “I’m glad to hear it, but you didn't seem to have as much ‘fun’ as your friends. Did you?”

You nursed your drink as you gazed out at the dancefloor from your seat. The place was packed, the strobe lights flashing over the crowd in various hues as they grinded to the beat. You adjusted the hem of your short black dress as you debated going out to dance. You decided against it since you weren't looking to hook up.

“Come on! Another shot!” Addison yelled, adjusting her tiara on her head. She was lucky the “bride to be” sash was still on straight. “Shot, shot, sh-sh-sh-shot!”

You giggled as she plopped down beside you. “I did a shot. I'm fine,” you hollered back.

Your best friend grumbled something you couldn't make out as she put her head on your shoulder. “But you aren't even driving.”

“I don't want to deal with a hangover tomorrow,” you argued, thanking the server as she brought another bottle.

“Ugh. If you won't drink, at least get laid,” Addison whined a little. “You're wearing a slutty black dress and everything.”

You looked around at the group. Addison was the only one in white since she was the bride. Everyone else wore black. They looked great, but you weren't dressed to get any sort of attention.

“Yeah! Get fucked!” Dana shouted.

“Is that encouragement or an insult?” You teased, glancing at the small blinking light in the corner of the VIP section. You didn't notice it before.

“Raise your hand if you think our girl should get laid!” Addison announced, raising her hand high and spilling some of her drink on the seat. “Whoops.”

The group raised their hands as you attempted to clean up the small mess. “I’m not hooking up with anyone tonight,” you said to their disappointment. “This night isn't about me and my love life.”

“Your love life? Babe, it doesn't exist!” Addison grabbed your left hand and held it up to stare at your bare ring finger. “I don't get it. You're the only one not engaged or married yet. And you're, like, the sweetest one in our group. And you're so pretty! It’s not fair that you don't have a man. You deserve one.”

“And sex!” Dana chimed in. “You deserve lots of sex!”

You gently pulled your hand away and pushed down the sadness that surfaced at the reminder that you were the only single one left of your friends. You didn't know why you hadn't met the right one yet. It wasn't like your standards were too high and you were a good, loyal partner. You wouldn't say you were supermodel gorgeous, but you were pretty. You knew how to have a good time.

Right?

Addison's lip wobbled when she saw the look on your face. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m sorry. I didn't mean anything by it,” she rambled, hugging you from the side. “I just want you to have what Brady and I have. I want someone to love you.”

Guilt crept in before you shook your head and flashed your best smile. You know she wasn't trying to make you feel bad and you didn't want to ruin her night. “And one day, I will. Someone will love me the way Brady loves you and I’ll love him, too,” you assured her, giving the other girls a shrug and wishing they'd stop with the pitying stares. “Shots?”

“Shots!”

Your eyes briefly went back to the blinking light before you put a small smile back on your face. Addison was having fun and that was what mattered. You could worry about yourself and your feelings tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, but did my friends and I do something wrong?” You asked, dodging his question. You booked and paid for the section well in advance. Your group danced around in the area, and behaved overall and kept to yourselves. The server got a nice tip at the end of the night.

So what was the matter?

“Not at all,” he said, tilting his head. “I’m just sorry I couldn't introduce myself to you that night.”

“I don't understand. You broke into my home just so you could introduce yourself to me?” You asked as he traced small circles on your hips, the motion making your head spin a little. “How do you even know where I live?”

He chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, before he got serious again. “I have my ways. And I can be a little intense and forward at times, but you’ll get used to it,” he said, your eyes wide again. What was wrong with this man?

“Okay, Bucky,” you said slowly, seeing something wicked flash in his eyes when you said his name. “Being intense and forward doesn't excuse breaking into my home. And since my friends and I didn't do anything wrong at your club and you formally introduced yourself, I think it's time for you to leave.”

A second passed before he shook his head. “No, doll. It’s time for you to get the love life and man you deserve.”

Fingers brushed your throat as you struggled to take your next breath. “What did you say?”

“I'm going to take you out to dinner tomorrow so you can get to know me and you’re going to wear the dress I bought for you,” he explained as if he didn't hear you, nodding toward the hall. “It’s waiting for you in your bedroom and, yes, it’s your size.”

How did this man have the nerve and how long had he been in your place? “You went into my room? You-”

“And I bought you that perfume you recently ran out of. I know how much you love it. I know everything about you,” he continued, running his nose along your neck as your blood ran cold. “Oh, we’re going to have so much fun together.”

You moved back, desperate to get away as your stomach twisted. He didn't let you get far, easily yanking you close again. How did he know anything about you? How did you catch his eye?

The blinking light in the corner of the VIP section …

“And if I say no?”

Bucky pulled back, his eyes calculating as he studied you. “I’m not going to force you into going out with me. It’s your choice to say yes or no, but I want you to think carefully about that choice.”

Dread pooled in your gut. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I obviously know where you live and I can get in and out undetected,” he pointed out. You wondered now if this was the first time he had been in your place. “I also know where your friend Addison and her fiancé, Brady, live.”

A wounded sound escaped at the thought of anything happening to your friends. “Please, leave them alone.”

“And the shop you work at, I know where it’s located. Those floral arrangements you make are stunning. Your boss even gave you a raise recently. You should be proud,” he smiled.

Your eyes watered again. The man was certifiably insane. Maybe this was a sick joke or a bad dream. Soon you'd wake up in your bed.

But the iron grip on your body reminded you that this was very real.

He waved a hand dismissively. “But we both know you’ll make the right choice because you're a good girl… a smart girl,” he said like he hadn't just threatened your friends or livelihood. “Just take the night to think it over. Have a glass of wine and draw yourself a nice bath while you do.”

He surprised you by moving you from his lap to the sofa. His hands and eyes lingered on you momentarily before he released you and stood up. Towering over you, he gave you a tender smile as he buttoned his jacket.

“I’m going to lock the door behind me when I leave and I’ll be back tomorrow at 7pm so you can give me your answer. And if you try and tell anyone I was here tonight, I’ll know about it,” he said, grasping your chin when you tried to look away. “It’s taking all of my control not to drag you to bed, but I can wait a little longer.”

Fear prickled the back of your neck as you tensed up. “You couldn't just ask me out like a normal person?”

You almost regretted asking when he narrowed his eyes, but he huffed out a laugh. “Where's the fun in that?” He winked as you shrank back in your seat. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I won't hurt you. And you know what? I just thought of something. You still need a plus one for the wedding. I’m free. I’ll get a suit to match your bridesmaids’ dress. We’ll look perfect together. And Addison will be so happy that you aren't going alone.”

His tone was light and happy like it was a suggestion and not an order, but the ferocity in his gaze had you trembling. “Why are you doing this?” You asked above a whisper.

“Because I want you and I get what I want,” he said as a matter of fact, releasing your chin. “Like I said, it's time for you to get the love you deserve. And I know you'll give it to me in return.”

It was like your spirit floated out of your body as he bent down to kiss your forehead. You couldn't move or speak. Was this what shock felt like? Or was it complete and utter fear?

You stared ahead as he picked up your phone and unlocked it with your passcode. He knew that, too? “Can’t leave without giving you my phone number,” he smiled, putting his information in before he set the device down. You didn't respond. Once he was gone you could scream and cry. But you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of breaking down in front of him. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, 7pm. Get some rest. You'll need it.”

Even as he left you alone and locked the door behind him as promised, you didn't move from your spot as tears streamed down your cheeks. You didn't dare go to your bedroom to see the gifts he left for you, your hand shaking as you wiped at your face. The scent of his cologne lingered, as did his touch. It was like his shadow covered you, leaving you cold and afraid. Your home was no longer safe.

You weren't safe.

With his subtle threat looming over your head, you’d have no choice but to go out with him. Maybe he’d get bored of you quickly and move on. Or maybe not. You had no way of knowing. All you knew was that your average life was upheaved by the owner of The 107th.

And you were going to be his girl whether you liked it or not.

Bucky isn't wasting time. Where is he taking you on your first date? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[just1cefor4ll]

Wolf in sheep’s clothing

Hwang In-ho x pregnant!wife reader warning. not proof read, might be OOC

genre. fluff

You knew what In-ho’s job was. You knew what the games were about. You knew your husband was a monster—yet you stayed with him through thick and thin.

The two of you had met in the games when he was just a mere participant, fighting for survival just as you were. Against all odds, you both won and from that moment on, In-ho climbed his way up to the title of Frontman. And through it all, he kept you by his side, hidden away from the eyes of the guards. None of them knew what you looked like—only whispers of the Frontman’s “mistress” passed between them. A ghost of a woman, unseen yet ever-present.

Eight years into your relationship and four years into your marriage, you were blessed with a child. Your stomach grew with each passing day, and morning sickness became an unwanted but familiar routine—one you learned to accept. In-ho, despite the cold exterior he showed to the world, was elated at the news. He did everything in his power to provide for you, to make you as comfortable as possible. It was in those moments of tenderness that you loved him most.

But something changed.

As the next games approached, he grew distant. At first, it was subtle—longer hours, quiet contemplation when he thought you weren’t watching. But then the late nights turned into entire days without a word, and the warmth he once reserved for you felt strained, overshadowed by something you couldn’t quite name. It was unusual. In all the years he had organized the games, none had ever seemed this important. And that raised a question you weren’t sure you wanted the answer to.

The unease settled deep in your bones, an unshakable feeling that something was wrong. In-ho had always been methodical, always in control, but this time.. this time, he seemed almost troubled.

At first, you told yourself it was just the stress of preparation—after all, the games demanded perfection. A single misstep could expose everything. But as the days passed, his silence became heavier, his touch less frequent. He was still gentle, still doting in small ways—bringing you tea for your nausea, making sure you had everything you needed—but his mind was elsewhere.

One night, you finally confronted him.

“In-ho.” Your voice was firm, cutting through the quiet of your shared bedroom. “What’s going on?” He barely looked up as he pulled off his gloves, his dark eyes distant. “It’s nothing. The games are just.. complicated this year.” You studied him, searching for the truth beneath his carefully chosen words. “Complicated how?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second—just enough for you to catch it. That was all you needed to confirm what you already suspected. “You’re lying,” you murmured, your fingers curling against the fabric of your dress. “You’ve never acted like this before, no matter how difficult the games were.” His jaw tightened. For the first time in a long while, you saw something raw in his expression—something dangerously close to guilt. “In-ho.” You reached out, your hand resting against his arm. “Please. Just tell me.” He exhaled sharply, as if debating whether to tell you at all. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Jun-ho is alive.”

Your breath caught. The name alone sent a jolt through you. His brother. The man he thought he had lost once he shot him a few years ago— regret spiralling up in him. Your mind reeled, memories flashing in fragmented pieces. In-ho had mourned Jun-ho in his own way—coldly, silently, refusing to speak of him. He had convinced himself that Jun-ho was gone, that there was no other possibility.

But now…

“He’s coming for me,” In-ho said, his voice unreadable. “For the games. For everything.” He stared bluntly, walking into your bedroom to change into a black tank to and sweatpants.

Your breath hitched, but In-ho wasn’t done.

“There’s someone else,” he murmured, his gaze shadowed with something you couldn’t quite place. “A former winner. They’re coming, too—trying to stop the games.”

A former winner?

It was rare enough for anyone to survive the games, let alone come back willingly. You knew how broken survivors could be, how winning didn’t mean escaping unscathed. The games weren’t just a fight for survival—they were a death sentence, one way or another. And yet, someone who had already endured that hell was now trying to bring it all down?

Your stomach twisted.

“They know who you are?” you asked. In-ho shook his head. “Not yet. But he knows enough.”

You swallowed hard, your hand instinctively moving to your stomach. You had lived in the shadows of these games for years, hidden from the guards, protected by the distance In-ho put between his work and your life. But now that protection felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.

“What are you going to do?” you asked, dreading the answer.

“I have to stop them.” His voice was calm, resolute. It was the voice of the man who had climbed his way up from the pit of the games, who had learned to do whatever it took to survive.

Your heart clenched. “And if you can’t?”

He turned to you then, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. For the first time in weeks, he touched your face, his fingers gentle against your cheek. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, okay? I’ll figure it out like I’ve always had.”

You exhaled shakily, searching his expression for any hint of hesitation. You found none. The games were his world. His prison. And now, it seemed, his war.

“I’ll be joining the games as a player, the first game is taking place tommorow so right now I just want to spend time with you before I leave.” He said, pulling you closer by the waist with kisses trailing down your jaw to your neck. “I’ll miss you.” He said, picking you up and walking to the couch with you, laying you in his lap.

A heavy silence settled between you, your expression unreadable but you’ve set your mind to what you were about to say, and you were going no matter what he said.

“I’ll join you.”

His fingers tensed around your waist as his brows furrowed in immediate disapproval.“No,” he said firmly. You straightened, your resolve hardening. “Yes.” His jaw clenched, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly before he pulled away. He turned his back to you, exhaling sharply as if trying to rein in his emotions. “You don’t understand—” “I understand perfectly,” you interrupted, stepping closer. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I haven’t spent years by your side, watching, listening, learning?” You spat, standing up front his lap as you looked down at him with your hands on your hips. “For god’s sake In-ho I’ve played the games with you before and guess what?! Rumour has it; I survived.”

His silence was answer enough.

You took another step, your voice unwavering. “This isn’t just about you anymore, In-ho. We’re in this together. If someone’s coming to tear down everything you’ve built, that means they’re coming for me too. For our child.” Your hand rested over your stomach. “And I won’t just sit here, waiting for that to happen.” In-ho turned to face you again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes—held something raw. Something that made your heart ache.

“I swore I’d keep you safe,” he murmured. “That’s why I kept you hidden. Why I—” He stopped himself, inhaling sharply. “I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”

You shook your head. “Keeping me hidden won’t protect me forever. If they find out about me, about the baby… I won’t be some untouchable secret anymore, In-ho. I’ll be a target no matter if I join the games with you or not.”

His hands twitched at his sides. You could see the war raging in his mind, the conflicting desires—his instinct to shield you from harm, clashing with the reality that danger was already creeping in.

“You need me,” you pressed. “I’ve been by your side for years. I know how the games work. I know how you operate.”

In-ho’s breathing was slow, measured.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke.

“If you do this,” he said quietly, “there’s no turning back.” You met his gaze without hesitation. “I know.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. And then, for the first time in weeks, In-ho really looked at you—not as someone fragile, not as someone to be sheltered, but as someone who had always been standing beside him.

A slow exhale. A decision made. “Alright,” he said at last. “Then we do this together.”

And just like that, you were in the games. In-ho decided to wait out red light, green light to see what who you now knew as “Gi-hun” or player 456 was going to do.

And to your surprise many people actually survived because of him which you were kind of happy about because they were still people. People who you thought deserved a chance at life but In-ho thought otherwise which is why this topic was immensely avoided.

When the votes came in, you immediately noticed how much the games had changed. Players were given the choice to stay or leave—a cruel shift that put everyone at a greater disadvantage. Now, their fates were practically sealed the moment they arrived. The glaring Xs and Os on the jackets made it even worse, marking people like targets under a streetlight. There was no hiding, no blending in. You pressed O for the first round, curiosity flickering in your mind as you wondered what the next game would be.

Of course, the O team won. In-ho cast the final vote, sealing the outcome.

The moment victory was confirmed, players rushed toward Gi-hun, yourself and In-ho included. It was clear what they all wanted—to get on his good side. You knew the O on your jacket wouldn’t help much in that effort, but it was worth a try.

“You’ve played before, right? That means you can tell us what the next games are,” you said, offering him a soft smile as you leaned against one of the beds for support. Several players echoed your words, pressing him for answers. With lights out only minutes away, they were desperate for any information that could give them an edge.

“The—wait, I’m not exactly sure if the games will be the same,” Gi-hun admitted, his expression uneasy. “But.. the next one should be dalgona.”

That one key word should was quickly ignored. The second it left his mouth, people erupted into cheers, already discussing which shape to pick. Triangle. That was the safest bet, according to Gi-hun.

You turned to In-ho, catching the subtle smirk forming on his face. He knew better. “I’m guessing it’s not dalgona,” you murmured, amusement lacing your voice as you followed him back to your beds. “How could you ever guess?” he teased, sitting beside you and gently guiding your head onto his shoulder. You sighed, letting yourself relax against him despite the ever-present danger lurking in every corner of this place. Sleep wasn’t an option here—not for you. “So, what are we playing?” you asked, voice low. “Six-legged pentathlon,” he answered smoothly. “Each group will have six players—” He explained the rest of the game, his voice a steady murmur against the hum of the dormitory. Time slipped by faster than you realized, and before long, the blaring morning alarm signaled the start of another day.

You sat up, adjusting your jacket as you glanced around at the other players, their faces twisted with a mix of hope and fear. None of them knew the full truth—who you were, what you had endured, or the secret you carried.

As far as they knew, you were just another competitor. And In-ho? He wasn’t the Front Man. He was just Young-il. And you? You were nothing more than a name you had made up.

A false identity for a very real nightmare.

As the alarm blared, signaling the start of the next game, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself. Players groaned and stretched, some rubbing the exhaustion from their faces, while others whispered about Gi-hun’s supposed insider knowledge. You could already hear people strategizing, debating who to team up with. It was ironic, really—how quickly people latched onto an idea when they were desperate to survive.

You glanced at In-ho— Young-il, as far as anyone else knew. His face was unreadable, as always, but the faint amusement in his eyes told you he was enjoying the chaos.

“Come on,” he said, standing up and offering you his hand. “Let’s go.” His voice was rough, a mask that he put himself behind to shield himself from any kind of signs of weakness or letting people know of his true colours.

You took his hand and let him pull you to your feet, already scanning the room. Some groups had already started forming, huddled together in nervous whispers. Stronger players were being snatched up quickly, their value determined by nothing more than their size or athletic build.

“Hey! Join our team!” A man you barely recognized waved you over. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and the others beside him looked just as physically capable.

Your hand instinctively rested on your stomach for a brief second, a reminder of the life growing inside you. It wasn’t just your survival at stake anymore. With a deep breath you look over at In-ho who’s hand was on your waist, looking back at the men with a glare. “Go join Gi-hun, I’ll be okay on this team, yeah?” You gave In-ho a reassuring smile

In-ho studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t one to argue in front of others, especially not in a setting like this, but you knew him well enough to see the hesitation in his eyes. “Fine,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm. “Don’t do anything reckless.” You rolled your eyes with a small laugh and pushed playfully towards Gi-hun’s already forming team. “Go.”

With one last glance, In-ho turned and made his way toward Gi-hun, effortlessly slipping into their group. You watched as he exchanged a few words with the others before settling in, blending in as if he had nothing to hide.

Meanwhile, your new teammates regarded you with curiosity. The broad-shouldered man who had called you over grinned. “Didn’t think you’d actually say yes. Thought you’d stick with your guy.”

You shrugged, offering a nonchalant smile. “I figured it’d be better to spread our chances. Besides, I can hold my own.” The others murmured in agreement, seeming satisfied for now. But you could still feel their eyes lingering on you, gauging your worth.

The speakers crackled overhead, silencing the scattered conversations.

“All players, prepare for the second game.”

Your team was picked for the second round along with a mother and a son you saw in the dormitories a few hours ago. It went by pretty fast, you decided on playing gongi since you loved that game as a child and used to make fun of In-ho whenever he tried to best you.

You waited impatiently for their team to come, but as all teams piled up you couldn’t help but be terrified— ‘His own guards wouldn’t kill him, would they? That’s laughable..’ You think to yourself.

“[Fake Name]!”

In-ho’s voice rang out over the noise of the dorm, his smile unmistakable as he waved you over. He stood with his newly formed team—one woman and three other men, only one of whom you recognized: Gi-hun. The others remained unfamiliar. “Who’s this?” Player 390 asked, eyeing you with curiosity. Gi-hun, on the other hand, watched you like a predator sizing up a threat. You figured your last comment before the previous game must have thrown him off. Before you could answer, In-ho spoke. “This is my w—friend. She’s my friend.” His quick correction made you frown, but you nodded with a polite, albeit forced, smile. “I’m [Fake Name] [Fake Last Name]. It’s great to meet you all.”

Introductions went around, and soon you learned that another pregnant woman had joined the team. Unlike you—at six and a half months—she was far closer to giving birth, her belly much more pronounced.

Just as you began gathering blankets and pillows to arrange a small sleeping area, a tap on your shoulder made you roll your eyes. Of course. In-ho. You turned to him with a sarcastic smile. “Hey, friend! What can I help you with?” He sighed, shaking his head before gently taking your hand. Without another word, he led you away from the group, past the bathroom doors, and into an unfamiliar room. It was different from the dorms—more refined, with a plush chair in front of a screen, a miniature jazz bar, and an air of quiet luxury.

Before you could take in your surroundings, In-ho pulled you onto his lap, his arms wrapping securely around you. His hand found its way to your stomach, fingers tracing soft, comforting circles.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he murmured, his touch gentle as he brushed your cheek. His gaze softened, filled with something only you ever got to see. A true look of love. Your frustration lingered, but before you could say anything, he continued, voice gentle but firm. “I shouldn’t have called you my friend. You’re my wife. You always will be.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering as if trying to say what words couldn’t. “But in a place like this.. relationships are a weakness. If they knew what you meant to me, you’d be a target. I can’t let that happen.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest.

“I know it hurt,” he whispered. “But everything I do is to protect you and our baby.” His hand moved over your belly, warmth radiating through his palm. “Our little girl… she’s going to have the best life. I’ll make sure of it. No matter what it takes.”

Your fingers curled into his player uniform, the tension in your body slowly easing.

“So, what now?” you asked, your voice quieter now. In-ho exhaled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “That’s why I brought you here. You’ll stay with me tonight. Away from the others. No fighting for a hiding spot, no fear of what happens when the lights go out.” He cupped your face gently, thumb stroking along your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you. To either of you.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself believe him. The world outside was a nightmare, but in his arms, just for tonight, you were safe.

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

taglist: @hansharfi @skibidirizzzlerrrr

[gerlionrise]

A Game Within the Game  

001 x Reader Synopsis: In the deadly games where survival is the only rule, an unlikely bond forms between two players—one seemingly fragile and unassuming, the other strong-willed and determined. Amid the chaos, whispers of hidden alliances and unseen protections weave a tale of obsession, power, and unspoken truths. As danger looms at every corner, the line between trust and manipulation blurs, leaving one question: how far would someone go to protect what they desire by most?

This is Part 1. Part 2 is here

The eerie hum of the Squid Game facility never truly settled, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above as though mimicking the anxiety thrumming through the players. Every step, every breath was laced with uncertainty. But for you, there was one constant—a pair of watchful eyes.  

From the moment the games began, 001 stood out to you. His demeanor was different. Calm, collected, and always one step ahead, he carried himself with an authority that no one else seemed to notice. You’d felt his presence everywhere: a steady hand during the chaos, a voice of reason amidst the panic, and a protector in ways that no one else dared to be.  

---

The tension within the games had been escalating with each passing day. The players had grown desperate, alliances crumbling as the stakes rose higher. But for you, something felt different—subtler. A shadow loomed over you, not from the games themselves but from someone among the players.  

It began with whispers, fleeting glances from one of the players—a wiry man with sharp eyes and an unsettling smirk. His demeanor toward you was always off, his gaze lingering just a moment too long, his words dripping with something unspoken.  

“Watch yourself,” 001 had murmured to you the day before, his voice low and cautious as you stood in the corner of the dormitory.  

“Why?” you asked, studying him carefully.  

“There are those who see you as more than just competition,” he said. “They see you as a threat.”   ---

The tension in the air was palpable as the next game was announced. It was another test of trust, pairing players to navigate a labyrinth filled with hidden traps. Your partner, the same wiry man with shifty eyes, seemed eager, but his energy felt wrong—too forceful, too deliberate.  

“You and me,” he said, flashing a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ll make it to the end, no question.”  

You had no choice but to trust him, though his enthusiasm put you on edge. The guards herded everyone into the maze, their cold, impassive stares sending shivers down your spine.  

As the game began, your partner took the lead, moving erratically, almost as if he wanted you to falter.  

“Watch your step,” he snapped as you hesitated.  

The words seemed like concern, but his tone carried an edge, sharp enough to make you wary.  

---

From the sidelines, 001 observed the scene with practiced calm. His eyes missed nothing. Every misstep, every sideways glance from your partner, was noted. He had suspected the man’s intentions from the start. He played a dirty game.

Without drawing attention, he shifted closer to the masked guards stationed nearby. Despite the façade he wore as an ordinary player, his authority in the games was absolute. A single, subtle nod was all it took for the guards to spring into action.   ---

The labyrinth echoed with shouts as the alarms blared unexpectedly. A voice over the intercom declared an emergency pause in the game.  

“Return to the dormitory immediately,” the voice ordered.  

Confusion rippled through the players as they were escorted out of the maze. Your partner clung to his facade, but his eyes darted nervously toward the guards.  

Once the players were safely back in the dormitory, the guards surrounded him. Without ceremony, they hauled him to his knees, ignoring his protests.  

“I didn’t do anything! You’re making a mistake!” he shouted, his voice cracking with fear.  

His words fell on deaf ears. The guards dragged him away, and though no explanation was given, the tension in the room eased slightly once he was gone.  

---

Later that night, you sat on your bunk, replaying the day’s events. Something about your partner’s behavior had felt wrong from the beginning, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had intervened on your behalf.  

Across the room, 001 sat quietly, his hands resting on his knees as he gazed into the distance. His presence was steady, calming, but something about the way he looked at you made your pulse quicken.  

“You handled yourself well today,” he said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.  

Your gaze snapped to his, startled by the unexpected compliment. “What do you mean?”  

“You didn’t let fear control you,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s rare in a place like this.”  

Something in his tone felt weighted, as though he knew far more than he let on. But before you could question him further, he leaned back, closing his eyes as if to rest.  

---

Over the next few days, you began to notice strange things. The guards seemed to linger near you more often, their silent presence a shield against unseen threats. During meals, your food was always served first, untouched and pristine. In the games, traps that should have been deadly seemed to miss you entirely.  

You weren’t the only one who noticed. Whispers circulated among the players, theories forming about why you seemed untouchable. Some believed it was luck, others thought it was favoritism. But no one dared to confront you directly.   --- One evening, as the dormitory settled into uneasy quiet, you found yourself beside 001 once more. He was playing with a few marbles, rolling them between his fingers with an absentminded ease.  

“Do you believe in fate?” he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

The question caught you off guard. “I’m not sure,” you admitted cautiously. “Why?”  

His gaze met yours, piercing and unrelenting. “Because some things happen for a reason, whether we see it or not. Like you being here, alive.”  

There was something unspoken in his words, a quiet confession buried beneath layers of ambiguity. But before you could unravel it, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.  

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Not everyone in this place has your best interests at heart.”  

---

You didn’t know it, but 001’s orders had ensured your survival at every turn. The guards, bound to his silent commands, moved with precision, eliminating threats before they could touch you.  

To the other players, he was nothing more than just another man trying to get money, harmless and unassuming. But to you, his presence became a constant comfort, a silent promise that, no matter what, you would not face this nightmare alone.  

And though you couldn’t see the web of protection he wove around you, you felt its effects in every subtle glance, every unexpected reprieve. In the chaos of the games, his obsession became your salvation. If you have any requests - let me know!

[cloudyluun]

The Cost of Keeping You | ceo!harry

Summary: Working for Harry Styles—CEO of Styles Enterprises and unofficial tyrant of the twentieth floor—was never Y/N’s dream. But rent waits for no one. She can handle his cold glares, biting remarks, and soul-sucking silence. Until one day, she can’t. After a brutal insult that hits too close to home, Y/N walks out with her head high and her heart bruised. Harry? He pretends not to care. Until he does.

Now, months later, Harry finds himself unraveling in the quiet she left behind—and he’ll have to decide if he’s ready to face the mess he made… and the woman he might’ve lost forever.

A/N: This fic (based on this request) is for the girlies who love their men mean, miserable, and emotionally repressed 💅 If you’ve ever daydreamed about quitting your toxic job with a dramatic one-liner and having your jerk of a boss realize he’s in love with you months later? Yeah. This one’s for you.

Pour a glass of wine, light a candle, and prepare for CEOrry to suffer

Word Count: 6,6k

Warnings: 

Verbal/emotional mistreatment in the workplace (from Harry)

Power imbalance (acknowledged & explored)

Burnout / stress / overwork

Angsty emotionally stunted man

Soul-crushing insult that will make you gasp and clutch your pearls

Groveling (delicious)

Optional heartbreak depending on chosen ending

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

She never planned to stay this long.

The job was supposed to be temporary—a stopgap while she figured things out. Rent in the city wasn’t kind, and freelance gigs didn’t always pay on time. When she landed the executive assistant position at Styles Global, she told herself she’d give it six months. Just enough time to build some savings, maybe line up something closer to her skill set. Something less soul-sucking.

That was two years ago.

Now, she moved through the sleek glass hallways like a ghost in heels, always present, always poised, and always one misstep away from being on the receiving end of another of Harry Styles’ famously cold tirades.

To the rest of the office, he was a legend. A force of nature. They called him “Hurricane Styles” behind his back, though most were too afraid to say it above a whisper. He had built the company from nothing, turned every risk into a win, turned bloodless strategy into an art form. Investors adored him. Board members feared him. And employees? They tried not to make eye contact.

She knew the rules. Never speak unless spoken to. Never offer ideas—he’d either steal them or shoot them down just to remind you who had the power. And never, ever expect gratitude. Harry didn’t say thank you. He said “Fix this.” He said “Again.” He said “Why is this taking so long?”

She’d learned early on not to take it personally. The key was to treat it like weather. Unpleasant, unpredictable, but not about her. She could withstand a storm. She just hadn’t realized how long this one would last.

By month three, she had his routines memorized—his preferred coffee order (black, no sugar, 8:04 a.m. sharp), how he liked his reports formatted (12-point font, single-spaced, no cover page), the names he forgot during meetings (which was most of them). She kept his world running so smoothly that no one noticed the machinery behind it.

That was the way he liked it.

Still, some days, she couldn’t help but feel like she was slowly disappearing. Her friends stopped inviting her out after she bailed on too many Friday dinners. Her fridge was stocked with takeout containers she barely remembered ordering. She ate lunch at her desk, dinner on the train, and sometimes forgot breakfast entirely. Sleep came in fits. Her eyes were ringed in fatigue, her jaw clenched more often than not.

But she showed up. Every morning, polished and precise, like clockwork.

And Harry treated her like she was interchangeable.

“This font is wrong,” he’d say, flipping the folder back toward her without looking up.

“It’s the one you asked for.”

“Well, it’s wrong now.”

He never looked her in the eye unless he was correcting her. He never said her name unless it was followed by a command. Some days, she wondered if he even knew anything about her beyond what was in her HR file.

But she didn’t crack. Not outwardly. She met his coldness with calm, his dismissals with measured silence. Let him feel like he had the upper hand. That was how you survived here. She wasn’t trying to win him over. She was just trying to stay standing.

That morning started like any other. Rain slicked the pavement outside the 52nd Street building. She beat him to the office, as usual, lights already on, coffee already waiting. She sat at her desk just outside his door, skimming through emails, flagging the ones that needed his attention, deleting the ones that didn’t. Her phone buzzed. Another meeting pushed back. She adjusted his calendar accordingly.

“Morning,” came a voice from behind her.

She looked up. Theo, one of the junior project managers, stood there holding a report.

“Hey,” she said, managing a small smile.

He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know, I think you might actually be a wizard.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“No, seriously,” he said. “The guy’s a nightmare, but you—you handle him like it’s nothing. You’re the only one who can.”

She snorted under her breath, shaking her head. “Trust me. It’s not magic. It’s caffeine and pure survival instinct.”

“I still think you deserve a raise. Or hazard pay.”

She didn’t say anything, just turned back to her screen. But the compliment—simple, sincere—sat heavy in her chest like a secret. She couldn’t remember the last time someone said something nice to her in this building.

Behind her, the door creaked open.

Theo straightened instantly. “Morning, Mr. Styles.”

Harry didn’t respond. Just walked past them, into his office, and shut the door with that sharp, final click that always made her stomach knot.

She went back to work. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then—

“Y/N.”

His voice, clipped and cold.

She stepped into his office, notepad in hand.

He didn’t look up from his screen. “Why did I just overhear you chatting with one of the junior staff?”

She blinked. “He had a report you needed to see. He also—”

“—was wasting your time,” Harry cut in, finally meeting her gaze. His eyes were unreadable. “You’re not here to make friends.”

Her jaw tensed. “I wasn’t.”

He stood then, slow and deliberate, walking around his desk until they stood a few feet apart.

“If this,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her notepad, her schedule, her entire existence, “is your best, then maybe you should stick to fetching coffee. You're not irreplaceable.”

The words landed like a slap. Not loud, not violent—just surgical in their precision. She stared at him, willing herself not to react. Not to flinch.

Instead, she swallowed hard, nodded once, and left the room.

Back at her desk, she sat perfectly still.

It wasn’t the first time he’d belittled her. But this one felt different. It wasn’t just that he was cruel. It was that he’d said it so easily. As if she was nothing. As if all the late nights and early mornings, all the silent sacrifices, all the ways she kept him afloat… meant nothing.

And he hadn’t even thought twice.

She worked through lunch. Didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the day. Just kept her head down, her expression blank, her hands steady. But inside, something had shifted. Something small, but irreversible.

He thought she was replaceable.

He was going to find out how wrong he was.

The next morning, she arrived at her usual time—fifteen minutes before anyone else. The office was quiet, still soaked in early dawn light. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a city still rubbing sleep from its eyes. She sat at her desk, logged in, and started moving pieces around on his schedule like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

Her spine was straighter. Her eyes sharper. She wasn't angry. Not exactly. Anger was too loud, too hot. What she felt was colder, deeper—an indifference blooming like frostbite. She had nothing left to prove. And for the first time, she could see the finish line. She just hadn’t decided when she’d cross it.

Harry didn’t notice at first.

He breezed in just before 8:15, late by his standards, muttering about a traffic delay, waving off the coffee she still—out of sheer habit—had waiting for him. She took notes in a meeting, filed reports, arranged travel for a business trip he wasn’t even sure he wanted to take. It was routine, rote. The same grind she’d mastered over the last two years.

But Harry wasn’t stupid. And despite his best efforts to act otherwise, he noticed things.

He noticed that she didn’t offer him her usual rundown of the day’s meetings. Didn’t preemptively print the documents he’d need before his 10 a.m. Didn’t even ask if he wanted lunch or if she should push back his next call when the morning ran long.

Instead, she moved like a ghost—silent, efficient, detached.

And it irritated the hell out of him.

By the third day of this quiet withdrawal, he found himself pacing behind his desk after everyone had gone, a file open in front of him that he couldn’t bring himself to read. His office was too quiet. The desk outside his door was empty. She’d left promptly at five, like clockwork. No late-night filing, no quiet hum of her music spilling from her earbuds, no light footsteps when she brought him coffee after hours just because she knew he hadn’t eaten.

It wasn’t just her silence. It was her absence, even when she was still here.

The power imbalance he’d once leaned on so comfortably had shifted. And he didn’t know what to do with it.

So, naturally, he got meaner.

It started with nitpicks. “This margin is off.” “You didn’t bcc the right name.” “I said tomorrow, not Thursday.” All minor things—some imagined—but each said with increasing venom.

She didn’t react. Not really. Just fixed it and moved on. Which made him feel even more off-balance.

Then came the mistake.

It wasn’t even a big one. A slide title on the wrong deck. A single date typo buried in a footnote. But it was during a high-stakes pitch meeting—one he was already on edge about. The room was packed: department heads, a few investors, his second-in-command, and of course, her. Standing just to the side, laptop in hand, managing the screen.

He was presenting. She was supporting. It was a rhythm they knew by heart.

Until her voice broke in, gentle but confident. “Just to clarify, that figure includes Q3 projections, not finalized Q2 numbers.”

He turned slowly.

“Excuse me?” he asked.

She blinked. “You mentioned the quarterly report. I just wanted to clarify—”

“I know what I said,” he snapped. “What I don’t understand is why you’re talking like you have any authority to speak in this room.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

She stared at him. The warmth drained from her face like a switch had flipped.

He wasn’t done.

“You’re here to run slides and take notes. Not to correct me mid-pitch. If I wanted your input, I’d have asked for it. Stick to what you’re paid for.”

She said nothing. Just nodded once and backed off.

The presentation ended five minutes later, stiff and awkward. As the room cleared, he caught a few sidelong glances, a few too-quiet murmurs. But he didn’t care. He was still buzzing with that adrenaline of dominance, the way he always did after asserting control. It was familiar. Automatic.

But when he stepped into his office and saw her already there, standing near his desk, arms folded, expression unreadable—something in him pulled tight.

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“I just corrected the slide title,” she said. “You had the wrong quarter listed. It wasn’t to embarrass you.”

He shrugged, brushing past her toward his desk. “Then maybe next time you’ll think before you speak.”

She didn’t move. “You know, I’ve put up with a lot. The mood swings. The condescension. The hours.”

He looked up, something cold flashing behind his eyes. “Is there a point to this?”

“Yes,” she said. “There is.”

Her voice was steady. Calm. But there was a crack in it now—a fracture held together by sheer will.

He smiled. But it wasn’t kind. “Do you really think you matter here? You’re just another name on the payroll. Don’t mistake necessity for value.”

That was it.

The final blow.

And this time, she didn’t swallow it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t cry.

She laughed.

It was soft at first. Disbelieving. Then colder, darker—a sound pulled from some place buried deep inside her. It startled him. He hadn’t heard her laugh in weeks. Hadn’t seen her smile, not for real, in even longer.

“You know what, Harry?” she said, her voice low and tired and done. “I hope one day you realize what you lost. Not because I want to be missed. But because I want you to feel it. Just once.”

She reached for her badge. Popped it off. Placed it on his desk like it weighed nothing. Like he weighed nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She walked out of his office without another word. Past the desk she’d kept too tidy for too long. Past the glass doors. Past the stunned stares of a few late-working staff who turned just in time to see the ghost of Hurricane Styles’ assistant walking away with her head high.

No notice.

No drama.

Just a clean break.

And Harry, still behind his desk, still holding that last insult in his mouth like poison, realized something too late:

He’d finally broken her.

But she wasn’t the one who was going to pay for it.

He was.

Harry’s POV

He told himself he didn’t care.

Said it out loud, even. In his office, to his reflection, to the empty silence that used to hold her soft footsteps and the quiet rustle of papers being filed. He shrugged when Mitch asked what happened, rolled his eyes when Sarah from HR hinted they should reach out—just in case she had any materials to hand over. He waved it all off.

“I’ll find someone better,” he said flatly, sipping the wrong coffee made by a temp who had no idea he hated hazelnut. “She wasn’t indispensable.”

But the lie sat sour on his tongue.

The first week without her was logistical chaos. The temp assistant—two years younger and painfully eager—couldn’t read his tone, couldn’t keep up, and worst of all, kept asking questions. Dumb ones. Obvious ones. Ones she would have known before he even opened his mouth. The schedules were off. Calls missed. A client dinner was double-booked and he had to personally call and apologize.

He hadn’t made a personal apology in years.

By Friday, he’d snapped three pens in half and raised his voice more times than he could count. He barked at the intern for misprinting a memo and nearly slammed the door on Mitch when he came in with a project update.

The tension he used to wear like armor suddenly felt suffocating.

He lasted exactly six minutes in his office on Monday before storming out. The blinds were still half-drawn the way she always left them—just enough light, not enough glare. Her chair was pushed in, perfectly aligned with the desk. Her spare cardigan was gone, but the scent of her lotion still lingered faintly in the air. Clean. Subtle. Warm.

It punched something in his chest he didn’t know was tender.

He moved into the boardroom instead. Set up camp there like a child refusing to sleep in his own bed after a nightmare.

By week two, everyone knew not to mention her name.

He still caught himself pausing at 11 a.m., waiting for the sound of her humming while she filed. She used to hum the same tune when she was stressed—always off-key, always quiet. He never commented on it, never even acknowledged it. But now the silence grated.

So did the coffee.

He tried to make it the way she used to—just once. Burnt the beans. Stained his shirt.

The spiral was slow but steady. Every little thing reminded him of her. The seat in the elevator she used to lean against when they left late. The branded notepad she always carried, filled with tiny, organized handwriting. The pen she once borrowed and never returned—still in his drawer, chewed at the tip, because she had the annoying habit of biting pens when deep in thought.

And then there were the flashbacks.

The kind that crept up when he least expected them—sharp, vivid, unforgiving.

There was the day he’d come in with a migraine, growling at anyone who dared breathe too loud. She hadn’t said a word. Just dimmed the lights, closed his door, and left a cold compress on his desk. He never thanked her. Never even looked up.

Another time, she brought him soup. Chicken and rice. From some little place two blocks over. He hadn’t eaten all day, his voice was raw from back-to-back calls, and when she placed the container down with a quiet “It’s not a big deal,” he’d snapped.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She hadn’t argued. Just nodded and walked out. But she never brought him soup again.

He should’ve said something then.

He didn’t.

Three weeks after she left, he found her coffee mug still in the back of the cupboard—white ceramic with a tiny chip on the handle. She used to joke that it was her lucky cup, and if it ever broke completely, she’d “take the hint and leave.”

He nearly dropped it.

Instead, he placed it back on the shelf like it was glass-thin, like it could still be salvaged if he just didn’t touch it too hard.

It was around week four when the real punch came.

He wasn’t even looking for it. He was on a news site, scrolling mindlessly, avoiding the stack of files he couldn’t bring himself to organize because no one was around to nag him about deadlines. And then he saw her.

It was a photo embedded in an article—some small piece about a new start-up shaking up the tech world. He wouldn’t have clicked it normally. But her face was there, radiant and easy, mid-laugh. Candid. Honest.

She was standing outside a building he vaguely recognized, arm looped with another woman, both of them holding champagne flutes. The caption said she’d joined the company as their new operations director.

Operations director.

She hadn’t just moved on. She’d leveled up.

And she looked...happy. Not performative, not polite—genuinely alive in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time. Her shoulders weren’t tight. Her eyes weren’t dull. She wasn’t tired. She was free.

That was when it hit him.

He didn’t just lose his assistant.

He lost the one person who gave a damn.

The one who saw him—flaws, fury, all of it—and still showed up, day after day. Not because she had to. But because, at some point, she’d cared.

He used to believe fear was the best motivator. That respect was earned through intimidation. That keeping people at arm’s length meant control. He thought he was untouchable.

But the echo of her laugh still lived in these halls.

And her absence was loud enough to shatter glass.

The days dragged after that. He stopped snapping at people—not because he felt better, but because he didn’t feel anything at all. His office was cold. Clinical. The chair outside his door stayed empty most days, the temp too afraid to sit there for long. The entire floor felt off-balance, like the center of gravity had shifted and no one could quite walk straight.

Every time he saw her picture in that article, he stared at it a little longer.

He kept it open in a background tab.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

But it was also the only thing keeping him tethered.

Because if she could move on...then maybe, maybe there was still a sliver of something he could hold onto.

Maybe redemption wasn’t off the table.

But it wouldn’t come easy. And it wouldn’t come fast.

He’d burned that bridge with a blowtorch.

Now the question was whether there was anything left to rebuild.

The first text he sent was short.

Harry: I’m sorry.

No punctuation. No context. Just two words, tossed into the void of read receipts and silence. It stayed unread. A gray “Delivered” glaring back at him from his phone screen for hours, then days. He told himself maybe she changed her number. Maybe she didn’t see it. But deep down, he knew better.

The second message came two days later.

Harry: I didn’t mean what I said that day. I was angry. At myself. Not you.

Still nothing.

Then came the email. He drafted it at 2 a.m., sitting in the same boardroom he’d commandeered as his cave ever since her departure. He read it over twenty times before sending.

Subject: I owe you an apology.

“Y/N,

I’ve rewritten this a dozen times. Nothing feels like enough. I was wrong. About a lot.

You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. You weren’t just efficient, you were essential—to the company, yes, but also to me. I just didn’t realize it until you were gone.

I miss your steadiness. Your patience. Your fucking humming that used to drive me insane and now echoes in my head like a ghost.

I said things I regret. Things I can’t take back. But I need you to know—you mattered. You mattered more than I ever let myself admit.

If nothing else, let me say this to your face. You don’t owe me anything, but I hope you’ll give me five minutes.

H”

It bounced. Full inbox.

She’d blocked his email.

The next step should’ve felt like a line crossed. But he was already halfway through the wreckage of what he’d ruined—what was one more dent to the ego?

He showed up at her apartment building. Waited outside like a fool with a takeaway coffee and a note in his pocket he didn’t dare hand over.

She didn’t come out.

He tried again. And again.

Once, he saw the curtain shift. A shadow behind the glass. But the door never opened. She never came down.

He stood there for fifteen minutes longer than he should’ve, heart in his throat, hands freezing around the paper cup. And when it became clear she wasn’t going to face him, he tucked the note under the doormat and left without looking back.

He never found it there again.

Still, he couldn’t stop.

He checked her company’s press page obsessively. Memorized every project announcement, every update. She looked like she belonged there. Like she was thriving. There was a confidence in her posture that hadn’t existed when she worked for him. Like she finally had room to breathe.

It should’ve made him happy.

Instead, it gutted him.

The opportunity for confrontation didn’t come until six weeks later. It was an industry networking mixer, full of self-congratulatory execs and overpriced cocktails. He wasn’t planning to go, but Mitch had dragged him out—said he’d been a recluse long enough.

He hadn’t expected her to be there.

She wasn’t even in the main ballroom when he saw her—she was out on the terrace, standing by the railing with a drink in hand, backlit by soft string lights and city glow. Her hair was pulled up. Her dress was simple, but elegant. Understated power.

She looked…whole.

For a moment, he froze. Thought about turning around. Maybe he should’ve. But then she turned slightly, laughing at something someone said beside her, and the sound cracked something open in his chest.

So he walked.

His heart thudded with every step. His palms were damp. There were a thousand versions of this conversation he’d rehearsed in his head, but now, with her just a few feet away, he couldn’t remember any of them.

She noticed him before he could say anything. Her smile faded, her gaze hardening into something unreadable.

He stopped a foot away, gave her space. She didn’t move.

“Hi,” he said. Quiet. Careful.

“Harry.” Her voice was calm. Unmoved. The ice in her drink clinked as she swirled it slowly.

He waited. Nothing. No warmth. No invitation.

“I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

Silence.

“I was awful to you,” he said finally. “I don’t even know where to start—”

“You don’t have to,” she cut in. “You said everything you wanted to the day I quit.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t care.”

It landed like a slap. Clean. Honest. Brutal.

She took a sip of her drink and looked past him, like she was already bored with the conversation. He could see the shift in her—the absence of the girl who used to hesitate before speaking, who used to shrink under the weight of his moods. That girl was gone. This version of her stood taller. Spoke clearer. Didn’t flinch.

And somehow, that made it worse.

“I was scared,” he said. “Of needing you. Of how much I depended on you. I pushed you because I didn’t know how else to deal with it.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “So you punished me because you couldn’t manage your own emotions?”

“Yes,” he said, voice rough. “I didn’t see it then. But I do now.”

She stared at him, the silence stretching thin between them.

“I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he added. “I’m not asking for things to go back to the way they were. I just needed you to know I’m sorry. That I miss you. That losing you was the worst mistake I’ve ever made.”

Something flickered across her face—small, fleeting. A crack in the armor. But it disappeared as quickly as it came.

“You miss the way I made your life easier. The way I knew your schedule, your moods, your coffee order. You miss the convenience.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I miss you. The person. The presence. The way you gave a shit even when I didn’t deserve it. The way you challenged me without ever raising your voice. The way you—” His voice broke. “The way you saw me. Even when I couldn’t see myself.”

A beat of silence.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

“I used to think,” she said quietly, “that if I worked hard enough, stayed long enough, you’d see it. That you’d see me. Not just as an assistant, but as a human being.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

“But I realized,” she continued, “that the problem wasn’t my effort. It was your inability to recognize value unless it screamed. I had to break to get your attention.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her glass. “I’m not angry anymore, Harry. I’m not bitter. I just… don’t want to go back to a place that made me feel small.”

“I don’t want that either,” he said. “If there’s even the smallest chance… I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to get the old dynamic back, but to build something better. On your terms.”

She looked up at him then, really looked at him.

And for the first time, he saw the cost. The weight she’d carried. The cracks she’d had to seal on her own.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m ready,” she said. “If I’m ready.”

“I know.” He stepped back slightly, giving her room. “But I’ll be here. However long it takes.”

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, small and measured.

He left her there, under the soft lights, the night cool against his skin.

For the first time, he didn’t walk away with answers. But he walked away knowing something had shifted.

And maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

The days that followed were quiet. Not the suffocating kind he’d grown used to, full of silence and unanswered messages, but the kind that forced reflection. He didn’t try to contact her again. Not right away. He didn’t loiter by her building, didn’t send another desperate email. He’d said his piece. Now, he had to prove he meant it.

That started with his own house.

Literally.

The place was a mess—not just physically, but emotionally. It still looked like it belonged to the version of him she’d left: sharp edges, cold surfaces, and schedules that ran tighter than his jawline used to. So he changed it. Started small. New photos on the wall—ones that weren’t just boardroom snapshots and event galas. He framed one of the office holiday party she’d organized three years ago. The one where she wore a ridiculous headband with blinking lights and somehow still managed to look composed.

He made space in his days that didn’t revolve around profit margins and investor calls. Therapy twice a week, no excuses. He started having actual conversations with his team. Not just directives. Not just performance reviews. Real check-ins. The kind he used to think were a waste of time.

He showed up. And not in the grand, dramatic gestures he might’ve leaned on before. No flowers sent to her new office. No extravagant apologies. Just quiet, consistent effort.

And slowly, word got around.

Mitch mentioned over lunch that she’d heard. That someone on her team had passed along the news—Harry wasn’t the same. He didn’t snap anymore. He listened more than he talked. And most shocking of all, he’d started mentoring junior staff.

“It’s not a magic trick,” Mitch had said, half-smiling. “But people are noticing.”

Still, she didn’t reach out. And he didn’t expect her to. He wasn’t owed anything.

So he focused on what he could control.

Then, one afternoon in early spring, a message arrived. Short. Neutral.

Y/N: Can you talk?

He stared at it for five minutes before replying.

Harry: Anytime.

They met at a quiet café halfway between her office and his. It wasn’t a date. She made that clear in her tone, her posture, the space she kept between them. But she’d come. And that was something.

“You’ve been busy,” she said, sipping her tea.

“I’ve had a lot to make up for.”

“I didn’t reach out because I needed space. I still do. But I’ve been watching. And I see the work.”

He nodded, unsure if it was his place to speak.

“This doesn’t mean anything changes,” she added. “But I want to see if… maybe we can start from zero. Slowly.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Whatever pace you need.”

They didn’t talk much that day. But the door had opened.

Over the next few weeks, they found a strange new rhythm. Occasional texts. Brief lunches. No talk of the past unless she brought it up. He learned to follow her lead, to listen without trying to fix or justify.

It wasn’t easy. He’d built his career on control, on always having the answer. But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was trust—raw, slow-growing, and fragile.

One afternoon, she visited his office. Unannounced.

“I was nearby,” she said, though the tremor in her voice hinted at something deeper. She looked around. The space had changed since she’d last seen it. Softer lighting. Fewer screens. A photo of his niece on the shelf, grinning with a missing front tooth.

“You’ve changed,” she said after a pause.

“I had to.”

“For you?”

“For me. But also because if I hadn’t, I would’ve lost everything. Not just you. Myself.”

She nodded slowly, then held out a folder.

“I’ve been working on something. A proposal.”

He blinked, surprised, then took it. Her name was on the first page. Director of Strategic Initiatives.

“This isn’t you asking for your old job back,” he said, flipping through it.

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s me offering to build something with you. As equals. Or not at all.”

He smiled then. Not the smug, closed-lip smirk she used to hate, but something softer. More real.

“I’d be lucky to have you.”

“You’d be smart,” she corrected.

He laughed, and for the first time in a long while, so did she.

The official announcement went out a month later. She’d accepted the position—but not in his division. She’d have her own team. Her own budget. Full autonomy. And he made it clear, in both the press release and the internal memo, that her success would have his support, not his interference.

Their collaboration started professionally. Emails, strategy meetings, pitch reviews. But something unspoken lingered beneath it all. A current. A history neither of them dared touch—until the night of the fundraiser.

It was raining. Of course it was.

He wasn’t sure if she’d come. It was a high-profile event, black tie, every reason for her to avoid it. But then she walked in.

Black dress. Hair down this time. Calm, confident. She scanned the room and found him almost immediately.

Later, when most of the guests had filtered out and the ballroom was half-empty, she found him on the balcony, staring out into the storm.

“I used to think rain was bad luck,” she said, stepping beside him.

He turned. “And now?”

“I think maybe it just… washes away the noise.”

He watched her for a long moment. Then finally, voice low, he said, “I meant it. Everything I said. That day.. I still mean it.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just looked at him, eyes searching.

“You’re still a bit of a hurricane, Harry.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Then let me be the one to rebuild what I tore down.”

She studied him. The vulnerability. The steadiness he hadn’t had before.

“I don’t need saving,” she said.

“I know. You never did.”

“But I might be ready to build something. Not because I miss what we had. But because I see who you’re trying to become.”

“And who are you?” he asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Someone who won’t settle. Not for less than mutual respect. Not for silence when there should be honesty. Not for anything less than real.”

“Then I’ll meet you there,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

The moment stretched.

And then, under the city lights and the steady hum of rain, she stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t assume. Just waited.

She reached up, fingers brushing his cheek. Her kiss was gentle. No heat or desperation. Just truth.

When they pulled apart, she smiled—small, certain.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive everything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“But it means I see you. And I believe you see me now too.”

He nodded, eyes stinging.

“I always did,” he whispered. “I just didn’t know how to show it.”

She touched his hand, lacing their fingers briefly before stepping back.

“Start with showing up,” she said. “Keep doing that. Day by day.”

“I will.”

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing her shadow. He was standing beside her.

Present.

Ready.

This time, they’d build it right.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

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[hamilton-here]

The recent pap video got me thinking

What if he's out with his girl, but it's still relatively new, just theirs, and when they get caught he panicks like he did in the video and rushes back inside

I'd be mortified loool

How would he go about it, to make amends? It was clear he was taken by surprise and his reaction was almost involuntary but it would legit break my heart cause it can look like he's hiding her, or embarrassment. Or like he has other girls in rotation

𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒪𝓊𝓇𝓈

Authors Note: Girl, when I say my heart broke watching that video. It’s none of our business. Anyway, enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: After a public misstep sparks online scrutiny, Lewis Hamilton soft-launches his relationship with you

Warnings: angst, swearing

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You don’t even realise what’s happening until Lewis’s fingers slip out of yours.

One second, you’re laughing.

Something he whispered in your ear just as you stepped through the restaurant doors, warm breath brushing your skin, the kind of joke meant just for you. Your cheeks still carry the ghost of your smile, your body still soft with the weight of good food, good wine, and the unmistakable feeling of his hand holding yours easy, comfortable, like it belonged there.

Then he stops.

Mid-step. Dead still.

And you feel it before you even understand it his hand loosening, fingers slipping free like sand through a sieve. A subtle shift. But sharp. Enough to send a jolt up your spine.

You blink, confused.

Then watch helpless as his arm drops to his side.

Just like that, the warmth is gone.

Your heart stumbles a beat behind the rest of you.

You turn your head, instinct leading you, and catch his gaze locked on something ahead.

Your eyes follow curious and slow.

And then you see it.

A man. A few feet away. Still as a statue. Phone raised. Not flashing. Not loud. Just quietly recording.

No crowd. No paparazzi buzz. Just a single lens trained on the two of you like a sniper scope.

And in that moment, Lewis turns.

No word. No tug on your hand. No look.

He just leaves.

Retreats through the same doors you both just walked out of, like rewinding a scene that was never meant to happen.

You're left standing there.

Alone.

In a dress you picked just for tonight. With your makeup carefully done, your hair pinned exactly the way he likes it. On a date you didn’t think you’d have to hide.

And suddenly, you’re exposed.

Not by the camera. Not even by the man holding it.

But by the space where he was supposed to be.

You’re frozen, half-turned, one arm still awkwardly outstretched like your body didn’t get the message fast enough. It takes everything in you to slowly let it drop.

Your cheeks burn. Not from shame yet, but from confusion. From the sheer whiplash of how fast it all shifted.

One moment you were his. Now you’re no one’s.

You look around, desperate for context for anything to explain why he walked away like your presence might ruin him. Why he couldn’t just hold your hand and keep walking.

The person with the phone is still filming. Their silence makes it worse. Like they’re waiting for something embarrassing to happen.

And maybe, you think bitterly, it already did.

You feel your throat tighten. Feel the sting behind your eyes.

You thought naively, maybe that you were past this stage with him. That whatever you were building together was private, sure, but not shameful.

But tonight? Tonight, he showed you otherwise.

Your legs feel unsteady. Every nerve is buzzing in a way that makes your skin crawl. You want to disappear. Or rewind. Or scream.

But instead, you stand there in the echo of your own humiliation.

And just when the lump in your throat becomes too much to swallow, the restaurant door opens again.

You snap your head toward it, hope flaring like a desperate match.

Lewis.

His chest is rising fast, breath shallow, eyes scanning until they find you.

And when they do, his shoulders drop not with relief, exactly, but with recognition. Like he just remembered what he left behind.

He walks toward you.

Says nothing.

But he reaches for your hand again.

And this time, he grips it hard. Tight. Like he’s trying to say, I’m still here. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t let go.

But you feel the difference.

It’s not comfort. It’s not intimacy. It’s damage control.

You let him take your hand, but you don’t take a step.

Not yet.

You just stare at him, eyes narrowed, your breath shaky.

And even though he’s right in front of you, he feels miles away.

The weight of what just happened sits heavy between you, unsaid but screaming.

Finally, you move. One foot. Then the other.

You walk together. But it doesn’t feel like together anymore.

The car pulls up without fanfare.

Lewis opens the door like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t abandon you.

You slide in, jaw clenched tight and stare out the window as the door clicks shut behind you.

The silence is unbearable.

His presence next to you is suffocating now like sitting beside someone wearing your favourite face but with none of the warmth behind it.

You try to breathe.

But it catches.

You turn to him, eyes burning.

And when you speak, your voice is so soft he almost misses it.

“Did you mean to drop my hand?”

He exhales, a shaky breath, like he knows what’s coming.

“No.”

You blink at him. “But you did.”

He looks at you now really looks and his expression falters.

“I know.”

You lean away, heart tight. “You walked away from me, Lewis. Like I was a problem you didn’t want to deal with.”

“That’s not what it was—”

“Then tell me,” You snap, voice rising despite yourself. “Tell me what it was. Because all I saw was the man I’m supposed to trust running from me the second a phone appeared.”

His lip's part, then close again. You watch his jaw clench.

He doesn’t have an answer. Not one you want to hear.

“I felt like an idiot,” you whisper, and this time your voice cracks, your throat raw with it. “Standing there like I didn’t belong. Like I was something to be erased.”

His face folds into something like regret. Pain.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Your hands shake in your lap. “It’s true. That’s how you made me feel.”

His voice is low. “I panicked.”

You scoff. “You panicked.”

“I didn’t think, just reacted.”

You shake your head. “No. You chose.”

He leans forward, more urgent now. “I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you ask, voice thick with disbelief. “From being seen? From being connected to you?”

He goes silent.

And that silence is everything.

“I thought we were something real,” you say quietly. “But you didn’t even look back.”

He reaches for your hand again.

You pull it away.

The rejection lands hard between you.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You meet his eyes one last time. “You did, though.”

And that’s the truth neither of you can outrun.

The rest of the drive is silent.

Not cold. Not angry. Just heavy.

Like grief. Like something precious has been bent so far out of shape, you’re not sure if it will ever fit right again.

You sit rigid in your seat; your arms crossed tightly over your chest like armour. The city lights smear across the tinted glass beside you, and every now and then, you catch a flicker of your own reflection blurry, tired, undone. A warped version of yourself. Just like this night.

Lewis doesn’t say a word. Not since the last apology that landed between you like a stone in water, sinking fast and pulling everything with it.

You feel him glance your way once. Then again. But his mouth stays shut.

When the car pulls into the private garage beneath the hotel, the engine cuts out with a soft purr. The silence after it is deafening.

Neither of you moves.

For a moment, you think maybe this is it that the weight of it all will keep you both suspended in this stillness, unable to climb out of what’s broken.

Then the driver opens the door, and reality floods in.

Lewis steps out first, slow and hesitant. He doesn’t look back to offer his hand this time.

Maybe he knows better now.

Maybe he’s just as unsure as you are.

You slide out of the car and walk beside him not behind, not quite with. Just close enough that people wouldn’t question it. But far enough that you feel every inch of space between you.

A security guard nods silently as you pass, and you wonder what they saw. If they noticed the tension. If they can feel it radiating off the both of you like static.

The elevator ride up is the longest minute of your life.

The polished chrome walls feel suffocating, and even the soft ding of each floor is too loud, too sharp. Lewis stands with his hands in his pockets, jaw tight, staring straight ahead like he’s bracing for impact.

And you - you don’t know where to look.

Because if you look at him, you might cry. And if you look away, you might miss the moment he decides this isn’t worth it anymore.

When the suite door clicks open, you step inside first.

You head straight for the window.

You need space.

You need something solid to keep you from falling apart.

The city stretches out below you - alive, glittering, indifferent. You wrap your arms around yourself and breathe in shallow, afraid that if you go too deep, the ache will crack wide open again.

Behind you, the door shuts softly. Like he’s afraid of startling you.

Like you’re something breakable now.

“I know sorry’s not enough,” Lewis says, voice low and rough. “But I am. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You don’t turn. You don’t know if you can.

Not yet. Not with the image of him letting go of your hand still burned into your memory like a bruise you can’t stop touching.

“I just needed you not to let go,” you whisper, voice catching. “Just…hold on. That’s all. Even if you were scared.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding that breath for hours. “I was scared. But not of you. Never of you. I was scared of them - of what they’ll turn you into the second they realise you’re mine. Of how they’ll twist you into something to dissect. Of what I’ll lose the moment the world gets to you.”

You close your eyes, a bitter taste rising in your throat. “So, you thought it was better to hurt me first. To make me feel like I wasn’t real.”

“No—” he starts, stepping forward, then falters. “No. I just…I didn’t think. I reacted like I always do. I pulled back like it would protect you, protect us, but all it did was rip us apart.”

You finally turn; arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“You humiliated me, Lewis.”

He flinches, visibly. His shoulders fall, and he nods like he deserves every syllable. “I know. And I hate that I did that to you.”

“I felt like I wasn’t enough to be seen,” you continue, voice raw. “Like I was a secret. Like I was convenient in private but too inconvenient to claim in public. Do you know how small that made me feel?”

His hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but knows better.

And then it bursts out of you, louder than you mean it, all that pain turned to heat in your throat.

“Do you know what people probably think?!” you snap, eyes wide and wet. “That I was some random girl. Some fucking fling. That you were embarrassed to be seen with me.”

Lewis’s face crumples like he’s been hit. “No - don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s what they’ll assume, right? You let my hand go like I didn’t matter, like I was someone you didn’t want attached to your name. Do you have any idea what that felt like? Standing there, alone, while the cameras went off and you walked ahead like I wasn’t even there?”

“I didn’t mean for it to look like that,” he says, voice shaking now. “I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about how to keep you safe.”

“Well, congratulations,” you say, bitter. “You kept me safe by making me feel invisible.”

He steps toward you again, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“I’m not embarrassed by you. I’m proud. I’m fucking proud that you’re with me. But I didn’t show it. I know that. And I’m so, so sorry.”

“You didn’t just hurt me,” you say, your voice quieter now. “You made me question everything. Like maybe I’ve been imagining this whole thing. Like I was falling alone.”

He takes a shaky breath. “You weren’t. You’re not.”

You let that hang there. Just for a second. Then:

“Do you love me?” you ask suddenly, the words out before you can stop them.

His eyes widen. He looks like you just slammed the air out of his lungs. “Yes,” he says, instantly, no hesitation. “Yes. I love you.”

You look down, not because you don’t believe him but because you do, and it still hurts.

“I’m scared that even if you love me, you’ll always choose fear over me in public.”

He steps forward slowly, and this time, when he reaches for your hand, you let him.

His fingers close around yours warm, steady, shaking just a little.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” he says. “You deserve to be seen. You deserve to be held onto. Not just in quiet rooms or behind closed doors, but out there where it matters.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “You let go of me once. What happens next time it gets hard? What happens when there are headlines, or people start saying things about me, or about us?”

He doesn’t look away. “Then I’ll hold your hand tighter. I’ll stand next to you and weather it. Because what’s the point of loving someone if you don’t choose them when it’s hard?”

You exhale shakily. “I just don’t want to be disposable. I’ve been there before. I know what it’s like to be left behind.”

He moves closer now, wrapping his arms around you slowly, carefully.

“You’re not disposable. You’re everything. I was a coward tonight, and I can’t take that moment back. But I can promise you, with everything I have - I’ll never let you stand alone again.”

You don’t collapse into him right away.

You linger in the space between apology and forgiveness, waiting to see if the weight of what he’s saying feels real.

And it does.

It does.

Eventually, you lean in. Not all the way. But enough.

Enough for him to breathe again.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head, and this time, when his arms hold you, there’s no hesitation.

Just truth.

Just a quiet, desperate kind of love.

“I didn’t mean to let go,” he whispers. “But I swear to you I won’t ever let it happen again.”

And slowly, your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt.

Still bruised. Still healing.

But holding on, too.

Together. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Next Morning

You wake before him.

The room is bathed in a gentle hush, the kind that only exists in those rare early hours when the world hasn’t quite stirred. The sun pushes past the edges of the curtains, its light spilling gold across the suite across the rumpled sheets, the edge of the bed, and the hollow where Lewis sleeps beside you.

He lies on his stomach, arm stretched across your now-empty side of the bed, his face half-buried in the pillow. His breath is slow and steady, lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth parted just slightly. Peaceful. Almost boyish. And for a second, it feels like maybe none of it happened. Like maybe last night was a bad dream you haven’t quite shaken.

But then your phone vibrates.

And you remember.

Reality creeps in like cold air under a door. Heavy. Sharp.

You slip from the bed, careful not to wake him. Your feet meet the cool marble floor, and the ache that’s settled in your chest tightens just a little more. Padding across the suite, you reach the counter where your phone glows softly waiting.

Just a glance, you tell yourself.

Just a glance.

Your name isn’t trending. His is.

Lewis Hamilton.

Again. Always.

Your heart starts to pick up speed as you unlock the screen and tap into the feed. You already know it’s a mistake. You know better. But curiosity is cruel. It itches beneath your skin like a scab you can’t help but scratch.

“Lewis Hamilton seen with mystery woman - walks away when spotted.”

“Here he goes again, protecting the image.”

“Why does he always look like he’s hiding something?”

“Same pattern, new girl. She’ll be gone in a month.”

Your stomach drops.

You keep scrolling, hoping desperately for something kinder. But most of it is static. Speculation. Grainy screenshots and blurry video clips from someone's phone. Ten seconds of nothing blown up into everything.

They’re building a story from silence. From that split-second decision. From the moment his hand slipped from yours like it had never been there at all.

And you…you look like a footnote. A plot point. A phase.

You barely register the sound of him stirring behind you until his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Hey,” Lewis says, sleep-rough and low. “You’re up.”

You turn, startled. He’s awake now, sitting up with the sheets pooling around his waist, blinking blearily as he studies you.

You hesitate. Then walk over, wordlessly holding out your phone.

He takes it from your hand, brows furrowing as he begins to scroll.

His jaw tightens. His thumb stills.

And when his eyes lift to meet yours, there’s a heaviness there you’ve never seen before. “I’m sorry.”

You cross your arms tightly over your chest. The words feel distant, echoing against the hurt that’s already taken root.

“It’s not even that they’re wrong,” you say, voice flat. “That’s the part that hurts the most. They saw what happened. And they filled in the blanks exactly how it looked.”

He sets the phone down gently on the nightstand, like it might break. “They don’t know anything about us.”

“No,” you say, voice sharper now. “But they don’t need to. That’s the thing. All it takes is a ten-second clip. No context, no explanation. Just you walking away. Just me standing there. Alone.”

He opens his mouth, but you push on, words tumbling fast and bitter.

“You said you didn’t want to drag me into all of this. But Lewis, I’m already in it. I’ve been in it from the minute you kissed me like I mattered. From the moment I started trusting you with the softest parts of myself.”

He watches you, quiet. But you’re not done.

“I can’t be the only one carrying the weight of this relationship in the real world. I’m tired of being your secret. I’m tired of walking behind you or standing in shadows while you pretend like we’re nothing more than casual. You either let people see us, or you keep hiding me. But I won’t do both.”

The silence this time stretches taut. A rubber band pulled to the point of snapping.

“Do you want this?” you ask finally, voice cracking at the edges. “Do you really want me in your life, in your world or do you just want me in your bed?”

Lewis’s expression shatters. He stands slowly, bare feet touching the cold floor as he closes the distance between you.

But you step back, voice rising now. “Because let’s be honest people out there? They probably think you’re embarrassed. That I was just some fling you got caught with. That you walked away because I didn’t look like someone who fits your life.”

He flinches, the words landing hard. You press on, chest heaving.

“They think I’m replaceable. That I’m not the first. That I won’t be the last. And I don’t even blame them for thinking that. Because you made it look that way.”

His eyes are glassy now, rimmed with regret.

“I wasn’t asking for a red carpet,” you say, voice quieter. “I wasn’t asking for fanfare. I just needed to know that you’re proud of me. That I’m not some shameful secret you only get to love behind closed doors.”

Lewis doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches for your phone again.

You frown, wary. “What are you doing?”

He unlocks it and scrolls to Instagram.

“Lewis—” you start, heart thudding as he taps into his camera roll.

He turns the screen toward you.

It’s a photo.

From a few nights ago.

You’re curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, bare legs tucked under you, holding a mug with both hands. The same mug you refused to let him wash because “the handle fits your hand perfectly.” Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are tired. But you’re smiling.

You look like you belong.

“I was going to post this,” he says, voice soft. “When it felt right.”

You stare at the screen, heart cracking wide open.

“And now?” you whisper.

He looks at you. Then back at the phone. Then, with one last breath, he hits post.

No caption. No filters. Just the truth.

The notification pings in your hand like a jolt.

You blink at it, then up at him.

He steps closer. His hands hover at your hips before resting there, warm and steady.

“Now feels right,” he says. “Because I don’t want you to feel hidden. Or small. Or disposable. Not ever again.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, trying to breathe through the emotion clogging your chest.

“People are going to come for me,” you say, voice thin.

“They already do,” he answers, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “But if they’re going to talk, let them talk about how lucky I am. About how in love, I am.”

You exhale shakily. And for the first time since the night before, the weight starts to lift.

When he pulls you into his arms, it feels different now.

Not like a secret.

Not like something fragile.

But like something known.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe maybe this time, he won’t let go. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later That Day

The internet doesn’t catch it at first.

The photo sits quietly on his feed, tucked between a carousel from the Miami paddock and a reposted campaign with IWC. It’s unassuming. No caption. No explanation. Just warmth.

But the F1 fandom never misses a beat for long.

An hour in, a Twitter account with far too much time zooms in on the background. That blanket looks familiar. That mug. That hoodie.

Then someone finds the original video the blurry, grainy clip of Lewis stepping away. Of you standing still. They line it up with the photo. The same girl. The same smile. The internet, ravenous and relentless, does what it does best.

It explodes.

“No way. NO WAY. He SOFT-LAUNCHED???”

“Y’all that’s not just a situationship post. That’s domestic. That’s intimacy.”

“Everyone who dragged her in the comments this morning - you better apologise now.”

“He saw the discourse and said let me fix it immediately.”

“He’s in his lover era.”

The reactions range from surprised to stunned to stunned-into-silence.

Fan accounts post side-by-sides, analysing lighting, his expression in the video vs. the softness in the photo. Someone finds a blurry shot of you at a Ferrari hospitality suite and posts it like proof of life. Edits are made. TikTok’s are narrated like it’s a docuseries. Suddenly you’re not “the mystery blonde” anymore. You’re her. The girl in his hoodie, in his house.

And then, the media catches on.

By evening, articles flip tone like a switchblade.

“Lewis Hamilton Goes Public in a Rare Glimpse at Private Life”

“A Soft Launch Heard Around the World”

“She Was a Secret for 10 Seconds. Now She’s the Moment.”

Some label it strategic. Others claim it’s romantic rebranding. But the most popular take the one that sticks is simple: This looks real.

And more importantly: This looks like love. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Back at His Place

You’re back on the same couch from the photo, tucked in the same corner, wearing the same hoodie. The handle of your mug fits perfectly in your hand, just like always, and your legs are folded beneath you as though they never belonged anywhere else.

Your phone buzzes again. And again. You’ve silenced it, turned it screen-down on the coffee table, but it still hums like a nervous heartbeat, vibrating the glass every few seconds.

Lewis walks in from the kitchen, balancing two mugs in one hand, blanket draped over his shoulder. He sets your drink down in front of you and then sits, pulling you into his side with quiet ease.

His warmth is instant. His thumb rubs slow circles along your upper arm like muscle memory.

“You, okay?” he asks, softly.

You shrug, staring at the coffee. “Not sure yet.”

He nods. Doesn’t push.

You glance at the phone. It hasn’t stopped.

“I don’t even want to know what’s being said now,” you murmur.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

He tugs the blanket up, tucks it around you both. Like a shield.

“I didn’t post it for them,” he says after a pause. “I posted it for you.”

You look at him now. He’s not scrolling. Not checking the numbers. He’s just…here.

“Still want to disappear?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You hesitate, leaning into his side. “Maybe for a few days.”

“Then we will.” His voice is steady. “We can take the jet and go off-grid. Italy. Japan. That cabin in Norway with no WiFi. Or—” he adjusts the blanket, tugging it tighter around you both “—we stay right here and hide under this thing like it’s our whole world.”

You smile, tired but honest. “The blanket sounds good.”

He kisses the top of your head like it’s instinct. “Blanket it is.”

A moment passes. Then another.

You trace the rim of your mug with your finger before breaking the quiet. “Lewis…”

“Hm?”

You turn a little to face him, tucking your legs across his lap. “You said you weren’t ashamed. That you meant it.”

“I did.”

“Then why’d it take the internet turning on me for you to say something?” The question doesn’t come out bitter. Just…honest. Soft, but cutting.

He exhales slowly, eyes drifting down to where your fingers rest on his thigh.

“Because I’ve spent so long protecting everything,” he admits. “The team, the brand, the causes. Myself. I got used to the quiet being safer.”

His thumb brushes your hand again.

“But it’s not quiet when it hurts you. That’s not protection. That’s just fear. And I’m tired of letting fear make my choices for me.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “So, posting me…”

“Was a start,” he finishes gently. “I want this. Us. Out loud. Even if it’s messy. Even if people have opinions. Because I’d rather they shout and scream than for you to ever feel like a secret again.”

You blink quickly, eyes stinging. “That’s a nice speech.”

He chuckles, forehead resting against yours. “Did I nail it?”

“You almost cried halfway through,” you tease.

“Because I thought I might lose you halfway through.”

That shuts you up.

Instead of answering, you curl into him, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, letting his scent and heartbeat and words sink in.

The world outside is loud. Unrelenting.

But in here, on this couch, under this blanket, in this moment it’s just the two of you.

No hiding.

No panic.

No spaces between.

Just two hands, still clasped.

And for once, not a single person least of all him is letting go.

[corkinavoid]

For @astermagnolia, to 'Navigating' by Twenty One Pilots,

DPxDC Everybody Leaves

Damian always knew he was there.

From the very moment his eyes dimmed and his body went limp under Damian's hands, he knew that, in reality, he never went anywhere. He stayed, always in the corner of his eye, on the tip of his fingertips, on the brink of his dreams, looking back at him through the reflection in the mirror.

Always just out of reach.

And yet, when Damian missteps, when a bright blast of a laser is only inches away from his chest, when his eyes widen and he knows he won't make it out this time, he is still genuinely surprised to suddenly find another person in between him and his death.

The blast hits Danyal square in the chest, but the boy doesn't sway in the slightest. Damian would have been impressed; he would, really, if he didn't know his brother was dead. If the sight of him, standing in front of Damian, didn't cause his mind to come to a whirring stop.

"You can't take him," Danyal speaks, or maybe growls, the words coming from somewhere deep in his chest, "He can't leave."

And there's something off in his voice - not in the low, menacing way he speaks but in the frenzied panic that's seeping through every word. Damian, against his better judgment, reaches forward, trying to touch his brother's shoulder, but even before he does, the boy snaps his head to him.

And, oh, Damian sees what's wrong.

His brother's eyes are wide, toxic green and glowing, and full of fear, the one you see in a cornered animal. When one wrong move can turn all that scared, anxious tension into a sharp, angry lunge full of fury.

"You can't leave," Danyal repeats quieter this time, but his whisper is almost pleading, "Everyone leaves, I know they do, but not you, you can't-" and then, the frantic mess of words is cut off like someone flipped a switch, and Danyal's face smoothes out in less than a moment.

The cold, calculated ice fills his eyes, and the boy straightens up. His hair, dark like Damian's own, somehow glitches like a bad video recording, going between black and white but settling on white after a moment.

"I won't let you," he says, and there's no more fear or pleading in his voice. Instead, it's calm and eerie, offhanded even, like the boy is merely stating a fact.

Damian blinks, the words stuck in his throat.

He has a whole family of vigilantes around him, he grew up in the League, he is a part of a superhero team. He knows there are people who would throw themselves in danger for the sake of his life without a second thought, and he knows he would do the same, even if he is never going to admit to it out loud.

But not a single one of them ever made it feel like a promise, an unbreakable vow.

Danyal turns away from him, facing the battlefield.

He takes a deep breath.

And screams.

~•~•~•~

Okay, so the idea was that Danny (reincarnated or just dropped off in the DC universe somehow to become Damian's twin) had died at the hands of Damian long ago, but never left his side even in death. I was coming from the Ultimate Enemy bad ending, which means Danny is literally slipping into insanity over losing his loved ones.

Hence, Danny going into a feral protective rage over Damian because he is a traumatized, two times dead boy who just wants his family to stay with him.

And now I'm tryin' to hold onto you 'cause everybody leaves — ['Navigating' lyrics]

P.S. I really wanted to include the line 'pardon my delay' into this, but it didn't quite work with the way I was heading

[mingi-s-dimples]

Laced in Couture - C.SN

"Whenever I’m away from you.. I get closer and closer to insanity.”

~ a special for today's dgfw25.. because I simply couldn't resist.

pairing: san x fem!reader

genre: 18+, slightest filth, fashion au, model au

summary: san just couldn't take his eyes off you at the show, even if he was the model himself... and he ruins you.

wc: 3.5k

warnings: san is needy and desperate af, slightly teasy reader, model x manager, fashion au, kitchen sex on a counter, he's so desperate he doesn't get fully undressed, lots of kissing, neck kissing, manhandling, teasing, pussy eating, cum eating, unprotected (boo use protection irl!), completely consensual, might have forgotten something, might edit later.

author's note: everyone around me had to hold me from falling and turning into dust when i saw how this man looked today.. hello >.< he's fucking insane... and it's even more insane *upcoming bia fun fact and childhood lore* that i've been a dolce & gabbana fan and fashion hard fan since I was.. 9 or 10. so when he was announced as an ambassador y'all can bet i ran 50 laps that day. anyways here's a small fic combining two of my most prized obsessions: san and dg.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and does not represent the reality of the member in any way.

Milan had been a fever dream. A whirlwind of flashing cameras, hushed conversations in back corridors, and the ever-present scent of expensive perfume and burning stage lights. Fashion Week had its own rhythm—fast, relentless, intoxicating. Models, designers, managers, press—all moving in a delicate choreography, where one misstep could ruin an entire show. And yet, amidst all of it, there had been him.

Choi San, draped in Dolce & Gabbana, skin kissed by the stage lights, walking with the kind of controlled, effortless confidence that made people stop breathing. He was untouchable out there, a vision sculpted in luxury, every step leaving an imprint in the air. But you knew the truth. Knew what lay beneath the carefully constructed poise—the way his fingers twitched slightly when he walked off stage, adrenaline rushing through him, the way his eyes always found you first in the crowd. No one else noticed, but you did. Because you knew him.

No one else knew about the nights spent behind closed doors, the whispered words between hurried touches, the stolen glances in rooms too full of people. The industry thrived on secrecy, on illusion, and the two of you had perfected the act. In public, you were just a manager, and he was just another model. But behind locked doors?

That was something else entirely.

Now, Fashion Week was over. The lights had dimmed, the crowds had dispersed, and the city had exhaled its last breath of excitement. Milan was quiet again. And so were you, sitting in the back of a black car, your body still buzzing with the adrenaline of the past few days. Your phone vibrated once in your hand. A single message.

"Penthouse. Door’s open."

Your heartbeat tripped.

San wasn’t one for unnecessary words, but that didn’t mean his messages weren’t heavy with meaning. Penthouse. The place he had been staying—hidden away from the chaos, away from prying eyes.

The car pulled up in front of the sleek, modern building, the kind that exuded wealth and exclusivity. You stepped out, heart hammering, fingers tightening around your phone. The elevator ride felt endless, anticipation coiling low in your stomach.

When the doors slid open, the hallway was silent. And just as he’d promised—the door was unlocked.

You stepped inside, closing it softly behind you. The space was dimly lit, the glow of the city outside spilling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was beautiful, expensive, but your eyes didn’t linger on the decor. Because there—leaning against the kitchen counter, dark eyes locked onto you—was San.

Still dressed from earlier, black slacks hanging low on his hips, a half-unbuttoned shirt revealing the golden skin beneath. He was watching you, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips, his head tilted slightly in that way he did when he was waiting for you to make the first move.

And just like that, the last few days, the restraint, the distance—it all melted away.

Because here, behind closed doors, there was no need for pretense.

There was only him. And you.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floor as you stepped further inside, the air between you humming with something electric. San hadn’t moved from where he leaned against the counter, but his gaze was heavy, dark, intent.

“You were unbelievable tonight,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, still caught in the spell of watching him command the runway. “The way you carried yourself, the confidence—San, I swear, the entire room was holding its breath.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, barely acknowledging the words, but his body had started moving. Slow, deliberate steps, closing the space between you inch by inch. His fingers toyed with the next button of his shirt, slipping it undone, exposing more of the golden skin underneath. “That so?”

You exhaled a quiet laugh, tilting your head. “Yes. You were stunning, San. The way you—”

The next button popped open. Another step forward.

You caught the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes before his hands moved again—this time, undoing the last button in one slow, teasing motion. His shirt hung open now, framing the toned planes of his torso, the silver chain against his skin glinting under the city lights.

“Are you even listening to me, baby?” you asked, amusement lacing your voice, though your breath hitched slightly when he reached you.

San’s hands found your waist immediately, warm and insistent, pulling you flush against him. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath fanning across your skin as he murmured, “Haven’t heard a single word, love.” His voice was low, thick with want. “I’m too gone for you.”

And just like that, his lips were on your neck, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin as his fingers gripped at your waist, at the fabric of your clothes, needing more, needing all of you.

You bit back a smile, pretending to ignore the way his lips were trailing heat along your neck, his fingers gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d slip away. Instead, you let your hands wander up his chest, your touch featherlight, barely there.

“Too gone for me, huh?” you teased, your voice sweet, playful, your nails tracing the curve of his collarbone. “Then maybe I should keep talking, just to see if you can actually focus—”

San exhaled sharply through his nose, and before you could say another word, his hands were cupping your jaw, tilting your face up just so—and then his lips were on yours, claiming.

The kiss was deep, urgent, his mouth moving over yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head to deepen it, his body pressing flush against yours, letting you feel just how affected he was. His teeth scraped your bottom lip before he sucked it into his mouth, pulling a quiet, breathless sound from you.

“There,” he murmured against your lips, his voice husky, satisfied. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve fired back with something equally teasing, but then his hands were on your thighs, gripping firmly as he lifted you with effortless strength, setting you down on the cool marble countertop.

Your knees bracketed his hips as he settled between your legs, his touch everywhere at once—hands splaying over your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your skin, lips pressing against the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“God, you’re unreal,” he breathed, fingers slipping to the first button of your shirt. He took his time, unfastening it slowly, brushing his knuckles against your skin with every movement. His touch was soft, reverent, but his body was needy, his hips pressing closer, his breath uneven as he drank you in.

He pushed the fabric apart, his fingertips tracing lightly over your newly exposed skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat. “So perfect,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, warmer, almost possessive. “I don’t know how I lasted all week without this.”

His hands tightened on your waist, his lips finding yours again—deeper this time, almost desperate.

A slow, knowing smirk curled at your lips as you shifted slightly, your legs tightening around his hips. The movement pressed him closer—enough for you to feel the unmistakable hardness beneath his slacks, straining against the expensive fabric.

San’s breath stuttered, his fingers flexing against your waist, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, as if daring you to acknowledge what you’d done to him.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence, but your hand was anything but as it trailed down his chest, over the planes of his stomach, before finally reaching the bulge between his legs.

Your fingers traced the outline slowly, deliberately, watching the way his jaw clenched, how his lashes fluttered as he exhaled heavily through his nose.

“Hm,” you mused, your voice laced with amusement. “You are faaar gone for me.”

San let out a breathy chuckle, but it was strained—like he was barely holding on. Then, in one swift movement, he caught your wrist, pressing it down against the counter beside you. His other hand grabbed the edge of your blouse, and before you could tease him again, he finished undoing the last buttons, peeling the fabric from your shoulders, exposing you completely to him.

His gaze devoured you, dark eyes trailing over every inch of newly revealed skin, his lips parting slightly, his tongue flicking out to wet them as he swallowed. His grip on your wrist loosened, his palm sliding down your arm, fingers ghosting over your ribs before settling on your waist, his touch possessive.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, voice thick with need. His hands squeezed at your sides, his hips pressing forward.

Then, he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You know.. I’m gonna fuck you right here.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your fingers clutching at his arms as he kissed down your throat, down the curve of your shoulder.

And judging by the way his fingers were trembling slightly against your skin, you knew—he wasn’t just saying it.

He meant it.

San didn’t waste a second. The moment those words left his mouth, his hands were on you—gripping, touching, taking. His fingers slid down your back, over your waist, then lower, bunching up the fabric of your skirt with a sharp tug.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his forehead pressing against yours, his hands roaming everywhere.

His lips crashed against yours, messy and desperate, while his fingers hooked into your panties. He didn’t even bother easing them down properly—just pulled them aside, then down, letting them slip past your thighs before he tossed them somewhere onto the kitchen floor.

Your breath hitched, and he felt it. Felt the way your thighs tensed slightly around his hips, how your fingers curled into his arms. He groaned against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your knees, pulling you open for him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost pained, his fingers trailing over the soft skin of your inner thighs. “You know what you do to me, don’t you?”

You barely had time to answer before he reached down, fumbling with his belt. His fingers were quick, impatient, pushing his slacks down just enough—just to his knees, no further. He couldn’t be bothered to take them off completely. Not when he needed you now.

And then he was pressing forward, his body crowding you against the counter, his cock heavy and hard, brushing against your bare skin.

His hands never stopped moving—gripping at your waist, sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples, before skimming down again, squeezing, claiming.

“Fuck, fuck,” he whispered against your lips, panting now, his fingers digging into your hips as he lined himself up. “I can’t—”

And then he was pushing in, his head dropping to your shoulder, a wrecked moan slipping from his lips.

“Jesus, baby,” he gasped, his arms wrapping around you completely, holding you flush against him. His hands wouldn’t stop—palming over your back, up to your shoulders, back down to your ass, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch you the most.

“God, you feel unreal,” he groaned, his lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, his hips already rolling into you, deep and slow, like he wanted to savor it.

But you could tell—his control was slipping. His breath was uneven, his fingers gripping at you like he needed to anchor himself, his body shuddering slightly every time he buried himself deeper.

And then, in a voice so desperate it nearly broke you—

“I need you.”

His lips crashed against yours again, his thrusts growing faster, rougher, his hands gripping at your waist like he was trying to pull you closer, trying to consume you completely.

Your breath hitched as he bottomed out, your walls stretching around him, the ache bordering on overwhelming. He was thick, every inch of him forcing your body to accommodate him, and he knew it. He felt it—the way your walls clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.

“Shit,” San rasped, his forehead dropping against yours again, his breath ragged, uneven. “So fucking tight—so perfect.”

His thrusts stuttered for just a second, his hands tightening on your waist, as if he was trying to breathe through it, to keep himself from absolutely losing it. But then—

“...these damn glasses,” he muttered, frustration lacing his voice. In one swift motion, he reached up, yanking them off and tossing them onto the counter beside you without a second thought. And as soon as they were gone, it was like something in him snapped. And of course, you thought that was so hot.. that you clenched your thighs further on his hips, pulling yourself flusha against him

His hands were back on you instantly, gripping, pulling, dragging you into him as he fucked into you with a newfound desperation. His teeth scraped over your jaw, his lips trailing fire down your neck, his breath hot and needy against your skin.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice thick with lust, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his gaze. His now bare eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and hungry, his brows furrowed in something close to agony. “You’re taking me so well—fuck, I could stay inside you forever.”

His hips snapped forward, rough and deep, pulling a choked gasp from your throat. He drank it in like a man starved, his fingers digging into your skin, his body pressing you so tightly against the counter that you had nowhere to go, no way to escape the way he was completely wrecking you.

“Feels so good,” he panted, his lips brushing yours with every ragged breath. “You feel so fucking good—I can’t—fuck”

And the way he said it—so raw, so utterly desperate—made something inside you snap.

His thrusts turned frantic, his rhythm faltering as he slammed into you, hips stuttering against yours. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with the sheer effort of holding on just a little longer. But he was so close—you could feel it in the way his grip tightened, in the way his moans grew more desperate, in the way his cock throbbed inside you, thick and pulsing, dragging against your walls with every deep, shuddering thrust.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping against your shoulder, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against your flushed skin. “Baby, I—fuck, I can’t hold it—I’m gonna—”

And then, with one final, wrecked thrust, he broke.

A deep, guttural moan ripped from his chest as he came, his arms locking around you, pulling you impossibly close. His entire body tensed, his hips pressing flush against yours as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding deep, his fingers digging into your skin like he needed to hold onto something or else he’d completely fall apart.

His breath was ragged, his body shuddering slightly as he rode out his high, his lips still pressing weak, open kisses against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—like he needed to worship you even as he unraveled.

But then—his breath hitched. His fingers flexed against your thighs.

And suddenly, despite his own exhaustion, his head lifted. His dark, blown-out eyes flickered down between your bodies, taking in the way you were still trembling, still clenching, still needing.

And just like that, his own pleasure wasn’t enough.

“No,” he murmured, his voice still breathless but laced with something firmer. “My baby hasn’t come yet.”

Before you could even process his words, he was pulling out, a slick mess of both of you trailing down your thighs. But he didn’t give you a second to mourn the loss—because the next thing you knew, he was dropping to his knees.

His hands grabbed at your thighs, spreading you open again, his breath hot against your soaked, swollen skin. And then—

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he stared. “So messy. So pretty.”

And then his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his tongue flattened against you, licking a slow, deep stripe through your folds, gathering up every last drop of you and him combined. He moaned at the taste, his hands tightening their grip, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

And then he devoured you.

His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves before dipping back down, thrusting into you, lapping at everything you had to offer. His pace was ruthless, desperate—like he needed this just as much as you did, like he wouldn’t be satisfied until you were shaking, crying for him.

“Come for me,” he groaned against your heat, his voice wrecked, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulled you closer. “Come on, baby—let me feel you.”

San did not let up. If anything, your sounds—those breathy little gasps and whimpers—only fueled him, made him even hungrier. His tongue worked relentlessly, dragging through your folds, swirling over your clit, sucking and devouring like he couldn’t get enough of you. His nails dug into your thighs, spreading you wide, keeping you right where he wanted—helpless, shaking, his.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he groaned against you, his lips slick, messy, his voice thick with obsession. “So sweet, baby—so fucking mine.”

And then—his fingers.

One pressed against your entrance, then two, sliding in so easily from how wet you were. He groaned at the way you clenched around them, his tongue never stopping, flicking, sucking, teasing, demanding your pleasure.

“Fuck—so tight,” he rasped, curling his fingers, stroking right there, right where you needed. “Gonna come for me, baby? Hm?”

Your entire body tensed, your thighs shaking against his shoulders, your breath breaking into short, desperate gasps. You were so close—too close. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, curling perfectly, his lips wrapping around your clit—

“San—wait, I—ah—!”

But it was too late.

The pleasure slammed into you like a tidal wave, your back arching against the counter, your fingers tangling in his hair as you came, hard, uncontrollably, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your walls clenched around his fingers, your thighs trembling as the orgasm tore through you, overwhelming, mind-numbing.

And San? He didn’t stop.

His tongue lapped up every drop, his fingers still moving, working you through it, dragging out every last tremor, every last pulse of pleasure. He groaned as you clenched around him, as you gasped his name, as you trembled beneath his mouth.

“Fuck,” he panted and looked up at you, still on his knees, his voice raw, ruined. “You look so pretty when you come, baby.”

San finally pulled back, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you trembling against the counter. He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs, trailing them up your stomach, over the curve of your ribs, all the way to your heaving chest. When he finally reached your lips, he kissed you softly, a stark contrast to how he had just wrecked you.

His hands found your waist, lifting you onto unsteady feet. The second your legs wobbled, a breathless chuckle escaped him, and he tightened his hold, steadying you against his body.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured, smirking against your temple. “You can barely stand.”

You let out a weak laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder, your fingers gripping his biceps for balance. But then, as you pulled back slightly, your gaze dropped—and you saw it.

San’s cock was still achingly hard, standing thick against his abs, flushed and leaking, twitching slightly with every deep breath he took.

You giggled, lifting a shaky hand to brush over his abdomen, teasing. “What about you?”

San groaned, tilting his head back with an exasperated sigh, his fingers flexing against your waist. “We’ll take care of that later,” he muttered, though the way his jaw clenched told you just how difficult that decision was for him.

You arched a brow, still teasing. “Later?”

His dark eyes flickered back to yours, burning with something deep, possessive. His hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you tight against him, making sure you felt just how hard he still was.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his voice low, almost dangerous. “Because if I fuck you again right now, I won’t stop—and I need you in one piece, baby.”

A shiver ran down your spine, but before you could respond, he leaned in, lips brushing against your ear.

“Whenever I’m away from you,” he murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw, “I get closer and closer to insanity.” His hands squeezed at your hips, his breath hot against your skin. “You ruin me, baby.”

And the way he said it—so raw, so needy—made you realize one thing.

You were absolutely not done for the night.

NETWORKS: @illusionnet @blossomnet @mirohs-aurora-society

PERMANENT TAGLIST: @strawberry-mingi @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @memorabxlia @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @tahiraax1 @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @atzlordz @chai0tea @miyaluvvsyou @lezleeferguson-120 @sopematesxx @joyfulcadence @puppytruther

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[1:11 am]

Husband!Jaemin was certain he was going to love you until his dying breath. He loved you so much that being away from you for longer than a minute, and he meant it. There was a physical ache in his chest when you were both apart, or arguing, or mad at each other.

You were actually arguing now, and he should have felt that ache, but he didn't. If this were a cartoon, his pupils would be in the shape of hearts and he'd be kicking his feet back and forth.

"Do you realize how gross it is to go to the bathroom and fall into the toilet water?!" You exclaimed, running a hand over your sleep-mussed hair.

Yeah, oops. Jaemin had an unfortunate habit of leaving the toilet seat up. He was good about remembering to lower the seat after he finished his business, but could you really blame him when it was the middle of the night? He was tired, he'd reverted to his old, single guy habits and he went right back to sleep with you in his arms.

You continued to rant, your voice raising and you recounted how you'd already tripped over one of his haphazardly thrown shoes on the way to the bathroom. You told him that you didn't even want to get out of bed until the urge became too much and how you were in the middle some of the best sleep you'd had all week and the cold water on your bare backside was a horrible wake up call. "And honestly, it would have been fine if it were the daytime, but I was sleeping so well. Now, I just feel dirty and cold," you sighed, crossing your arms across your chest.

Jaemin nodded, "you're right, honey."

"You're not going to apologize?" You ask in a calm voice.

Jaemin pouted empathetically, reaching a hand out to pull you back under the covers and press his forehead to your own, "Love, I am so sorry. I will regret this misstep until the day I die and work every day to make up for it. Can you find it in that big, beautiful heart of yours to forgive me?"

You snorted, shoving his shoulder lightly, "you're forgiven. I just need to go shower to get rid of this icky feeling. I want my spot warm when I get back."

He heard the water in the shower turn on as he fluffed up your pillows. He fell back against his own pillows with a sigh, he knew better than to leave the toilet seat up. It was a bad habit that you'd kindly spent many months reminding him to keep in mind. He just hated that it had ruined your sleep. You'd been tossing and turning, waking up early, and going to bed late all week except for tonight. He really did feel bad.

You reentered the room in a new pair of pajamas, smelling fresh and still looking sleepy. Jaemin held a hand out for you and clicked off the bedside lamp while you got comfortable against him once again.

Jaemin rubs your back slowly, his voice quiet and low "I'm so sorry I forgot about the toilet seat, honey. I know how poorly you've been sleeping."

"I'm not upset anymore Jaemin, I promise. I know you were probably really tired too, just try to remember, alright?" You ask while nuzzling against his chest "I'm sorry I raised my voice. I shouldn't have but I was feeling really upset."

Jaemin hums in acknowledgement, nothing the way your speech is slowing with fatigue, "I like when you yell at me."

You laugh in surprise, "w-what?!"

He keeps you in a calm state, continuing to lull you to sleep with the slow circular patterns against your back. He responds quietly, "well, no. I like your complaints and our mundane arguments. It reminds me that we don't have bigger problems to be fighting about. We have a good life together, we're lucky. I love the reminder that I'm not some stupid, single guy living alone now. I'm a husband, I'm your husband and this is our home. I love it."

"You’re such a sap at 1 in the morning," you whisper, your words slurred from sleep, "I love you though."

Jaemin feels his eyes getting heavy and can't fight the smile when he hears your breathing even out. You're fast asleep again and his heart soars, "I love you more, honey."

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, non - con, kidnapping, fdom (technically), m!sub to m!dom

When you get taken off the streets by a rich, cruel woman with dubious morals and rough, roaming hands (and lips), you don't expect to have to fight against her old beloved pet for her attention. You don't even want to be here, but the man, awfully possessive of his oh-so-generous owner, doesn't seem to understand that. So he pushes you around and snitches on every single misstep you take - steals the butter knife you hid under the mattress, drowns the stash of sleeping pills you pocketed and meant to put in the lady's dinner. He will never let you hurt her - or yourself. As much as he hates you, he sees how happy you make his mistress, and for that reason he would rather die than let himself give into the urge to rip into your soft little body and chew on your bones.

Yet every time she holds you close or kisses you breathlessly, or even bruises up that delicate skin of yours instead of his, you can feel the man's cold eyes tearing into your back, his dulled steps following you deep into the mansion - trying to understand what makes you better than him, what it is about you that made her forget about him completely.

But this game of cat and mouse doesn't last long. Soon your master catches on to it - she gets tired of cleaning up your messes, of punishing you, or him, or sometimes both; after all such lack of discipline and respect is completely unacceptable under her roof. So she decides to settle things once and for all. With you as the center piece, she holds you down, spreading your legs wide apart as she gestures at him to come closer with a tiny knowing smirk.

"Look at her, baby boy. Such a pretty girl, no? Don't you want to kiss and make up? I know she'll play good if you give in a bit. How about a little taste, hmm?"

She looks at you, her voice a tad too sweet to be anything other than terrifying.

"Now you be a doll and stay still for mommy, okay?"

He's unsure at first, wet puppy eyes moving swiftly from you to her, and back to you, his gaze following the naked skin of your legs to your thighs to her sharp well manicured nails baring all of you for him to see. He gulps, mouth watering at the sight - there is something so vulnerable, so tempting about your provocative pose, the air of helplessness, of being unable to fight back or run away. It awakens something in him, something primal, and when his mistress snaps her fingers, signaling that it's time to let go completely, he doesn't need a second reminder.

His lips are on you in the next moment - licking up and down your sensitive folds, wrapping his mouth around your clit and sucking so very lightly you're stuck between cursing at him and begging him to go deeper.

"F-fuck, she's so sweet, ma'am, t-thank you, thank you!"

He's shaking all over, hushed vibrating moans escaping his body and sending wicked tingles through your throbbing, overstimulated pleasure button - setting all those strung, pent up nerve endings on fire by keeping you on the very blink of ecstasy, the very hill of depravity. For the first time he's looking at you, really looking at you - noticing every dimple and smile line, every curve, each moment of softeness, of reckless abandon on your face, your body, your mind. And you're beautiful.

He can't wait to play with you again.