#on a separate note how do you know if someone's asking you out on a date asking for a friend

[sharieb]

Hello 👋 I had a funny idea for non mc and lads bc I'm a suckered for jealous men. Okay so let's say this is pre relationship and non mc thinks the lads boys like mc so she's flirting with others and going in dates trying to forget the boys. Meanwhile, the boys are giving signs that they like you and are livid by this news. And MC just slaps them on the head and is like "you're dumbahh better confess instead of waiting then!!". And who knows maybe the boys do grow a pair and confess and the mc and I get married and have a happy lesbain marriage blah blah

That's all I got ✋️🙃

Keep up the amazing work 👏

Stay Jealous or Get a Ring, Your Choice, Dammit.

Setup: You thought they liked MC. So you try to move on, triggering five separate, very uncasual meltdowns and a tired MC, who's sick and tired of watching her emotionally constipated friends spiral into disaster.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC reader

Genre: Crack, Fluff

Writer's note: The moment I saw this request, my mind went straight to doing a crack fanfic (sorry to the request if that's not what you wanted). I've been cracking for who knows how long. I left a little bonus for the MC lovers here, I made her section non-gen so more of you lovelies can enjoy it. Content warning: characters ooc, implied attempted murder

The dramatic artist who believes no one deserves you.

Rafayel tried everything.

He painted you into morning skies and painted you out of every conversation with another man. He started hanging around the edge of your gallery visits, always just nearby, just waiting for you to ask what he was working on. He left you anonymous compliments on your pottery pieces, wrote you poetry disguised as art notes, and even installed a light fixture above your favourite sculpture so it glimmered just right.

You thought he was just being theatrical, as usual, and figured he must be trying to charm MC.

Until you mentioned you had a date that evening.

He smiled. Then didn’t blink for a full thirty seconds.

That same night, your date spotted Rafayel watching you from across the restaurant window. In full tux. Drinking wine. Alone.

Soon, Rafayel walked in with a five-foot oil painting titled: “The Delusion of Men Who Think They’re Enough for You.”

Your date chokes on his kombucha. You hide your face. And Rafayel? He takes a bow.

You leave, dragging your dignity behind you. As soon as you're out of earshot, MC pops up behind a curtain, hands on hips.

MC: “Rafayel, what in all the painted heavens are you doing? Did you just publicly roast her date with a painting?” Rafayel: “It was a conceptual piece.” MC: “It was a visual war crime.”

She drags him backstage and throws glitter at him like a baptism.

MC: “I swear, if you don’t confess, I will confess for you. With interpretive dance. In full Lemurian formal wear. Then I’ll march over to her, hand her a bouquet of your secret fanart, and say: ‘This man wants to marry you and adopt six cats.’ I will.”

Rafayel groans, throws a hand over his forehead like a fallen prince.

Rafayel: “FINE. I’ll go, I’ll go.”

Later... You find a velvet-wrapped box on your pottery shelf. Inside? A charm bracelet made of hand-painted ceramic beads, each one modelled after a stupid little moment he thought you’d forgotten.

There’s a tag: "Wear this if you’d like to go on an actual date, with someone who knows how to admire a masterpiece."

He’s lingering by the doorway, pretending to look at a plant.

You: “Subtle.” Rafayel grinning: “I’m an artist, darling. Not an assassin.” You, holding up the bracelet: “So, this means I’m your muse now?” Rafayel: “You always were. I just finally grew the guts to say it.”

The sulking surgeon with an MD in jealousy.

Zayne showed it the only way he knew how, quietly.

He made sure your bloodwork was always processed first. He left energy bars in your locker with hand-written nutritional stats.

He cross-checked your chart for signs of overwork and rerouted your breaks so you'd have time to breathe.

You assumed it was part of his job. Or maybe because MC worked the same schedule and he was looking out for her.

Then he found out you were going on a date.

Your date? Sweet, maybe a bit boring, but he knew what medflowers were and walked you to the medbay like a gentleman.

Unfortunately, Zayne took that as a declaration of war.

Your date: “So, sprained wrist?”

Zayne, smiling like a serial killer: “Possibly a fractured ulna. I should check his reflexes, too.”

Then he proceeds to drop a clipboard labeled "Do Not Resuscitate" directly in the poor man’s hands.

You: “ZAYNE.”

Zayne: “What? It’s a common form.”

You stormed off right when the appointment ended. The moment your footsteps fade, MC emerges from behind a curtain like a surgical horror.

MC: “You want to explain why you're committing emotional malpractice?” Zayne: “I'm not-” MC: “You just threw a beaker at his foot.” Zayne: “I was testing his reflexes.” MC: “You labelled it ‘containment hazard. '" Zayne: “Emotional containment. He failed.” MC: “You really like looming over the poor man like a judgmental gargoyle!”

He clenches his jaw. Zayne: “She shouldn’t waste her time on people who wouldn’t know how to handle her properly.” MC: “Oh my STARS, Zayne. I’m this close to printing out your stupid mood logs and hand-delivering them to her. CONFESS, you tuxedo-clad dumbass!”

Zayne exhales through his nose like he’s being asked to perform unnecessary surgery.

MC: “I’m not kidding. If you don’t tell her how you feel, I will. I'll even add your notes: Patient: You. Diagnosis: Irresistible. Treatment: CONFESSION, you emotionally-repressed gurney goblin.”

He nods once, faint blush on his cheeks, and picks up his tea like it’s a shield.

Zayne: “I’ll handle it. But if you laugh at me-” MC: “I’ll personally prescribe you courage. Now go.”

Later... You find a sticky note on your locker. It reads:

"If you’re not busy after work, I’d like to take you for tea. Preferably somewhere with no diagnostic equipment. —Zayne."

You catch him rounding the corner. He pauses, clearly didn’t expect to get caught mid-flee.

You: “Is this your version of asking me out?” Zayne, flatly: “Would it work?” You, smiling: “Only if you’re planning to glare at everyone else in the café.” Zayne: “That was already the plan.”

The shy, sleepy alien boy who becomes unhinged when you touch grass with another man.

Xavier was trying. And glitching.

He wrote you custom code to predict weather patterns near your commute. He tuned the observatory AI to greet you by name. He added calming frequencies to your music algorithm, then deleted the logs so you wouldn’t know he noticed you get nervous before meetings.

You thought he was just being sweet for MC’s sake, surely Xavier’s little upgrades were to help the team, right? Or worse… to make MC smile.

Until you casually mentioned you had stargazing plans with someone else.

Your observatory date starts perfectly. Stars, warm blanket, you pointing out constellations.

Until the projector shuts down mid-sentence. The whole dome powers off.

You: “Maybe it’s solar interference?” Your date: “Maybe that guy on the roof hot-wired it?”

You squint. Yep. Xavier. Standing alone. On the roof. In a hoodie. Typing directly into a satellite control panel like he was God himself.

After you leave, clearly annoyed, MC literally rappels down from a side ladder like a silent assassin.

MC: “You sabotaged her date because you couldn’t handle her laughing at someone else’s Pluto joke?” Xavier: “…It wasn’t funny.” MC: “You activated a lockdown protocol. Over Pluto.”

She drags him into the maintenance bay with her toolkit. MC: “Fix your wiring, and your feelings. Or I’m hacking your AI assistant to confess for you in the middle of a team briefing.” He sighs but nods his head.

Later...

You walk into your room, and the smart panel lights up with a voice message. It’s him.

“I’ve set coordinates for the meteor shower. If you come, I’ll bring your favourite blanket. And, if you let me... I’ll hold your hand.”

You find him across the garden dome, nervously adjusting the telescope.

You: “You know you already had the stars on your side, right?” Xavier, softly: “I was hoping for a constellation-level miracle.” You: “Turns out, you just had to ask.”

The underworld menace who thinks murder is a love language.

Sylus doesn’t do soft. But he tried.

He upgraded your scanner with a hidden security shield. He intercepted every report that mentioned your name. He left you coded messages in encrypted graffiti.

You figured it was to protect MC. To support her missions.

Your date never even arrives. His bike “malfunctions,” he ends up in the medbay with soot in his eyebrows, and somehow a video surfaces of Sylus standing next to a sparking hover core with the caption: “oopsie.”

You march into his office, furious.

You: “Did you sabotage my date’s car?” Sylus: “Define sabotage.” You: “The engine exploded.” Sylus: “Define exploded.”

You storm off, muttering about hit lists and overprotective warlords.

MC waits a full two minutes before grabbing Sylus by the collar and hauling him into a back corridor like a crime scene.

MC: “You lit a man’s ride on fire, Sylus.” Sylus: “He called her ‘cute.’ It was self-defence.” MC: “You’re emotionally constipated and it’s a threat to public safety.”

She slams him into a chair.

MC: “You either tell her that you like her or I do. And when I do, I’ll include the audio file of you, where you practised confessing to a mirror and calling her your ‘chaotic muse and sweetheart of the storm.’” He groaned in annoyance but agreed... not without using his evol to handcuff MC and then yeet her off him and across the room

Later... There’s a file on your encrypted tablet titled: "Operation: Us."

Inside: sarcastic bullet points and a dinner date invite labeled: “NOT AN INTERROGATION (PROBABLY).”

You find him leaning against the hallway wall.

You: “This is your version of romance?” Sylus, smirking: “You haven’t even seen dessert yet.” You: “Sweet or explosive?” Sylus: “Yes.”

The military-grade menace with Colonel-sized delusions.

Caleb kept it together... until he didn’t.

He cleared flight paths to make sure you always had a smooth ride. He added you to every mission briefing worth hearing. He rerouted shuttles so you wouldn’t get stuck next to people who annoyed you.

You thought it was efficiency. You thought it was maybe for MC.

Then you told him you were seeing someone new.

Your date is supposed to be a quiet stroll around the Skyhaven hangars. Instead, he’s stopped by emergency protocol and pulled into a no-fly debrief. You get an apologetic text… and a second one from Caleb that says: “Hangar’s clear now. Coincidence.”

You: “Why did my date get pulled in for emergency training?” Caleb: “Safety protocol.” You: “He’s a pastry chef.” Caleb: “Pastry burns are real.”

When you leave the hangar, fuming, MC’s waiting behind a control tower, arms crossed.

MC: “You rerouted a civilian for a date-block.” Caleb: “He didn’t even check the air traffic pattern.” MC: “You’re weaponising airspace for emotional sabotage!”

She drags him behind a parked shuttle and jabs her finger into his chest plate.

MC: “You either tell her, you like her or I will, and I’ll do it by submitting an HR report titled ‘Unresolved Feelings: A PowerPoint Presentation,’ with photos of the flight logs, the dossier, and that doodle of you two as jet pilots you keep in your journal.”

He sighs. And finally goes to confess.

Later... There’s a sleek envelope tucked under your door. Inside: two flight passes. On the back: "I figured we’ve been circling this long enough. Come fly with me, partner."

He’s outside, pretending to inspect air traffic patterns.

You: “That's a grand gesture or a flight plan?” Caleb, softly: “Depends, did it work?” You: smiling, nudging him,

“Only if you stop background checking café staff.” Caleb: “…No promises.”

BONUS

A quiet moment. One pot of tea. Two agents of chaos.

You and MC are seated in the quietest corner of a Linkon rooftop café, steaming teacups between you. The air smells like chamomile and judgment.

You swirl your cup, eyeing her curiously.

You: “So… your fiancé. What’s their deal? They must be some kind of unshakeable saint if you’re willingly giving up your chaos-for-two lifestyle.”

MC smirks over the rim of her cup.

MC: “Oh, my babybear's worse than me. I used to plot strategy in my sleep. They dream in legal loopholes and high-stakes tea parties.”

You snort. “And here I thought I was the menace magnet.”

MC leans in, eyes twinkling.

MC: “You are. But my buttercup’s the only person I’ve met who could beat Sylus in a staring contest, out-code Xavier, and survive being Caleb’s co-pilot on a ten-hour flight. All while giving Zayne nutritional advice.”

You stare. “...Is your fiancé even human?”

MC shrugs. “Not sure. I fell in love before I asked.”

You smile behind your teacup.

You: “Sounds like you two deserve each other.”

You both cackle, and the rooftop air feels just a little bit lighter.

[p1ctureyou]

currently living through 35+ Celsius temps and trying not to rely on the AC due to the electricity bill, so I'm coping by asking if I could please request Hector and the breaker box boys reacting to reader trying to be considerate of them by not turning on the AC and then literally just getting heatstroke (hope that's okay!)

— hot n’ cold! | hector x reader/breaker box boys x reader

author’s note : thank you for the request! i hope you don’t mind me doing separate headcanon’s!! also, i feel you!! i live in the US and it’s about that hot where i am, not to mention the humidity. stay cool and safe, anon! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ (i hope you enjoy!)

Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado

first of all, i feel like he'd be very confused by your talk of not using as much air as you usually do

he loves helping you stay cool after all

i don't think he'd connect the dots of why you aren't using the AC as of late

but most AC units have parts outside, so maybe he can tell at some point

but i don't think he would until he sees you miserably hot, fanning yourself with anything you could use as a fan

when you do inevitably fall out from a heatstroke, he obviously panics

i'd like to think he'd come help you, but if you haven't met him in the attic yet, he'd call for someone to come help

when you finally cool off, he'd be asking so many questions

i don't think he'd be mad

just really worried

when you finally tell him that you didn't want him to overwork himself, he'd be a little upset

his whole job is to keep you comfortable and cool, and you were stopping him from doing so for his sake

i think he would keep the air on from now on, whether you ask him to or not

Breaker Boys (Eddie & Volt)

i think eddie's more "in tune" with you

i feel like he can read you like a book

so when you say that you're not using the AC as much as you usually do

he's certainly skeptical

now volt?

i do think he'd think you saying that is odd, but isn't the type to push an answer out of you

eddie on the other hand

you were an ass to him and pushed him for answers

so he just says "it's only fair"

it takes a while for them to finally get off your back about it

"them" meaning eddie mostly, but volt would become more concerned after seeing you happily take in the AC of the breaker box (which oddly has its own AC?)

when you pass out from a heatstroke in the house, though?

i'm not sure they can really leave the breaker box area, so i think another object would bring you to them in a panic

if the breaker box was open, it's definitely closed after that

you eventually come to, your eyes locking with volt's first

with no sign of the other, you'd ask where eddie is

i feel like eddie would maybe blame himself a bit, saying how he knew he should've paid more attention

it's out of love, obviously, but he almost lost volt so he can't stand the thought of losing you too

when he comes back to check on you, he asks why you turned off the AC

you explain not wanting to overload them, and he scoffs at that

i think he'd make you promise not to do anything like that again, and volt makes sure you know they can handle the AC

(this makes me sound like i love eddie more than volt, but i'm a volt girlie i fear... i do love an asshole who hides his emotions though)

[honeymoondaydreamin]

Dazai's love language is notes/letters.

No one knew this.

During his PM days or currently in the ADA, they never considered he even had one with how reserved and multiface he is–Ranpo will beg to differ yet never exposed his secret.

It's comical to see Kunikida automatically on edge whenever he gets a friendship note on a calm day.

It was fine, cool for him, it's not like any of the women or men he had mingled or met with were special enough to leave anything behind or repeat the encounter.

Or have been worth his attention.

At least he was fine with his philosophy until a certain someone who had crashed into his life at 15 and fuck his whole system up, forced him to sing a different melody.

Insufferable.

Chuuya was an inferno he couldn't escape from, figured if he stayed and let himself burn maybe death would attract him back into its arms.

Update: it didn't bother.

The "how or when" will never get a clearer response from whoever asks. Little notes during meetings were sent for Chuuya to blow up and cause a scene to ease his boredom. All written comments and mockeries of his hat, clothes, height, anything he does, would be sent in the daily paperwork.

Newspaper articles can shrivel from their loss of entertainment.

Every reaction will have him on his toes because Chuuya will never keep it the same. Finally had something to look forward to every time he would be forced to step into the building for something unnecessary or a Double Black mission.

That is, until a mission gone wrong caused him to see things in a different light. Not a gory one, fortunately, but undercover.

He had admitted (in his journals at the time) Chuuya is unique, one of a kind. Redheads are rare in Yokohama and he was (un)fortunate to meet and have one orbit his cold surroundings with its bright warmth.

Witnessing how Chuuya would stammer and turn a different color from his usual annoyance, didn't sit well with the brunette.

".....Ew, how gross." He would voice to no one in particular. Grip cracked his glass slightly.

Disliked how the redhead would boost and gloat for the compliments he would receive from many, a contrast to Dazai's.

"The fuck are you doing?" The redhead demands, fighting back on the shoves the bandage brunette is forcing on him to their getaway car.

"Taking you to the nearest pet hospital, no dog should be this energetic."

A slap to his cheek is easier to cover than giving a full explanation to Mori.

But what he had disliked the most was the anonymous notes and, surprisingly, letters that would land in the redhead's gloved palms from same-age peers and strangers.

Who the fuck is taking away his job?!

Each one coming, Chuuya's attention was drawn further away from him. His would be disregarded in a desk drawer while a stranger's would sit on top for everyone to see.

Unacceptable!

"They know how to sweet talk, unlike you who spouts idiocy." He would say, putting away another letter with care, Dazai knew the action was done to spite him.

If that's what he thinks, Dazai can prove he can be better.

Just like before, it started with little notes. Each thing he mocked, now turned into a compliment. Short and sweet, causing a suspicion in Chuuya who believed for a few weeks it was all a prank. If he was offended, Dazai never showed it.

Months went by until an unexpected shift occurred.

Because the redhead caught onto something, not even Dazai was aware he was doing it, until Oda kindly pointed it out. Instead of sending them for everyone to see, Dazai would only send them when the nights belonged to them.

Things he kept in his journals, or never dared to say out loud, were now left at different parts of the night–after missions, during late food runs, breaking into the redhead's house, or when either of them was too tired to head their separate ways–Chuuya threatened, Dazai ignored.

Note after note, what started as mockeries and competition became a genuine chase. Dazai's attention became fully focused on one person, others couldn't compare or comprehend. Nothing changed in the daytime to arouse attention to his interest, he made sure of it. Even his escapades were covered with stupid and random excuses.

Far too deep, the first kiss at 16 gave him the shock of his life (notes would tease and adore the culprit's flushed freckled face).

Their first night together at 17 was his setting tomb. (Morning after note left on the pillow but the shock of him still being in the apartment was worth the scolding.)

Hospital nights for when corruption was too much, had letters hidden in places Chuuya would find and reach. (Long and rambling but can decipher the worry that lingered).

His defection at 18 influenced his troubling thoughts to grow stronger than they've ever been. 4 years of anonymous letters being sent, each one containing many expressions, wants, desires, missing affections, and reassurances. He's not one to believe in a higher power but Chuuya was worth the prayer and discomfort.

A demon like him praying for a god? Laughable.

Meeting again at 22, now on different sides, Dazai knew his efforts had paid off. Their history is complicated, many would say, and both he and Chuuya can agree.

But during that ride, there were moments where they experienced what normalcy was like.

What chasing after someone whom you never thought you had a chance with was like breathing pure fresh air.

How the feeling of requited love was another answer to continue living.

What was considered an old hereditary stupid love language, became someone's favorite action.

Eventually, Dazai found out that Chuuya– through the years–had kept everything Dazai wrote (good and bad) to him in a well-cared-for box at his apartment, next to his bed. Gaped stupidly when he learned that what the redhead was really putting away in the drawers were obnoxious notes that would request a night with him or treat him like a trophy, to burn with the brunette's stolen lighter.

Dazai is torn between whether to tiptoe back into black waters or frame them all in false horrendous crimes. He can find ways to motivate Ango to do it.

"You really can be an idiot when you're jealous." Chuuya had teased on his lips, rounds of steamy lovemaking fully relaxing him in his scarred arms. "But I wouldn't have you any other way."

"Oh?"

"Don't push for more, mackerel. What we've done should've shown you how much I tolerate you."

Nevertheless, Chuuya doesn't go a day without bringing him back into his personal space when the mafioso finds a note in his coat or hat, or teasing him in public or at meetings from previous dirty ones. Gestures done so coquettishly and borderline inviting until Dazai's self-control snaps.

Actions done as a subtle nod to his lovesick 15-year-old self.

Maybe that's why death refused to call him back. It may have thought that leaving him with Chuuya was a better way to go than what it was planning.

Or it could've been from a far-away memory that flashed during his teenage years, said by his mother, that steered him away from their personal noose:

"Did you know that love notes are the purest form of love anyone can do when a person knows they have unconsciously found their significant other?"

Chuuya had recited those similar words to him the night Dazai fumbled with a small box.

Reminded him again when their sole witnesses were a priest and a calico cat.

Years later, between the good, bad, conflicts and serenity, neither days nor nights were left without a note or letter from Dazai to express his deep love towards his forever savior.

Wherever Chuuya goes or how he's feeling, there's always something in his pockets or inside his hat for him to read.

To feel at home.

————————————————————————

Chuuya's version, coming soon ♡

*Both versions will be shared and edited again to AO3 at some point but I loved the freedom of typing it here first.Gotta think of a good title for it too, hehe.

[calxide]

HIT TWEET! — BOOKMARK 1: twists of life

scroll down | PINNED TWEET | scroll up

A few years ago. It was during this time, too, after midterms. Before that happened, someone confessed to me, but I told them I’m not interested, mainly because I wanted to focus first on my studies, and something… there was something between me and Albedo. At that time, I turned down the person who confessed. He wasn’t my blockmate. In fact, he was my senior.

After midterms, there was a photo in my locker—a photo of me and Albedo together. And behind it, there was a note, ‘So, this is your boyfriend, huh?’ I got a hint it was the senior I turned down. I didn’t tell Albedo at first because I thought it was just a harmless prank played by that senior.

So, I just told Albedo I needed space.

Until things escalated. There were times when I felt like I was being followed when I went home alone. I felt scared, so I decided to tell Albedo. He didn’t let me go home alone at that time. And yet, there was still someone following us. Still, Albedo never left my side.

“Y/N, how long has this been happening?” Albedo asked.

“For a long time now. I’m scared, Bedo.”

I told him what was happening, but didn’t tell him exactly what the reason was. I was scared he'd leave me. I was scared that we’d have to separate because of the stalker.

One day, Albedo didn’t go to class. Which was weird, considering he was a top student who never missed a minute in lectures. So, I texted him, I asked him if he’s fine, and if there’s anything I can do for him.

He simply told me to get his assignment paper from his locker and pass it to our adviser.

And when I opened his locker, pieces of paper fell off.

‘I told you to stay away from Y/N.’

‘Still hanging out with Y/N? Get away from her or learn your lesson.’

‘She’s mine.’

And there was one that looked like it was just put there a few hours or minutes ago.

‘Good luck with your scholarship, Prince :)’

I fell on the floor with my hands on my mouth. Why didn’t he tell me? He knew what was happening all this time? Did he not trust me? Tears escaped my eyes then.

I went to Albedo’s home and found out what happened. He figured out who the stalker was and confronted him, and it resulted in a physical fight. Albedo, who was a scholar, is being threatened to lose his scholarship and good merit if word gets out that he got in a fight with a senior.

I tended to his wounds and asked him why he did not tell me he was being threatened.

“I know you have too much on your plate already.”

I felt really guilty. I thought, “Had I told him before, would he not have gotten into trouble?”

And now, I’m the one being threatened with losing my scholarship. Funny twists of life.

Perhaps this is fate seeking revenge on me.

SYNOPSIS When you experience struggles in the world of studying medicine and science, your Twitter moot is always there for you. On the other hand, an acquaintance enemy of yours never fails to bothers you. They have such contrasting personalities, yet a familiar feeling of comfort whenever you talk to them. Or is it uneasiness?

TAGLIST 🐦 @mayasshitposts @temshouineichi @sukunasrealgf @eutopiastar @wonderland-fan @kissunday @aether-darling @zamorazz @n0rmalsimp @boomie-123 @yolocaltrashaxolotl @jiminscarmex

[stardust-and-fries]

Oh boy!! A chance for me to yap about gender at length?!?!!?!? DON'T MIND IF I DO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! [See tags for details. But be warned... I Popped the Fuck OFF writing this one, it's a doozy!]

Sorry if this is rude, but how do you identify? I looked around a bit and couldn't find anything, my apologies

Not rude! Honestly, I don't know these days! Lots of thoughts swirling around in my head. Maybe this is too much, but also maybe saying something instead of keeping it inside will be helpful... I'll put my gender thoughts under the cut... maybe someone can relate and offer some thoughts lol:

Recently, I came to the conclusion that I'm really not attracted to men at all, and maybe, I never have been. Looking back, I can kind of clearly see that any crush on a guy I thought I had was more like "wow, this person is COOL as HELL. I hope we can be really good friends." And then I noticed, that any crush I had on a girl felt... different. The feeling was totally different, and it still is. Have you noticed how most of the men I draw are quite feminine? I also have no idea what's going on with my gender. I know I'm me, a Yugo, I also can't comfortably say what exactly I am. Though by technicality, I am nonbinary, the word doesn't feel QUITE right to use for me. Maybe genderqueer is better. I've never identified as a man, but I have identified as transmasc and taken T. I really do like the results I've gotten from that. But at the same time, I don't really feel close to "manhood" at all, but something about having a mustache sometimes, like I tend to do, feels right to me still. I also like to wear lipstick and stuff. I don't know. I'm also not a "woman" I don't think, but I identify with more... I don't know, masculine expressions of womanhood if that makes sense? I am very androgynous in expression, in short. So basically I don't know what the hell is going on. All I know is I love women LOL. Can anyone relate to any of this? Any ideas?? I will not be offended by any assumptions you might have lol. Maybe I should just make a comic about this.

[gracieheartspedro]

You Really Got Me Now

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 5.2k words

description: your best friend and roommate eddie is pissing you off, per usual. his way of making you feel heard is not very conventional.

warnings: 18+ content, MDNI, no use of y/n, roommate au, lowkey pwp, best friend!eddie, reader and eddie are both in their 30s, a bit of force proximity, reader is awkward as fuck (she just like me), reader hasn't gotten dick lately, mentions of voyeurism (eddie and reader have listened to each other having sex), kind of dom!eddie, fingering, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, lots and lots of dirty talk, eddie cums in reader.... annoying ass neighbors?

authors note: yeah i don't know. i'm just horny for this man. all of the time. thanks to lindsey @amanitacowboy who CONSISTENTLY feeds into my delusions. love u.

how to help palestine ~ dividers by @cafekitsune

He pissed you off for the fourth time today. 

You had spent most of your day doing yard work, trying to ensure the home you two shared did not look overgrown for your snooty neighbors. They already hated that there was an unmarried couple living next to them. Even worse they were not even a couple. 

Eddie and you had been friends for over a decade. When you two could not find someone to settle down with once you both turned 30, you decided to rent a house together. You were sick of living at home with your parents and everyone else around you was in love. Steve had Kira, Robin had Vicki, and well… you had Eddie. Eddie had you. But not in a romantic sense. 

That’s what you two told yourselves, at least. 

Made crystal clear years ago, you and Eddie knew your friendship meant more than some knee jerk desires. You had kissed once, and you would be lying if you said you did not enjoy it. He was tentative, kissing you like he was trying to melt all your worries away. At the time, it was a desperate attempt to distract your mind from a shitty break up and Eddie had gotten a bit too high. 

That next morning, you sat down with him and discussed boundaries. No kissing, no sex. That was the hard line, and for years, you two had kept that promise to yourselves. 

There had been moments. An evening out with friends where you two would dance all night together and when you parted to go to your separate rooms, you would linger in the hallway just staring at each other. No one ever caved because you both knew you would regret it in the morning. Or the tense nights where one of you said something to rub the other person the wrong way. Sometimes it would turn into you two apologizing in the dimly lit kitchen, hugging and swaying near the flickering oven lightbulb. 

Today was going to be one of those days for sure. Everything he did rubbed you the wrong way.

He had not done the dishes last night, deciding to stay up late and drink himself into a deep slumber. When you woke up, wrapped in your falling-apart-at-the-seams robe and saw the dishes, you wanted to throw an empty beer bottle at him. But you didn’t. You just did them and didn’t say a word.

Then there was leaving his wet clothes in the washing machine. The moment your nose got a whiff of the despicable scent of molding clothes, you slammed the top down and groaned his name. He was not even in the house, deciding as soon as he woke up that he needed to go get a pack of cigarettes from the gas station. 

Then there was him being adamant about washing his van with the hose you were trying to use to water the dying plants in the flower beds surrounding your front door. You just grit your teeth, jerking your head into a nod when he asked for it. 

Now here he is, making you mad again as you sweat all of your body weight over some weeds. 

“I’m having some of the guys over tonight for some burgers-” “No.”

He narrows his eyes at you, swatting a gnat away from his face as you place your hands on your hips. 

“Why not?”

You had a list. A big long list. The house was a disaster. The neighbors called a noise complaint last time. The grill needed propane.

This was the tipping point. “Eddie, I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you in our front yard,” You blow up, throwing off your gardening gloves, “You haven’t done shit for this house in months. I am like your own little personal housewife. I am the only person in this house that keeps it nice and clean. I haven’t had a night out in months because I am using my weekends to keep up with this shithole. I haven’t had a guy over in over a year, for fucks sake! No guy wants to fuck a girl who lives with a shitty roommate who can’t even clean. I need… I need your help.” 

His demeanor shifts, his shoulders slumping a bit. You did not mean for the word vomit to come out like that. You sounded vicious, but all of it needed to come out at sometime.

“Sweetheart-” But you do not want his excuses. You wave him off, storming towards the front door and swinging open the glass door, letting it shut behind you. You needed cold A/C on your face. You were about to pass out from anger and heatstroke. Damn Indiana summers. 

Eddie launches the door open, practically chasing you down to the kitchen. You stand under a vent, tilting your face directly towards the line of air. 

“What do you need my help with?” He asks, a slight arrogance in his tone. 

You don’t even look at him. You just hum as the cold air caresses your face. “The dishes. The laundry. Fuckin’ clean a toilet-”

“And what about guys not coming over?”

You finally tilt your head over at him, confused. “Huh?”

He looks at you with this fire in his eyes that you have almost never seen before. Maybe once or twice when one of his ex girlfriend’s said something based. He did not seem angry, per se, but he seemed agitated.

He crosses his arms over his chest, covering the Metallica logo on the front of his black tank top. His arms are toned and sprawling with randomly harsh lined tattoos. You had to thank Steve for the toned muscles as he was forcing Eddie to lift weights with him twice a week. You are definitely seeing the results. 

“You said no guy wants to fuck a girl who lives with a shitty roommate,” He states plainly, leaning against the kitchen island, “How am I supposed to help you with that?”

It’s like he’s trying to hint at something. Eddie was notorious for not saying what he really wanted to say, just simply talking around the subject. 

“Let me have a night off where I’m not cleaning up after you. Maybe I can bring a guy home.”

He cocks his head to the side, pursing his lips as his eyes take you in your sweaty clothing. You had sweat dripping into places you never knew you even had. You felt better being in the air conditioning, but that did not disguise the already stained areas of the front of your oversized t-shirt and biker shorts. 

“You don’t need me to… do anything else?”

Will this be fifth time Eddie Munson pisses you off today?

“Say what you need to say, Munson,” You warn, annoyed by the creeping smile on his face. 

You watch as he uncrosses his arms, leaning forward towards you. “Do you need me to fuck you, princess? Is that what this is?”

Your jaw hits the floor at his offer.

“What? H-how are you getting that from this-” “You just need a good fuck to release all this tension. It’s written all over you.”

He has never been this bold before. It’s blowing your mind. He has never propositioned sex to you, ever. Maybe jokingly. Wait, last week he did suggest it to get rid of your period cramps-

“You have to be kiddin’ me, Munson.”

He shakes his head, dipping his head down to meet your eyes, “I’m deadly serious, princess.”

“You’re just sayin’ this to piss me off even more-”

He presses his pointer finger to your lips, shushing you immediately, “All this talk and I’m not hearing a no.”

You swat his hand away, groaning in annoyance. You gave Eddie props, he was very convincing when he wanted to be. But you knew better.

But then again, it had been a year since a guy pleased you. 

“Eddie, you know the promise we made all those years ago. No kissing. No sex,” You lean further away, your back arching over the counter. “You can’t just propose this because I am angry at you and want you to take some accountability.”

“I’m not proposing this because I wanna weasel my way out of trouble. I’m doing it because you have been so tense these last couple months, I feel like I am walking on eggshells,” He explains, tossing his hands in the air dramatically, “Just let me get it out of your system. I know it’s been a year or so.”

“How do you know?”

You were trying to find a way out. The deepest darkest secret you held in the very depths of your heart was that you did have feelings for Eddie. You have since high school. But Eddie was occupied in every place in life and you got the permanent label as friend before you even had a chance. He dated around and you were stuck secretly obsessing over him, which- whatever. It was fine. 

All his passes at you were just normal at this point. You never gave them a second thought. You were idle in the idea that it was just jokes and that he never meant it. Even when he said he would give you head to make you feel better when the last guy you dated broke up with you. Or when he told you that he liked the way your hands felt pressed against his bare chest when you helped him apply sunscreen. Or when-

Wait... Did friends usually say that to each other?

“How do I know what?” He asks, his voice wavering a bit.

You huff, “How do you know it’s been a year?”

A mischievous smile spreads across his lips, “Because the last time I heard you through the wall moaning and begging, was about March of last year. It’s currently June.”

The heat rises back to your cheeks as you stare at him wide eyed. You did not realize he was even home when you last had someone over, let alone knew he heard it all.

“Eddie! You sick bastard! You listened?!”

You go to smack his chest but he snatches your hand away, the darkness in his eyes only hinting at his intentions. 

“How can I not? You were so loud for that guy,” He almost looks jealous. Almost. 

“I-“

“Just begging for him to let you cum. Did you, sweetheart? Did you cum for that slimeball?”

Your mouth opens slightly, realizing his hand is still wrapped around your wrist. No ease in the tension around it, just white-knuckling it. 

“I don’t remember-“

“Those moans sounded too good to be true, princess. But what do I know,” He sits back against the counter again, pulling your body closer as he does, “You’ve never cum for me. Maybe you actually do sound like that.”

You really should not. You should just yank your arm away from him and mark this down as Eddie just being a perv again. But something inside you, the tension, the annoyance, the desire, is starting to burn a pit in your stomach.

“I can.”

He raises his eyebrows, pulling your wrist and hand up to his shoulder so you rest it there. You grip onto his bare shoulder, while his arm snakes around your waist. 

“You can what?”

Your mouth goes dry, unsure if you can actually mutter the words. You usually had no filter with Eddie, but right now you felt like your voice completely cut out. He looks down at you, his head tilted in curiosity. “Say it, sweetheart. You can what?”

You grit your teeth, finally submitting. 

“I could cum for you.”

He arrogantly smirks, his fingers sneaking up under your shirt, “Yeah, princess? You wanna cum for me?”

Coming from his lips, it’s like melted butter. It seems so natural, his voice dropping as he speaks such absurd things to you. You smack your lips together, almost like you are contemplating giving in. But your mind is already made up. 

Before you can even give him a taste of his own medicine, your mind slips.

“If only you make me scream like those other girls.”

Fuck. Why did you say that?

His mouth only widens, shocked at the statement. “So you were listening to me, huh? You called me a sick bastard mere moments ago when you were doing the same thing!”

Your fingers pinch his earlobe, making him flinch a bit. “Eddie, you cannot help but be loud! Neither can they!”

Your defense is weak, but you try to sound convincing. 

“Well they are screaming for a reason, sweetheart.”

You dismiss the comment for a minute, really trying to mull this idea over. Would this cost you his friendship? Was it all really worth it? 

Your nails trail down and dig into his shoulder blade, warningly. “Do you seriously want to do this?”

He shrugs, casually, like this is the most normal conversation you two have ever had. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get you in my bed for years. Seems like I just gotta get you all angry and hot for you to even think about it.”

The revelation deflates you a bit. You mentally slap yourself, thinking back to all the times Eddie has offered you ‘time’ with him in bed. You always took his passes as jokes, because that’s just Eddie. He’s never been serious a day in his life. 

You press your body into him more, your nose getting closer to his, “You’ve wanted this for years?”

He nudges your nose with his, playfully, “Don’t act all surprised.”

The tension is at an all time high. The moment your eyes drop to his lips, you cannot peel them away from them. You have been close to him like this before, but never with explicit intentions. Maybe just to tease him or pester him. One time to inspect a possible bug that flew into his eye. 

Eddie was your friend. Best friend. 

Why was he looking different?

He notes the way you are silent, observing the way his lips curl upward into a toothless grin. 

He shifts down, capturing your lips in a hesitant kiss, testing the waters. When the softness of his lips makes impact on your slightly dry lips, you feel self-conscious for a beat. 

That was until you felt Eddie’s other hand sneak around your waist and pull you even closer. It’s the quiet reassurance you did not even know you needed. 

You lean into it, practically falling into his chest completely. The kiss only progresses from there. Your hand cradles his neck as his hands sneak down from your waist to your ass. You had seen Eddie kiss before, but having it be done to you is a completely different experience. He’s hungry for it, but he’s also so tender and calculated with the movements. 

The groping turns into him leveraging you upward onto the countertop. He slots himself between your legs, feeling up your thighs as his tongue slips past your lips. He’s good at stimulating you in every way, your body riddled with goosebumps. You cannot help the groans leaving your throat.

“God, you’re so hot,” He grumbles between kisses. You giggle into his mouth which makes him shake his head and pull away. 

You hold his face close to yours, smiling up at his lust-blown eyes. “Never thought I’d hear you say that. Well… in this situation at least.”

“Can you just shush and let me make you feel good?” His lips trail down from your cheek peppering wet kisses to your neck, “Lemme make it up to you, sweetheart. Been a bad friend. Bad roommate.”

You roll your eyes for two reasons. One, he’s a dork. Two, his lips feel way too good on your throat.

“Make it up to me by being a good lover.”

He barks a laugh, almost too loud for the joke. “Oh, you want me to make love to you?”

“Can you just keep kissin’-”

His lips touch your collarbones and suddenly your body stiffens. You look down at his sinful expression, his lips dragging lower over your chest. His hand returns to the hem of your shirt, slowly tugging it over your head. Your ratty old sports bra was the least sexy thing you could be wearing, but Eddie eyes you like you are in lacey red lingerie with his name stitched into it. You take it upon yourself to peel the sweaty bra off, luckily the only scent you smell when you lift your arms is your antiperspirant.

“You are more perfect than I imagined,” Eddie mumbles, his hands reaching out to cup your boobs. His hands still adorned with his gaudy rings. Makes the sight even more breathtaking. 

You roll your eyes, not believing him, “You’ve seen me in a bathing-”

His head dips down, catching your nipple in his mouth. The action silences you and instead of continuing your nervous babbling, you moan out his name. He rolls your pebbled nipple between his teeth while hissing in satisfaction. You can not stop yourself from raking your fingers through his curls. 

He pulls away from your chest, pressing a quick kiss to your other tit, “I can’t do this if you continue to give me grief.”

The dig makes you blush. You were always awful when it came to dirty talk. Making it awkward was, unfortunately, your specialty. You nod sheepishly, untangling your fingers from his deep chocolate brown hair.

“I’ll shut up.”

He shakes his head, his lips finding the spot right below your ear. You can feel the smirk on his face, "No, don’t shut up. Just keep making those other pretty sounds for me, sweetheart.”

His thumbs hook around the elastic waistband of your shorts, tugging them down. You lift your hips, using his shoulders to balance yourself. You don’t expect him to have you completely naked on your kitchen counter, but the moment your underwear peel away from your cunt, you realize that the wetness between your legs is not just sweat. 

He pulls away from your neck to look at your bare body before him and the groan he lets out makes your pussy clench around nothing. His hand skips down your body, eventually groping your hips. 

“Eddie,” You hum, tilting his chin up so his eyes meet yours, “I’m very naked and you are not.”

He smiles wickedly, shaking his head, “‘Cause I ain’t fuckin’ you here, sweetheart. This is just a really good place for me to get on my knees and devour you.”

You swallow hard, watching him drop to one knee, making him eye level with your glistening cunt, “And look at how beautiful and wet she is for me. This all for me, sweet girl?”

“You’re not the only one who’s been wanting this for a while,” You admit, your eyes drooping to watch his mouth move across your inner thighs. You are a bit self-conscious, not having prepared your pussy for this kind of activity, but Eddie does not seem to mind. He admires you like a piece of art at a museum.

He flicks his tongue out of his mouth, unhurriedly moving up your slit. Once he has his first taste, that smile returns, “Mmm, there’s that confession I’ve been waiting for.”

Your mind draws a blank as he dives back in, pressing his tongue between your pussy lips. He has never looked so happy doing a task in his life, his beautifully straight teeth bared as his tongue swirls around your clit. His grip only tightens on your thighs ensuring you do not move them together. He needs you nice and wide open while he tongue fucks you. 

He becomes more eager with his movements the moment you try to brace yourself on the edge of the counter. His fingers hook down into your flesh, dragging you to the edge of the surface. He does not miss a beat while he suckles on your clit, wrapping his plump pink lips around it and slurping it like a straw. 

The knot in your stomach is tightening as you study his actions. Somehow it is like he knows your body better than you do. 

The instant he sinks his pointer and middle finger into your soaked cunt, it is game over. Your body reacts before your mind does, vibrating against his mouth and fingers. He does not slow down when you clench around him, instead, he increases his speed and ministrations. 

“Jesus, fuck, Eddie,” you whimper, surrendering to the climax. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting your mouth hang ajar as random moans escape you. Your nerve endings have never felt so electrified in your life. 

Once you feel a slight come down, Eddie comes back up for air. His lips are shiny with his own saliva and whatever escaped you when you came. 

You drop your head back, hitting the upper cabinet. 

“You didn’t even have to beg for the first one,” He grunts, getting back to his feet. He locks his arm around your knees and drags your upper half into his other arm, “But the second one, you have to ask for permission, ‘kay?”

His lips are pressed to your temple, kissing you gingerly. 

“You want me to beg, Eds?”

He chuckles darkly, carrying you princess-style across the house and to the living room. He could take you to bed, but he is not sure if that feels too intimate. You just want him inside you, not caring much where he decides to do it. 

You bounce on the worn-down couch as he drops you down, your bare ass immediately sticking to the leather. His discards his tank top and practically jumps on top of you, his hips resting between your legs. You greedily tug at his basketball shorts, begging to reveal the length behind the tented fabric. 

“Mmm, eager, are we?”

You had seen Eddie’s ass plenty of times. His shirtless frame. But never his dick. His tight pants left little to the imagination most times. But up close, pressed against your palm, you cannot help but gasp about how big he is. 

He grabs your wrist firmly, his curls dropping down his shoulders as he shakes his head, “Wanna hear you beg.”

It spills right out of your desperate mouth. “Please, Eddie.”

“Please what?”

“Let me see your cock,” Your eyes reflecting faux innocence, “Please?”

He cannot help but giggle, assisting you in getting his shorts down his tattooed legs. You had been next to him for the big one on his right thigh, an ode to his favorite Metallica album. You did not completely understand the concept, but the black ink littering his body only added to his appeal. 

His cock is even better than your mind had mocked up before. Long, slightly curved to the left, and not too thick that he may split you in half. 

You truly cannot fathom the fact that this is happening. He is willingly showing you his dick and smiling at you while you gawk. 

He is naked above you, and God is he breathtaking. The mop of curls, the broadness of his shoulders, his very slight tummy from all the beer he drinks, the works of art littering his pale skin.

Your eyes finally make their way back up to his, only to note the serious look he’s giving you. 

“What?”

His lips twitch, “Just can’t believe I finally get to do this. And that it’s real and it’s not all in my head.”

Your heart stutters. 

You lick your lips, searching every crevice of your mind for a response. He realizes that you are trying to muddle up a reply and that he has broken your brain temporarily. So instead of letting you counter his statement, he captures your lips in a bruising kiss. 

He wastes no time after that, grabbing his dick and pushing it between your slick folds. You groan into his mouth, your pussy still very sensitive from the first orgasm he gave you. Your hand snakes around the back of his neck, holding his face close to yours. 

“Eddie-“

He pushes into you before you can say anything else, a hiss whistling between his clenched teeth. 

“God damn,” He throws his head back, shaking your hand away from his neck, “You’re fuckin’ tight, princess.”

The moan that leaves your throat is a whole octave lower than your actual voice. Eddie looks down at you, the widest smile painted across his face. You feel his hips inch closer and closer to you and you realize he is not fully inside you yet. 

You take a breath, trying to relax your muscles, “Please, please, please.”

He snaps his hips forward, a dark guttural chuckle taunting you. “There she is. Beggin’.”

Eddie had changed into a completely different person. Sure, he was always picking on you, but this was a stark contrast from your silly best friend. The man above you, slowly rocking his hips inside you, was feral. His confidence only burning brighter the more you whimper for him. 

“Please, faster.”

The wet squelching noise that emits between your bodies is borderline embarrassing. You had never heard such a sound with any other man. Eddie loves it, though. The idea that you were just gushing for him is enough to send him into overdrive. 

“Yeah? You want me to go faster,” He pushes your thighs apart, spreading you wider. He wants to look at how beautiful your pussy looks stuffed full of him. “Look at that.”

You shift yourself up on your elbows, looking down at the sight he cannot peel his eyes away from. “Jesus, I cannot believe…”

You drift off, watching Eddie slowly retreat back only to sharply snap forward. Your jaw goes slack as he drives himself into you, disappearing over and over again. 

Eddie‘s eyes are now on you, watching your tits jiggle every time his cock pierces your squishy walls. 

“You really needed this, huh, princess?”

You watch as he reaches down between your bodies, swiping your clit with his thumb.

Your eyes roll back, unable to hold yourself together, “I really did, oh my god.”

Your legs stiffen and Eddie’s hands loosen up, letting you squirm and adjust yourself. Your hips burn and your mind is mush. Eddie’s erratic movements against your swollen bud and his rapidly moving hips are overstimulating, you cannot help but lock your legs around him. 

“Yeah, I can fucking feel you clenching around me,” He babbles, licking his lips, “You just take my cock so well, don’t you? Just fuckin’ made for me.”

He does not stop talking as you grunt your response. You have never seen the man so driven to get something done in your life. He wants to cum, but he wants to feel you fall apart on him even more. His words are just pouring out of him.

“Yeah? You want me to make you mine, huh? Gonna make this pussy somethin’ only I can have.“

Your eyes fly open in shock, his words ringing in your ears. You feel his dick twitch inside you, hitting the same perfect spot over and over again. “Please, please.”

“Fuck, say it, baby. Say that you’re mine.”

He is so desperate, his usual calm, cool, collected voice faltering. 

“I’m yours, Eddie.”

His thumb presses hard down on your clit, causing your hips to shift upward. The nerve endings that were ablaze before are now imploding. 

The vibration of your body catches him off guard at first, so he locks his hands on your hips. You lurch your body into a crescent shape as he continues to chase his high. A final scream rips through your body, chanting his name. 

Every snap forward was another word slipping from his practically drooling mouth. He fucked his cum deep inside you, his words bouncing off the walls.

“Yes.” “The.” “Fuck.” “You.” “Are.”

Your body goes completely limp under him the moment your high dissipates. He is panting like he just ran 10 miles as he slowly drifts to his side, positioning his nude body between your body and the back couch cushions. When his cock leaves your cunt, he dribbles cum over your mound and lower tummy. You glance down at your body, completely blissed out. 

You have never felt more appreciated in your life.

He lays his head right on your shoulder, fanning your sweaty body with his warm breath. He does not say anything, just settles next you, throwing his arm over your midsection.

You swallow, trying to regain your composure. You thought after doing something like this with Eddie, you would feel some guilt. Regret, maybe. But none of those emotions spring up.

You felt relaxed and at peace. Like you walked off the edge of a cliff and instead of landing on a rocky bottom, you landed on a sea of fluffy pillows. It was a relief. 

Your eyes fall onto his lazily smirking face, “I did really need that.”

He hums his response at first, before clearing his throat. “Yeah, I could tell. I can read you pretty well, huh?”

That’s the understatement of the century. He can read you perfectly. 

You start to reflect on every word that spilled from his lips during the entire interaction, and suddenly your stomach is in knots. You start to wonder if he really did feel those things, or if he was just lost in the moment. You almost don’t ask in fear that he will tell you something you didn’t want to hear. 

“Did you mean everything you said,” You press, your hand absentmindedly tucking some of his hair behind of his ear. His fingers dance across your flesh, eventually swirling around your collarbones.

“Yeah, ‘course.”

He says it so simply. You wanted to believe it was that easy, but there is logistical things that needed to be discussed. Feelings and thoughts that needed further explanation. 

Eddie can see that your mind is racing. Your expression gives you away every time. His mouth slowly opens to further elaborate on his response, but before he can get out a word, there’s a pounding at your front door. 

It is so sudden and loud, you both sit up from the couch. 

“Mr. Munson! You left your hose on! There’s a drought-”

You tune out the rest of the rant from your elderly neighbor because Eddie starts chuckling and rubbing his eyes. He looks down at you as the rant starts to get louder, pressing a chaste kiss on your lips before grabbing his boxers off the floor. 

“You stay there, beautiful. I’ll deal with this.”

You do as he says, the bliss he left you in after the kiss enough to hold you over until he comes crawling back on top of you. He stumbles back into his boxers, going to the front door and cracking it so he can get eyes on your neighbor. 

“Yeah, my fault, Mr. O’Connell. Had to comfort my lady because she cut herself on the shovel. I’ll be right out to shut off that hose and save the rainforest or whatever.”

You hear a scoff from behind the door, the older gentleman taken off guard. “Oh, so she’s your lady now?”

You can hear the smile that spreads across his face. “Always has been, sir.”

[cloudwisp]

✮ sylus x wife!reader

contents: fluff, suggestive. arranged marriage au. hints of slow burn. you like playing hard to get and he loves calling you his wife. 1.4k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ I had to deposit my messy thoughts somewhere and this headcanon post was the result.

part two here. ꒱

⭒ Arranged marriage with Sylus where he prefers to call it a “strategic partnership” as a means of appearances to flaunt that he has it all—an empire, riches, strength, influence and now a darling wife who waits for him at home. You’re not so much as a random choice, Sylus had been watching you from afar for a while and in exchange for his protection in the N109 zone he strikes a deal with you to play a simple role. You have every reason to be wary of him and know to keep your wits about yourself, but even you acknowledge that your chances are better with him. Though, if you asked him how he was so certain you’d agree to his proposal he’d admit that he wasn’t but he knew you’d consider it if he had an advantage over you.

⭒ He sets his terms and conditions—you reside in his humble abode, wedding ring always worn on your finger, and attend events with him as a pretty accessory on his arm to contribute to his image. But he’ll never admit that he actually enjoys your company at business functions that often feel dull to him. You are more than welcome to spend your days as you please so long you don’t cause him trouble, and that also means you have his black card privileges to spoil yourself rotten. Of course, he accommodates most requests you may have like sleeping in separate rooms if that’s what you wish (and redecorating because his furnishing decisions are quite bleak).

⭒ Luke and Kieran can sense that their boss feels something for you despite his nonchalance toward this little arrangement. It starts off small, it always does—Sylus takes note of your morning and night routine, your picky eating habits and has the chef make adjustments to your preference, how he sees you out in the gardens and come back with spring tulips to brighten the space and the next week he already replaced the slowly withering flowers with fresh ones. The twins whisper among themselves that he’s often less annoyed and irritated when you’re around, and their boss wouldn’t go through the trouble of being considerate unless he cares for you. It’s almost exciting for them both to witness a budding romance unfold before their very eyes and they do offer a helping hand here and there to keep things interesting.

⭒ Sylus thinks it’s adorable how you keep trying to resist him and that’s precisely the reason he loves seeking you out just to watch your resolve crumble under his touch. He finds you in the kitchen preparing a snack and cages you from behind with his hands planted on either side of you against the counter. “Hey kitten, I thought I’d find you in here.” You feel his hot breath down your neck as he pushes your hair aside just enough to lay a soft kiss on your shoulder. He chuckles when you comment that he’s being awfully touchy with you, and he purposely moves closer so that his chest is pressing against your back. “Perhaps I just can’t keep my hands to myself where you’re involved. Besides, you’re my wife now. I think I have the right to touch you whenever I like.”

⭒ You remind him that you’re his wife in title only, but that doesn’t discourage his flirtation and teasing as he allows you to nudge past him. He follows you into the common area and takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide and taking up a lot of space. His gaze is settled on you as he pats his thigh and his lips curl into a smirk. “Come here, wife.” You naturally scoff meanwhile you place the plate of seasonal fruits on the side table and situate yourself closest to the armrest, taking a bite into a juicy red strawberry as you ignore his piercing stare.

⭒ For someone who always gets what he wants, Sylus isn’t used to being defied like this. And had it been anyone else his patience would wear dangerously thin, but he supposes that you’re a special exception because he seems to enjoy the chase and claiming its reward. With one small gesture, he drags you across the couch by a gravitational pull and you squeal when the swirling red easily turn and maneuver you so you’re forced to straddle him and your hands prop on his shoulders for support. “There, much better. Comfy? This is the best seat in the house.” His gaze locks with yours, and he thinks you huffing and frowning at him is simply cute. He firmly grabs your wrist with the bitten strawberry in your hand and lifts it to his mouth for a sweet taste.

⭒ “No fair… using your Evol against me like this.” You grumble under your breath as you gently trail your thumb from his chin to the corner of his mouth where the strawberry juices began to spill. Then an impulsive thought takes over and you pinch his cheek between your fingers, creating a sticky mess on his face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. That’s for treating me like a sack of potatoes.” He chuckles once more, his hand falling on your hip and he gives you a light squeeze. “Oh, I do have every intention of fully enjoying my wife tonight.” And by that, he means taking you out for a joyride on his motorbike and feeling your arms wrapped around him tightly as the engine roars through the streets under the night sky and sinking moon. Sylus would never engage in any intimate acts you weren’t ready for, but he loves seeing you fluster at his suggestive remarks.

⭒ As the weeks cross over into months, you never imagined that you’d be spending so much time with Sylus outside of your agreed terms. He’s everywhere in every waking moment of your life even when he’s not there physically. You’re learning new things about him each day and you (begrudgingly) like being around him—even when he can sometimes be a playful bully toward you. When he’s gone for long stretches of time to deal with negotiations and other important matters in the N109 zone, you can feel your heart yearning for him but you’d never say that you miss him out loud when you think he's still toying with you. But with the way he cares for you like you’re both in a real and genuine relationship, it’s hard to know his true intentions and keep your feelings buried deep inside your chest for long.

⭒ You accidentally confirm that Sylus does harbor romantic feelings for you when you carelessly bring up your replacement in a lighthearted joke. You’ve never seen his face falter so quickly at your words as he averts his gaze for a moment to collect himself—a hint of vulnerability in his crimson hues. “I wouldn’t have found a new wife.” He shakes his head and tells you, his voice a little rougher than before. You don’t know what to say, but you manage a soft “No?” that reaches his ears. “No. I wouldn’t have been able to replace you, kitten. You’re it for me. The only one. No one could fill the void you’d leave behind.”

⭒ You and Sylus have kissed before, but this is the first time you’re initiating it. As you brush your lips against his, there’s a softness you never noticed. His hand slips around the small of your back and he pulls you close against him, returning your kiss with the same tenderness as though savoring the taste of you. You lean back after a moment, your palm meeting his cheek in a sweet embrace. “You know, I'm still getting used to the idea that I’ve fallen for you.” You can see him returning back to normal when he offers you a cocky smirk. “And yet here you are. In my arms, with your lips on mine. I think you’re not being entirely honest, my beautiful wife.” Sylus has waited a long time to hear those words from you but you don’t need to know that right now.

[viaviavie]

OPERATION CINDERELLA-SABOTAGE [HEARTSLABYUL]

in which he rescues you from your very short-lived wedding.

SUMMARY: due to a massive misunderstanding, a prince from royal sword academy is set to wed you at sunset. thankfully, your un-princely crush is here to save the day and crash this lovely wedding.

PAIRINGS: everyone x fem reader (separately)

WARNINGS: they're being a bit dramatic, characters are 18+, makeout (cater)

NOTES: this is echoes the ghost bride event, but listening to this prompted me to write out this scenario instead. i made this for shits and giggles, so have fun with this!

HEARTSLABYUL | SAVANACLAW | OCTANIVELLE | SCARABIA | POMEFIORE | IGNIHYDE | DIASOMNIA

There was no way you would be able to say 'no' now, not when there were hundreds of Royal Sword Academy students and even more members of a random royal family whose last names you cannot recall waiting outside that door. Aside from a completely oblivious Neige and Che'nya who was nowhere to be found, there was no one you could really ask for help to get you out of this mess.

You turn to your supposed betrothed with frantic eyes, shaking your head wildly. "I already told you, I'm not the one you danced with at the ball!" Your hisses fell on deaf ears. That damned prince from Royal Sword Academy was too busy making the 'goo-goo' eyes at you to even register what you were saying.

"I just happened to have the same shoe-size!"

Damn it, why did you have to agree to fitting some missing girl's shoe?!

Pierce Charmant, possibly the most delusional guy you have ever met in Twisted Wonderland, clung onto your calf with a stubborn expression. He had no intentions of letting you go, and neither did his five other guards that had blocked your way.

"You have to be her!"

"You don't even know my name!"

You were really counting on Grim to get someone, anyone, to stop this wedding. Yet, as you are walked down the aisle by the fair Neige, you are already planning out a divorce settlement plan. Based on the number of guests here, who had filled this entire venue from top to bottom, you would have guessed that this prince was rather rich. If it was to be an unhappy marriage, at least your wallet would be more than compensated.

You managed to convince this prince to send invitations to Night Raven College, but that didn't matter. He was so excited and in a hurry to marry, that your friends barely had any time to rescue you! There must have been so much traffic with the mirrors that they couldn't even use them! There was just no way that they'd make it in time now.

And so you consign yourself to readying some divorce papers within the next few weeks, and planning out how to avoid any more interactions with this guy while you were married.

You stood at the chapel's base, your expression exasperated than ever as you kept darting your gaze to the door. You've already tripped over the aisle a few times, fumbled the scripted vows, and even called for a bathroom break or two to stall.

And now comes the big moment that you were so desperately trying to avoid.

"Would you, Pierce Charmant, take the Ramshackle Dorm Prefect, as your lawfully wedded wife?"

The prince smiles so sickly sweet, and its the look of a man who won't change his mind.

"I do."

You grimace as the officiant faces you, just as blind to your annoyed expression.

"Would you, the Ramshackle Dorm Prefect, take Pierce Charmant as you lawfully wedded husband?" They didn't even use your name!

You pause, the image of your crush flashing before your eyes.

You would never see him again if you let yourself get married. Defiance returns to your face as you suck in a deep breath, ready to deal with the consequences of rejecting this delusional prince in front of hundreds of people.

"I—"

"I object!"

RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

"Grim, please explain to me why I received an invitation to the Prefect's wedding... I am calm, Trey. I would just prefer to know the details before I go and fetch her myself... and may I ask one more thing? Yes, hoW IN THE WORLD DID THE PREFECT GET KIDNAPPED LIKE THIS?! DON'T YOU DARE TRY TO CALM ME DOWN, CATER. I AM PERFECTLY CALM."

Riddle calmly asked about your whereabouts, and it does not take him long to immediately get to work. As one of the better respected housewardens among the roster, it was easier to ask for a few favors that could get him to that damned cathedral fast. However, as the traffic did pile up to get to this accursed wedding, Riddle finds himself on horseback.

He does have this awful crush on you, but it never really crosses his mind. Even as he holds certain feelings for you, it's at the back of his mind. Riddle values your autonomy, and this marriage was a massive red flag. Surely, you cannot have possibly agreed to such a thing. It was just not in your nature. You would have protested, and the fact that you are not back in campus means that something is preventing you from speaking your mind. Riddle really respects you in this aspect!

Still, the idea of you marrying some prince who barely knew it was absolutely absurd. Riddle won't allow it, he absolutely won't!

The doors were flung open with a loud thud, revealing a red-head in a suit. Much to your surprise, Riddle isn't burning red with a fiery rage and threatening to have everyone's head off. He's stomping towards you and your supposed groom, fist clenched as he throws out an arm out of anger. He doesn't seem too angry, but determined.

"ENOUGH! SHE WILL BE COMING BACK TO NIGHT RAVEN COLLEGE WITH ME NOW."

Okay, maybe you were wrong about him not being angry.

His voice echoes throughout the entire cathedral, followed by several flinches at his sheer volume. Immediately, the crowd by the rows inch back a bit further as he continues to march forward, ignoring the guards that seemed to hesitate to approach him. Pierce raises a brow, almost annoyed rather than fearful of this disturbance.

"There seems to be a misunderstanding. You see, the Prefect is going to be married to me. You can sort out your affairs after the ceremony is over." Well, that didn't seem to help one bit, judging by how Riddle seemed to fume even further at this statement.

The housewarden comes to a halt, sucking in a sharp breath to calm his temper. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to frighten you.

He breathes out your name, sending a stutter through your heart.

"Do you truly want to marry this man?"

It almost makes you swoon, the way Riddle looks at you so earnestly as he asks for some affirmation. Had it been any other scenario, you would've taken your time to bore your eyes into his and study his expression. Instead, you shake your head wildly, racing down the aisle until you have hidden yourself behind him.

Riddle has the nerve to smirk at the shocked Prince. "And here, I thought princes had a code of conduct when it came to their ladies." He turned back to you with an assuring look. "I'll take you home, Prefect."

Truly, Riddle had no intentions of playing around. He had only one objective, to get you out of here. Just as he turns around to escort you out of the cathedral, a pair of guards had blocked the exit.

"No, I cannot let you leave!" Pierce cried out, ready to give chase. "Prefect, please! Give me a chance. You cannot possibly be ready to leave me for... this guy!"

Riddle's eye twitches as he cranes himself to look at the prince. "You have some nerve!" He clicks out, clenching his fists once more. Everyone feels the cathedral heat up, those closer to the aisles feeling beads of sweat form upon their temples. Even as you looked at Riddle so gently, a part of you was somewhat grateful that he was sticking up for you.

Just as his top was about to blow, you muster the will to tug on Riddle's sleeve. As quickly as his reddened face came, it disappears when he glances back at your soft expression. Huffing out a heavy sigh, Riddle clicks his tongue and marches towards the exit.

"Let's be on our way, Prefect. We shouldn't waste our precious time on these trifles."

Needless to say, no one really wanted to test the housewarden's patience as he escorted you out of that Cathedral. Riddle certainly doesn't waste time hoisting you onto his horse and galloping away, not giving the prince a second to try and retrieve you.

He grumbles about the entire ordeal, mostly questioning the absolute ridicule of the marriage. What kind of prince thinks he can get away with it? Riddle is certain to send a complain to Royal Sword Academy regarding their lessons on conduct if no one tries to stop him.

You could easily see Night Raven College from afar as you peeked from behind his tuft of red hair. Riddle is still rambling, a preferable alternative to losing his temper entirely. "That ruffian dares to marry you and has yet to learn your name! How uncouth!" He spat in absolute distaste, and he finds comfort in the way you giggle in agreement.

Riddle doesn't seem to take note of the way your arms are crossed around his middle, or maybe he does, and just chooses not to let his blush show. He cleared his throat, gripping the reigns a bit tighter. "You will find better suitors, Prefect. Just promise me that he wouldn't be so impulsive as that Prince."

TREY CLOVER

"Can you drive any faster, Deuce? No, I don't think we're late. Better safe than sorry! ... Suit, check. Speech, check. Myself, check. I've got everything in order, but... hah, I'd expect to do this type of thing a few years down the line, let alone object at a wedding at all. At least, it's the Prefect's wedding... That's such a weird thing to conceptualize at this point in time."

He really didn't have to be so dramatic about the entire thing, but Trey is really going all-out for this objection. Really, all he's done is seen movies where someone objects at a wedding and while he knows its entirely fictional, our boy here has to drive the point home; no one is marrying the Prefect today.

So that explains why he even bothered to dress up and rehearse a speech throughout the entire ride to the cathedral. He has Heartslabyul helping him out to secure an escape for you in case things went awry. Sure, Trey's Unique Magic won't come in handy but he's good with his words, and is relatively charismatic. He's earned that title of Vice Housewarden, after all.

All that preparation flies out the window when he sees you down the aisle, however.

"Trey?"

He's blinking profusely, almost flustered himself by how radiant you looked in that wedding dress. For a moment, Trey swears that he's had some sort of tunnel vision when all he seems to see is you. It strikes some envy in him when he reminds himself that this wasn't his wedding, and this wouldn't be yours either.

"Prefect..." Trey breathed out, struggling to recall the damn script he was supposed to follow. They are lost, just as he found himself lost in your sparkling gaze.

Screw the script, he was just going to have to wing this one.

He narrows his eyes onto the shocked prince, taking steps down that long carpet. "I've come to bring you back to Night Raven College."

Pierce raises a brow, glancing back at you and the intruder with suspicion. "On what grounds?" He questions snidely, uncertain of what to make of this new character. "If it is for anything trivial, then you may bother the Prefect later. You are obstructing a ceremony here, sir."

You recognize that dangerous glint behind Trey's eyes, and it only serves to make your heart race. Trey simply smirks, hiding away his hesitant exterior with a haughty farce. "I am afraid it cannot wait. I cannot allow the Prefect to be married without saying my piece."

He doesn't exactly know where all his bravado was coming from, but if he had to confess his feelings to you now, then so be it.

Trey looks at you, flashing a gentle yet sheepish smile. "Prefect, I fell for you. Hook, line, and sinker." You let out a dramatic gasp along with the onlookers, allowing a hand to fly to your parted lips. "I have harbored those feelings for a long time now, and I cannot bring myself to see you married without letting my heart be known."

Swallowing to himself, Trey's expression falters slightly, falling into one of softness. "Prefect, it is your happiness that I desire. No matter what happens, I will support your choice."

He didn't exactly have to tell you twice, not when you hurry yourself over to his side and latch onto his arm. You didn't have to feed his ego like that, but it isn't as if Trey had any room to complain.

Pierce is angered by the sight, glaring daggers at Trey with such envy and animosity. "Prefect, are you really leaving me on the altar?" As if to subtly annoy the prince even further, Trey hooks an arm around your waist and pivots you to turn. "It seems to be so, Prince Pierce. I fear that your beautiful bride will be stolen on this lovely afternoon."

You do not miss the way Trey smirks at your flustered expression. Just as he continues to walk you to the exit, you gritted your teeth at him. "Don't say such things!" You tell him as the heat rises to your cheeks. You hear him hum at your ear, followed by the slight press of his fingers on your hip.

"Why shouldn't I? You look beautiful in this dress," Trey murmurs in your ear, pushing the cathedral door open with his hand. "And I suppose that the prince hasn't coaxed this expression out of you. I almost feel sorry for him, that he never got the chance to see how lovely you are when you are putty in my hands."

Trey doesn't stop teasing you, even once you are back in Night Raven College. He wouldn't stop complimenting you either, aiming to have you as red as possible. He just can't help it. It's probably the high he got from confessing his feelings to you, or maybe it's the part where you're unsure if he was being sincere or not. Regardless, it was fun seeing you get all flustered because of him.

You are seated by the Heartslabyul's kitchen counter, snacking on some quick treats that Trey had prepared for you. He claims that it was a consolation for the fact you never got to taste your own wedding cake. Still clad in your grand wedding dress, you couldn't exactly care any less about the crumbs soiling the skirts. "You're no prince charming, Trey." You mentioned mid-bite, eyes glancing at the vice-housewarden who was seated across from you.

"What makes you say that?" He asks you with a slight smile, resting his chin on his palm as he shamelessly bored his gaze into yours.

You snort, rolling your eyes at his seemingly sweet disposition. "Prince Charmings don't tease the girls that they like until they're as red as Riddle." You huffed, digging your fork into the pastry. "You cruel man! You haven't stopped ever since you stole me from the prince!"

Trey chuckles, and you cannot keep yourself from gulping as he leaves his seat, sauntering towards you like a lion would his prey. "Oh? I suppose that I am no Prince Charming. I'm not a pure white knight either. If you think I am being cruel, I won't stop you, sweetheart."

Your heart stutters as he slides a finger underneath your chin, tilting your head so that your forced to look his way. Trey smiles at you, eyes twinkling with absolute mischief. "I highly doubt Prince Charmings steal kisses from their crushes either. For you, I will be kind. May I, sweetheart? I do not need your shoe size to know my feelings for you, at least."

CATER DIAMOND

"Gah, it just refreshed! They've just gotten past the walking part! Deuce, shortcut on your left! Sorry, I'm switching tabs between maps and the livestream! Prefect looks is such a cutie in that dress, it makes me so envious of the prince! Oh well, she really looks like she doesn't wanna be there anyways. I'm coming Prefect! I'll save you!"

There's just this image of Cater clinging onto Deuce on a blastcycle, raising his phone up for a signal as they attempt to maneuver their way through the streets. Everything just happened in such a rush, and Cater's scrambling to get to you. He isn't like Trey who bothers to prepare, but if anything, Cater will ramp up the dramatics to the maximum.

His real goal is just to get you out by any means necessary, and more preferably, without violence. So Cater will do what he does best; make a grand spectacle of the entire thing until the prince is forced to abdicate. Worst case scenario, he's going to drag you out the door and shove you onto the damn blastcycle.

If he has to play the part of your real paramour, then he hopes you'll forgive him. He's got the suit and the desperate look on his face ready to go!

Your jaw goes slack at the way Cater makes a dramatic run for the aisle, somewhat unused to that stricken expression on his face. You're almost concerned for him with the way he grips his knees, attempting to keep his balance as his eyes zone in onto yours.

"Prefect, you can't marry him!" It's too out of character of Cater, and you know better than to think he'd ever be this undone in public. "Is this what you really want?!" Before you could even reply, Pierce cuts in with a slight glare.

"And who are you to talk to my bride like that?" It is then when you catch wind of that mischievous glint in Cater's eye as he throws out his arm dramatically.

"I am the Prefect's sweetheart! Who are you to take my girlfriend like that?"

You have never heard the cathedral go so silent. You are utterly speechless, lips parted with absolute surprise. Clearly, judging by the way sweat had begun to form on the side of Cater's temple, you cannot help but think that this was all improv on his half.

Pierce turns to look at you, almost stricken by the ginger's declaration. "Prefect, is that true?" His voice trembles with fear. "Is that truly your... sweetheart?"

A part of you feels a bit sorry for what you were about to do, but you had to remind yourself that you had been dragged into a wedding on the same day you met this prince.

You are running now, sprinting to Cater's side as you clutch his hand in your own. Turning back to the scandalized prince, you nod firmly, playing along with the farce. "We've been dating for a long time now! And I'm in love with him!" You declare, sending gasps throughout the entire cathedral.

You glance up at Cater, mustering a smile across your features. "You came to save me!" He's almost surprised by the way you cling onto him even harder, but it only serves to sell the act even further. Cater smiles in return, holding you closely. "I'd never let you go, cutie. I love you too much to let you leap into the arms of another man."

Maybe the act is too good, too calculated. That is exactly what goes through your head as Pierce raises a brow in suspicion, narrowing his eyes onto the pair as if attempting to spot a mistake. "Is that so?" He murmurs until he crosses his arms, disbelief on his skeptical expression.

"Prove it."

Cater and you freeze up simultaneously, heads turning to glance at one another. He looked so caught off guard by Pierce's demand, and there's so many eyes on you both.

"You're both longtime sweethearts, right? I wouldn't want to split apart such a happy couple..."

Cater is staring at you, attempting to read your expression. It's difficult, especially when you look at him as your gaze gets even more glossy. He wouldn't want to do anything you didn't want to, and he's already readying himself to sprint out the door with you in tow.

"Prefect, you don't have to—mmph!"

You wasted no time in snaking your arms around his neck, pressing your lips against him with such boldness. He could feel you pour all your wants and longings into the kiss, the plush of your soft lips melding into his own. How could he not deny you his own affections, not as he cups your cheeks with his slender fingers and presses back against you.

He dares to go even further, pulling back for a slight gasp of air before diving back into you. Much to his delight, you aren't pulling away either, choosing to even entangle your fingers into his hair for leverage.

Then you hear a groan from the prince, followed by his pleas for you two to stop this display. It seems that he got the point now, at least.

Even as both of you exit the cathedral, Cater still maintains the image that he was your boyfriend. You don't exactly protest, and even then, it didn't seem to different to the way Cater had been treating you as a friend. He is still as clingy as ever, closing the physical proximities by having you hang onto his arm.

And you best believe he's snapping as much photos of you to commemorate the event. He's already updating his MagiCam account on his success, not to mention the pretty girl on his arm.

"Cater, what are you doing?" You asked, unable to hide the grin on your face as Cater sets up his camera against the tire of the blastcycle. You could see yourselves on the reflection of the device, followed by the grand beauty of the cathedral behind you both. He grins at you as he shifts at your side.

"What? It isn't everyday a cutie like you gets to look like a bride. We got the perfect backdrop!" He sings, sliding an arm around your waist as he strikes for a pose. You follow his lead, matching his energy with each shot.

"Careful! People are going to think we're dating for real!"

Cater smirks at you, leaning in closely to your ear with a sickeningly sweet tease. "Wanna make it official then, cutie? Can't have any random princes asking for your hand, not when you're dating me." He is not stranger to the way you blush, letting out a chuckle at the sight.

"Aw, cutie! Are you still thinking about the kiss? I didn't think you would be so bold about it." Pressing a quick peck on the cheek, he rests his chin on your head as he prepares for another pose. "Don't worry. CayCay's gonna initiate it next time!"

DEUCE SPADE

"Grim, which way?! I can't see the GPS! ... Don't I just have to go in there and yell 'I object'? It looks easy! I'll say it then drag Prefect out of there... Ha?! I need to prove that I have a good reason to get her out? Fine! I don't care, the Prefect needs me!"

Possibly the closest we will get to a legit Prince Charming. Perhaps Deuce is a bit on the rugged side, but he's possibly one of the most earnest and noble students from Night Raven College. He cares about you more than he cares about getting his feelings across, but that is not to say he won't be honest about it either in this confrontation.

He's not exactly sure on how to break up the ceremony. Grim and Ace are coaching him through what to say, and admittedly, the process seems too complicated. All he knows is that he has to run through those doors and convince the prince to not marry the Prefect by any means necessary.

"Deuce!"

He is the one to always come running at the sound of your name. Deuce had been someone you trusted during your stay here in Twisted Wonderland, and you never seemed to stop and think about just how attached that boy was to you. Sure, you held him closely as a friend and held affections for him, but the way he sprinted towards you was a testament to how much he cared.

"Prefect!" You are racing to meet him halfway, launching yourself into his chest. He catches you barreling into his suit, immediately wrapping his arms around you in a protective manner. Then he takes you by the soldiers, looking down at you with such concern and worry. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?" He fusses, earning a shy smile from you.

"I'm okay, Deuce. I'm okay."

"And what is the meaning of this?"

Catching sight of the infuriated prince, Deuce beckons you to stand behind him. Cerulean eyes narrow onto the groom with animosity, accompanied by the way his hands are itching towards his wand. "I can't let you marry her. The Prefect will be returning to Night Raven College with me." You can sense the nervousness in his tone, but Deuce remains firm in his words.

Pierce's eye twitches, and he scoffed in disbelief at Deuce's protective display. "I am afraid that cannot be possible. I am marrying the Prefect, and that is final." Clicking his tongue, Pierce rolls his eyes and holds out his hand for you to take. "Come, darling. I am not surprised that you have garnered the affections of an admirer, but I fancy you more than this one ever could."

Something in Deuce snaps as he lets out a cry.

"But I love her!"

You stiffen against his back, taken by surprise by Deuce's sudden confession. And the boy glares, and it almost so painful for Pierce to keep his stare, not when there was so much conviction and certainty behind Deuce's voice.

"I've loved her longer than you have, and known her much longer than that!" His voice cracks underneath the emotional turmoil bubbling within him. "Did you even stop to consider what she wants? Did you wonder if this wedding would make her happy in the first place?!"

You take note of how Deuce's fists are clenched pale, how his breaths had suddenly grown haggard. With a soft expression, you curl yourself onto his back, arms hugging him from behind in an attempt to placate him. His body stiffens against your hold, but he reaches to clasp your hands onto his own.

He is just thankful that you aren't seeing the way his eyes had begun to water at the thought of losing you entirely. "So please," He chokes out, expression twisted with a sort of agony.

"Please don't force her to marry you. She deserves so much more than that."

Thanks to the waterworks that Deuce had caused, the wedding was called off. There was just no way that the prince could marry you after Deuce poured his heart out to deter him from wedding you.

It's almost sweet, the way that Deuce lifts you onto the blastcycle and fixes the helmet onto your head. He encourages you to hold onto him tightly as he speeds away from the cathedral, all the more determined to settle you back into NRC.

By the time he's dropped you off at the Ramshackle Dorm, only then does he take the time to bask in how radiant you appeared in a wedding dress. Thinking about his crush in a wedding dress had never crossed Deuce's mind before, but this definitely gave him something to ponder about for the next couple of nights.

You are handing him the helmet, a shy smile surfacing across your features. "Thank you for saving me from that awful wedding." Deuce clears his throat, shifting his gaze as he takes the helmet from your grasp. "I didn't want you to do something you weren't willing to. It just isn't right."

He doesn't realize just how dry his throat as gotten when he cannot bring himself to keep his thoughts to himself. "I love you. I really do, and I wish I said it at a better time." He swallows to himself, letting the embarrassment burn into the back of his head as he recalls his declaration. It was only natural that 'like' would turn into 'love' after being your close confidant for this long, pining quietly during the months spent with you.

You cannot exactly blame him either, not when his feelings were entirely reciprocated. You shift on the balls of your heel, biting onto your lower lip.

And in a swift motion, you lean in to press a chaste kiss against Deuce's warm cheek. You pull away to bask upon the stunned expression on his face, only to give him a shy smile of your own.

"Would you be down to try confessing again tomorrow?"

ACE TRAPPOLA

"BAHAHAHAHA! THERE'S NO WAY THE PREFECT IS GETTING MARRIED. WHO WOULD EVER WANNA MARRY THE PREFECT? PFFFFT, GRIM, YOU'RE SERIOUSLY PULLING MY LEG HERE. YOU EVEN BROUGHT ME A FAKE INVITATION! AIN'T NO WAY THAT SHE— Oh... Wait, really? The wedding is happening right now? ... Oh."

Ace thought you were just messing him again for that one time he said that no one would ever be interested in you. He simply said that to discourage you from trying to pursue a relationship with anyone else, but he didn't mean for you to prove him wrong like that! He never believes Grim until Deuce, Riddle, and the rest of Heartslabyul receive invitations to a wedding that was meant to start in 3 hours.

This is the absolute worst time to be in denial about his feelings. The Prefect wearing a wedding gown is one thing, but another is the fact that the groom is some pompous prince from Royal Sword Academy. Does that guy seriously think he was your type? No way! Ace knows you better than anyone on this campus, so this guy can buzz off!

A part of him did think that you were serious about marrying this stranger. In all fairness, Crowley's allowance pales in comparison to whatever Mr. Money-Bags had over there. He wouldn't blame you if you were marrying the guy for money.

Still, the last thing he wants is for you to be whisked away to who knows where. Ace would never see you again, and as embarrassing as it sounds, he did get very attached to you. Yes, a part of him wants to keep you to himself, but he also values your autonomy here. And if he knew you that well, he knows that you wouldn't want to be married off like this.

"Prefect, I'm here to pick you up."

You are actually surprised by how princely Ace looked in that moment. Dressed in a suit befitting a groom, you could help but feel your breath stolen away once his scarlet eyes were pinned onto yours. You could have been fooled then, and perhaps, Ace did turn into a prince as he marched down the aisle with his arm outstretched for you to take.

Ace never realizes the way a victorious smile creeps onto his face when you break out into a grin, taking the skirt of your dress as you make run for it. The crowd gasps as you crashed into Ace's chest, and he does not hesitate to take a protective stance in front of you. With a haughty laugh, he smirks at the baffled prince. "Who are you?!"

The redhead's arm wraps around your waist, pressing your body closer to his own. "Sorry about that, but I'll be taking your bride indefinitely! Trust me, you'll be severely disappointed after spending one good day with her!" He snickered, much to your horrified expression. You lightly smack at his chest, glaring at him with that pout that he adores so much.

"Hey!" You whine, and Ace simply beams at the prince who hesitantly steps forward. The redhead snorts, rolling his eyes at the crowd that are offended at his immature display. "I'm doing you a great favor here! If you kissed those lips, she'll turn into an ugly green ogre by sunset!"

"HEY!"

Pierce's eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you, as if pleading for you to return to his arms. "You'd best return her, boy. We can settle this maturely." Ace does not like the way that these bodyguards are eyeing him, shifting closer and closer as he backed you both towards the venue entrance. He never falters, and neither does that shit-eating grin on his face.

"Sorry, buddy. The clock's struck midnight and all your magic tricks are fading!" He barks. Now, he knows that an escape must be made. The last thing he wants is to have another Eliza-episode. He looks down at you with a wide grin, clasping you arm with a firm squeeze.

Ace sneaks into his pocket, still looking at you. "You know something, Charmant? Maybe not all the magic has gone yet." His hand reveals the Ace of Cards, and it is immediately thrown up into the air.

As the card reached its peak in height, a burst of smoke filled the air, obscuring the magician and yourself from view.

You don't exactly need a signal to start running when your feet began moving on their own, dashing towards the door followed by the Ace's laugh and the prince's demand for guards.

Ace has no white horse, but he has Deuce with his blastcycle! Who knows how the three of you managed to fit on that bike, but you made it work! The guards couldn't exactly catch up in their cars, not when Deuce was dodging vehicles left and right to make this escape. Ace did take one final look back, sticking his tongue out at the defeated prince before you all disappeared around the corner.

Ace gives you his shoes, despite how oversized they may be. You complained about those glass shoes on you, and to 'shut you up', he's given you his runners.

When you make it back to Night Raven College and all the adrenaline has died down, Ace stays by your side the entire time when you explain the entire situation to Crewel and Crowley. He acts so nonchalant about things, even as you both walk all over the campus like groom and bride.

It's a rather odd sight; you in your wedding gown, and Ace right next to you as you both sit on the bench by the Great Seven's statues. Students wandering about at night had given both of you puzzled stares, but no one is ever surprised when they realize it's you and Ace, however.

"Wow, Prefect. Not even a thank you?" He glances at your slightly annoyed expression, throwing his hands up defensively in response. "I was kidding about the ogre stuff! Really!"

You could only roll your eyes at his words, huffing as you crossed your arms across your chest. When you refuse to speak, Ace sticks out his lower lip into a pout as he leans his head onto your shoulder. "Come on, don't be like that. Are you actually that upset about it?"

There is no response from you, not even a glance as your nose is turned away from him. Then Ace sighs, practically clambering over your lap just so that you are forced to look at him. "Prefeeeect, I said I was sorry! What? Do I have to kiss you to make me apology authentic?"

Only then do you look back at him with a raised brow, almost expectant. Ace blinks with surprise, a slight blush creeping to his ears. "For real? You're serious?" He exclaimed, much to your agitation. You sigh even louder as you shove him off your lap, hastily getting up to your feet to leave him behind.

"Wait! Prefect, I said wait!" You feel a hand on your wrist, twirling you back to face the redhead. Ace bites onto his lower lip, unable to keep the red from flooding his cheeks. "I really just said all that mean stuff to get the prince off your back, you know? I didn't think you'd take it so seriously."

And when he sees that smirk creeping up onto your features, he groans as he leans in closely into your space.

"Now look at what you've done! You had me all panicked over what?" You feel his breath tickling your lips, followed by the way his hands crawl up your neck to cradle your jaw.

"If you just wanted a kiss, you could've asked..."

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, neighbors to lovers, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), reader first orgasm, soft dom Han Jisung, emotional vulnerability, praise kink, mention of toxic relationship, slight exhibitionism (thin walls), slight degradation of ex-boyfriend, aftercare, fluff, soft angst (parental neglect), mdni

notes: in which han jisung hears you faking your orgasms through the walls of your apartment--and things spiral from there.

The walls in this building are a joke.

Half an inch of drywall. That’s all that separates his shitty one-bedroom from yours. He’s counted.

It’s not like he meant to know so much about you. He’s not trying to eavesdrop on every late-night argument, every hungover FaceTime call, every time you drag your heavy Econ textbook across the floor.

He just lives here.

And unfortunately, so do you.

Jisung never asked for the proximity. He never asked to know the way your voice rises when you're tipsy or how you only sing when you thinks no one can hear. But he does. He knows. He knows you eat too many frozen waffles and tha tyour microwave beeps twice before you remember to take shit out. He knows the name of your boyfriend, the sound of your laugh when you’re trying too hard, and worse—

The exact pitch of your moans when you’re faking it.

Because you fake it. Every damn time.

And he would know. He’s had the misfortune of being hard at 2AM with your paper-thin walls pressed against his back and that sorry excuse for sex filtering through his second-hand studio monitors like a mockery of porn.

It’s always the same: breathy gasps, your boyfriend’s awkward grunting, the bed springs squeaking like hell, and then—

“Oh my god, yeah, just like that...”

Flat. Perfunctory. The kind of moan that sounds practiced. Rehearsed. Completely unconvincing.

Jisung rolls his eyes and turns the volume up on his mix.

Not because it bothers him. Not because he cares.

It’s just distracting.

He’s got better things to do than think about the pretty girl next door faking orgasms like it’s a part-time job.

Like finish this track. Like land an actual gig. Like figure out how the fuck he’s going to keep affording rent in a city that eats people alive and doesn’t even burp after.

He’s not interested.

He’s not.

Except—

Sometimes he wonders what it would sound like if you meant it.

What you’d sound like if someone took their time. If someone made you come for real, dragged it out of your with fingers in your hair and lips on your neck and the kind of steady, brutal rhythm that doesn’t stop until you’re shaking.

What you’d sound like if it were him.

Jisung curses under his breath and drags his headphones off.

His eyes are dry. His dick’s half-hard. His track’s going nowhere.

Cool.

Maybe he just needs to… do something. Anything. Something mundane. Something that reminds him he’s a functioning adult with a trash bin and a spine and better things to focus on than the soft moans of the girl next door and the way they don’t sound quite right.

He grabs the overstuffed trash bag by the door, ties it with too much force, and makes a beeline for the hallway before he can talk himself out of it.

The fluorescent lights hum. The elevator’s broken again. Everything smells vaguely like burnt toast and someone’s fruity shampoo.

This building is hell.

He loves it.

Jisung drops the bag down the chute, lingers a second too long just to feel the rush of cold air against his face, then heads back.

He’s barely two doors away from home when he sees you.

You’re standing outside your apartment, arms crossed over your chest, loose sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder like it’s been a long night. Your boyfriend—Jason? Jared? Justin?—is leaning in too close, his mouth moving fast. Jisung can’t make out the words, but the tone’s familiar. Sharp. Defensive.

The boyfriend tries to kiss you.

You turn your face away.

Jisung doesn’t mean to stop walking. His feet just… do.

“I said I’m tired,” you mutter.

“Oh, you’re tired?” the guy snaps, way too loud for this dingy little hallway. “You weren’t tired twenty minutes ago when you were riding my dick, were you?”

Jesus.

Jisung should keep walking. Should disappear into his apartment and mind his business like he always does.

But instead, he just—

“Hey.”

His voice comes out cracked around the edges, like it hasn’t been used in a while. Which is accurate. He hasn’t really spoken to anyone in three days. Not unless you count the talking he does into the mic when he’s laying down verses at 3AM.

You both turn to look at him.

Jisung tries to smile.

It’s more of a grimace.

“You, uh…” he clears his throat, glancing at you instead of the walking ego next to you. “You okay?”

You hesitate.

The boyfriend doesn’t.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Jisung shoves his hands deeper into his hoodie pocket. “Neighbor.”

The guy blinks, then laughs. “Oh. So you’re the one blasting that emo SoundCloud shit through the wall every night?”

Jisung winces. A breath stutters out of him like he’s been lightly slapped.

Then he notices it—you wince, too. The tiniest flicker of guilt flashing across your face, so fast he almost misses it.

And yeah. Okay.

That stings more than it should.

“I didn’t say it was shit,”you mumble under your breath, clearly meant only for your own conscience.

“Don’t worry,” Jisung says quickly, forcing a light tone as he scratches the back of his neck. “It’s fine. Totally fair. Some of my stuff is… uh. Kinda dogshit.”

The boyfriend grins like he’s just won something.

“Glad we agree. Thought I was gonna have to explain how sound works to a wannabe DJ.”

Jisung opens his mouth—then closes it again.

Not worth it.

Definitely not worth it.

Except you’re still looking at him. Still standing there with your arms folded tight, sweatshirt slipping down further. And your face—

There’s something in it. Not pity. Not sympathy.

More like… regret.

He hates that it softens him.

The boyfriend, oblivious, barrels on. “Anyway, next time you feel like giving a concert at four in the morning, maybe wait until someone asks.”

“Next time you feel like giving headboard percussion lessons at two,” Jisung mutters, “maybe make sure she actually comes.”

The words leave his mouth before his brain catches up.

Instant silence.

You gasp. Cover it with your hand, like you’re trying not to laugh—or scream.

The boyfriend just stares at him.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Jisung shrugs, already stepping toward his apartment door. His hands are shaking a little, but he keeps his voice light.

“I mean, the moaning’s impressive. Real Oscar-worthy shit. But you’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

“You little—”

“Hey, man.” Jisung turns back for half a second, nodding at him with a crooked, tired smile. “If I can tell through the wall that she’s faking it, that’s not on her. That’s on you.”

He shuts the door behind him before the guy can even finish winding up his insult.

Click.

Deadbolt.

Silence.

Except for the thundering in his chest.

Jisung exhales hard, forehead thunking against the door. “What the fuck did I just do?”

He sinks down to the floor like his legs have given up. Which, to be fair, they kind of have.

This isn’t him. This isn’t what he does.

He doesn't talk back. Doesn’t mouth off. Doesn’t insert himself into other people’s messy lives—especially not yours. He barely speaks to delivery guys. Half his social life happens through a pop filter.

And yet.

“You’d think a guy who talks that much would at least know when he’s not doing it right.”

God. It was kind of funny.

But still—Jesus.

Jisung scrubs both hands over his face, embarrassment curling in his gut like a hangover.

Across the wall, he hears footsteps. Muffled shouting. The boyfriend’s voice, sharp with wounded ego. And then—

The unmistakable slam of a door.

Silence.

No more voices. No more fake moans. No more anything.

Jisung doesn’t move.

Eventually, when the silence stays long enough to feel safe, he hauls himself up off the floor. Brushes dust from his sweats. Tries not to replay what he said out loud like a greatest hits compilation of shit he absolutely should not have said out loud.

____________________________________________________________________________

He sleeps like shit.

Of course he does.

And when morning comes, it hits in a wave of cheap sunlight and neighborly noise.

He hears your usual routine unfold with near-perfect familiarity: fridge door opening, kettle clicking on, cabinet slam (twice—you always forget which one holds the instant coffee). Muffled cursing. Zipper. Then keys jingling against the lock.

He listens as you step out, lets the door fall shut behind you, and walks down the hall toward the stairs.

Everything is the same.

And none of it is.

Because this time, when you leave,your footsteps pause right outside his door.

Just for a second. A breath.

Then gone.

He groans and pulls the blanket over his face.

The rest of the day moves in its usual haze. Jisung does what he always does: noodles with a half-finished beat, eats instant ramen over the sink, ignores three texts from Chan asking for an update on the mix. His headphones stay around his neck most of the day, never quite getting used.

By sunset, the hallway is quiet again.

The beat he’s working on is shit. He knows it’s shit. He keeps tweaking it anyway.

It’s not even music anymore. Just sound. A bunch of clunky, disjointed loops that won’t glue together no matter how many times he messes with the tempo.

He’s just about to scrap the whole thing when—

Knock knock.

He freezes.

It’s soft. Measured. Hesitant.

He doesn't move right away—just sits there in his desk chair like someone just rang the doorbell in a horror movie. Then he leans back slightly, just far enough to peek over the edge of his laptop.

Another knock.

His heart does something stupid.

He stands. Pads barefoot to the door. Checks the peephole.

Of course it’s you.

You’re standing there in leggings and an oversized hoodie, arms cradling a plastic container like its armor. Your hair's pulled back, face bare. You look—

Small.

Unsure.

You lift one hand and knock again, even softer this time.

He hesitates a second longer, then opens the door.

Not all the way. Just a crack.

Your head jerks up. You blink. “Hi.”

He blinks back. “Uh. Hey.”

You shift your weight. “Can I—uh, are you busy?”

He opens the door a little wider, eyes flicking down to the container you’re holding. “No. I mean. Just… failing at music.”

That gets the faintest smile out of you.

“Right. Yeah. I, um…” You hold out the container. “These are for you.”

He stares. “Cookies?”

“Apology cookies.”

There’s a beat.

Then:

“I didn’t bake them,” You admit. “But I did walk two blocks to the overpriced organic place to get them. So. Effort was made.”

He blinks down at the container again, like it might disappear if he stares hard enough.

“Effort noted,” he mumbles.

You shift again, hugging your arms tighter. “You don’t have to eat them. I just—felt weird not saying thank you. Or sorry. You didn’t have to do what you did last night.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. Felt weird not saying something. So.”

You stand there in the doorway for a second, both of you clearly unsure of what to do now that the thing you came to say has been said. He should probably invite you in. Or take the cookies. Or smile, or make a joke, or something.

Instead, he clears his throat.

You jump in to fill the silence. “Also, just so we’re clear—I didn’t actually mean the SoundCloud thing. That was… low-hanging fruit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’ve listened?”

That earns him a flush, bright and instant. “Not on purpose.”

“Wow.” He presses a hand to his chest. “What a glowing endorsement.”

“I’m just saying—I wasn’t trying to be a bitch. That wasn’t fair.” Your gaze softens. “Your stuff is good. Better than good, actually. The one with the—uh—strings and that lo-fi beat underneath?”

His eyebrows raise. “Track twelve?”

She nods.

His stomach flips. It’s ridiculous. But that track had been sitting unfinished for weeks, like something he wasn’t sure anyone but him would ever care about. And now she’s standing here—face bare, voice quiet—quoting it back to him like it meant something.

He doesn’t know what to say.

For someone who spends hours arranging syllables and syncopation for fun, it’s laughable how words immediately bail on him when they might actually matter.

“You, uh…” He shifts the container to one hand. “You’ve got a good ear.”

You smile. It’s small. A little sheepish. “I’ve got shit walls.”

That makes him laugh—quiet and surprised.

“I should let you hear more sometime,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it.

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. I just thought…”

He trails off, scratching at the seam of his sleeve.

“I’d like that,” You say.

And he doesn’t know what to do with the warmth that blooms in his chest. It’s not huge. It’s not loud. But it’s there—steady and unexpected, curling under his ribs.

“Cool,” he says, voice softer now. “I’ll, uh. Let you know next time I make something new.”

You nod, then shift your weight backward—just enough to start retreating. But not before your eyes flick to his again, briefly, like you want to say something else.

He thinks might.

But all you do is smile—small and real—and take one step back towards your door.

“Goodnight, Han.”

His name on your lips feels like something it shouldn’t. Like a secret.

He nods. “Night.”

And then you turn. Cross the narrow hallway back to your apartment, keys already in hand. you hesitate at the door for half a second—he notices that, because of course he notices that—then slides the key in, disappears inside, and lets the door fall shut behind you with a soft click.

He watches the empty hallway for a beat longer.

He stares at his own door for a moment after he closes it, forehead pressed against the wood like the words you left behind are still floating in the air.

Goodnight, Han.

He hadn’t realized how nice his name could sound until you said it like that.

It echoes in his chest. Warms something that’s been cold for a while.

When he finally moves, it’s slow. He sets the cookies on the kitchen counter, grabs a pen, and flips open the nearest notebook—one he’s barely touched in weeks.

And he writes:

Track idea: starts quiet. Voice sample, maybe hers? Lo-fi beat behind it, soft keys. Let it build. Don’t let it rush. Let it breathe.

He underlines let it breathe three times.

Then he puts his headphones on.

And for the first time in a long time—

The music comes easy.

______________________________________________________________

You never planned on being friends with Han.

The boy next door with the quiet mouth and loud headphones. The recluse who only seemed to exist in studio beats and half-heard melodies through the wall. You knew his name before you knew his face—Han, printed on a mailbox slot too narrow.

Now he nods at you in the hallway. Smiles, even. You’ve learned that they’re rare, his smiles—crooked and shy, like they’re still trying to figure themselves out. You’ve started waiting for them.

Some mornings, you catch him in the elevator, hoodie pulled over messy hair, a takeout coffee in one hand and sleep in his eyes. You say hi. He says hey. He always holds the door for you.

It’s nothing. But it’s not nothing.

And then, one night—it’s something.

It starts with your friend’s voice, high and nervous. “I swear I had your keys. I swear they were just—fuck, okay, check your bag again—”

You’re too drunk to care. Or think. Or stand up straight

Your bag is wide open on the hallway floor, a war zone of receipts, gum wrappers, lip glosses with no caps, and an unopened pack of hot sauce packets you swear you didn’t steal from Taco Bell. Your friend is crouched beside it, frantically digging like she’s searching for buried treasure.

And that’s when the elevator dings.

You don’t even bother turning around. You’re too busy trying to balance one heel on top of a rogue pack of gum like it’s a tightrope.

Your friend, however, freezes. Then straightens sharply, whisper-hissing, “Oh shit—it’s your neighbor.”

You blink. “Which one?”

“The hot one.”

That gets your attention.

You turn—wobble—and there he is: Han. Grocery bag in one hand, hood halfway off, hair a little windblown. His eyes flick from your friend to you, then to the scene at your feet: your life in full chaotic display.

He pauses. Then says, with the softest little blink of disbelief,

“Uh… everything okay?”

You blink right back at him.

Then lean toward your friend—not subtly, not gracefully, and definitely not quietly—and whisper at full volume:

“You’re right, he is hot.”

It echoes.

Down the hall. Into the vents. Probably into the next dimension.

Your friend claps a hand over her mouth.

Han stares at you, frozen mid-step, grocery bag dangling like it no longer belongs to him.

You sway slightly. Flash him a winning, drunken grin. “Hi.”

His ears go pink.

He recovers with a cough and a quiet, “Hey.”

Your friend steps in, trying to salvage the moment. “She, um… lost her keys. And maybe her filter. And maybe also her last three brain cells.”

“I have at least five brain cells,” you argue, eyes still locked on Han like you’ve just spotted the last bottle of tequila on Earth. “Maybe six.”

“Okay,” your friend says sharply, grabbing your arm before you can say anything worse. “She’s drunk. She needs to sleep. You’re right next door. I trust you, I think. Will you—can you—?”

“I’ve got her,” Han says, voice gentle. Too gentle. Like he’s trying not to laugh but also trying not to die of second-hand embaressment.

He steps forward, freeing his hand long enough to steady you when you stumble again. His grip is warm, careful. You immediately lean into it like he’s a weighted blanket.

“Wow,” you murmur. “Strong and polite. A dangerous combo.”

He just smiles—shy and crooked, the way he always does when he doesn’t know where to put his face. “You good to walk?”

“No promises.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘maybe,’” he says, easing your arm over his shoulder.

Your friend sighs, already backing toward the stairs. “If she tries to seduce you, just tell her she cries at Disney movies and once got drunk and tried to fistfight a traffic cone.”

“I won, though,” you shout after her.

Han chuckles.

Your friend throws one last suspicious look over her shoulder, mouthing to Han, text me from her phone if she throws up, before disappearing down the stairwell.

And now it’s just you and Han.

And the heat of your skin pressed to his side.

And the wild, buzzing thought in your brain that you’ve never been this close to him before.

He shifts his weight. Glances down at you.

“You seriously okay?”

You nod. “I feel great.”

“You say that while using me as a crutch.”

“Yeah. But like—a sexy crutch.”

He laughs, head ducking slightly like he’s embarrassed for both of you.

But he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t stop smiling.

Han’s arm stays steady around you as he unlocks his door, grocery bag still dangling awkwardly from one wrist. He guides you inside carefully, flicking on the lights with his elbow and nudging the door shut behind you.

You blink, taking it in through a haze: tiny apartment, warm lighting, a bunch of wires and gear by the desk, no couch in sight.

He catches you swaying and steers you toward a plain padded chair by the wall. “Here, sit for a sec.”

You plop down like a ragdoll.

Han crouches in front of you instantly, gently tugging your heels off one at a time like he’s afraid you’ll tip over trying. “You good?” he murmurs, setting your shoes aside neatly. “Anything feel weird? Dizzy?”

You grin at him. “You’re so worried.”

He flushes instantly. “I just—yeah. I mean. You’re really drunk.”

“Yeah, but like, in a fun way.”

“Still,” he mutters, already handing you a bottle of water from the counter. “Drink this. Slowly.”

You take it. “You’re like a… a boyfriend. But like, a really responsible one. Like—tax-paying, call-my-mom-for-me energy.”

Han snorts and gets up, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, you’re done talking now.”

“I’m not!” you call after him as he sets the grocery bag down. “I’m very interesting!”

He just shakes his head, trying (and failing) to hide his smile.

When you blink again, he’s in front of you, holding out a hand. “C’mon. Bed’s this way.”

You pause. “You only have one bed.”

His ears go pink. “You can take it.”

You squint. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

He shrugs, awkward. “Floor. I’ve got blankets.”

“That’s tragic.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

You pout but don’t argue as he pulls you gently to your feet again. You’re warm, wobbly, still clutching the water bottle like a security blanket, and when he steers you toward the bed, you barely resist at all.

He helps you sit, then hands you a second pillow and adjusts the blanket like he’s not trying to combust over how soft you look there. He’s halfway to standing up again when you tug the edge of the blanket higher and murmur:

“Thanks, Han.”

He’s still standing near the edge of the bed, half in the dark, blinking at you like you’ve just short-circuited every single brain cell in his head.

His voice is a little uneven when he says, “Y-Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You smile at him, all cozy and soft, limbs draped across his sheets like you belong there.

He doesn’t even know where to put his hands.

“I, uh—” He scratches at the back of his neck. “I still have a bit of work to do. Just mixing something. I’ll, um. Be over here.”

You blink up at him. “What kinda work?”

“Music stuff.” His voice cracks a little, and he clears his throat immediately. “I won’t bother you. You can—yeah, you can just pass out. All good.”

“You don’t mind me on your bed?”

Han stares at you for a second too long.

Then jerks his gaze away. “No. I—I mean. No, definitely not. Like, at all.”

He fumbles over to his desk, nearly knocking over a pair of headphones, and drops into the chair like his legs have forgotten how to bend properly.

You snuggle deeper into the mattress, dragging the blanket over your legs with a dramatic sigh. “This is comfy. You have good taste in sheets.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, clicking around on his laptop even though the track’s already loaded. 

You giggle.

He pretends not to notice.

You don’t see it—but his eyes flick to you constantly. Quick little glances when you shift, or sigh, or tuck your face into the pillow like it’s your new favorite thing. He can’t not look.

You yawn, cheek squished into his pillow. “You smell nice.”

He makes a sound that’s somewhere between a cough and a quiet plea for mercy. “You should, uh. Try to sleep.”

“Mhm.”

You don’t move.

Just keep lying there. All sweet and sleepy and tangled up in his blankets, on his bed, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And even though he should be focusing—he really, really should—

Han can’t stop smiling.

He turns back to his screen and presses play, the familiar beat fills his headphones, looping low and steady.

It’s not done—not even close. The layers are uneven, the bass too soft, the melody still fighting to find its place. But it’s something. And tonight, it’s the only thing keeping his hands busy while his mind refuses to stop thinking about you in his bed.

You’re quiet for a while.

He thinks maybe you’ve finally fallen asleep. You haven’t said anything in minutes, and your breathing’s slow, almost even. He lets himself glance over his shoulder.

You’re still awake.

Eyes open. Watching him.

You shift slightly under the blanket, cheek still pressed into his pillow. Your voice is soft, drowsy. “Can I hear it?”

He blinks. “What?”

“The track you’re working on,” you murmur. “Can I listen?”

Han’s heart does a somersault. Or maybe a backflip. Hard to tell through the static in his chest.

He turns fully in his chair. “Now?”

You nod, slow and lazy. “You promised. You said I could listen next time you made something new.”

Right. He had said that.

But not this one.

Not track twelve.

He fidgets with the headphone wire. “It’s not that one.”

You blink at him, confused.

“The one with the lo-fi strings,” he explains, voice quieter now. “Track twelve. I still haven’t finished it.”

“Oh.”

You don’t sound disappointed. Just curious.

He rubs a hand over his face, then offers a crooked little smile. “But you can hear this one. If you want.”

You nod again, eyes fluttering half-shut like the night is finally catching up to you.

He hesitates.

Then gently unplugs the headphones from the jack, letting the soft sound of the track fill the room.

It’s quiet. Dreamy. Bare bones but beautiful—slow, pulsing synth layered under a simple piano loop. There’s a vocal sample buried under the mix, something wordless and airy, like a breath that never ends.

You close your eyes fully this time, listening.

And Han watches you—watches the way your body relaxes into the sound, how your lips part just slightly, like the music is pulling something from you even in sleep.

He turns back to the screen, fingers hovering over the trackpad.

You speak again, barely above a whisper.

“It’s sad,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

“Not in a bad way,” you add quickly. “Just… it sounds like it’s missing something. Like it’s looking for something.”

Han swallows.

Yeah.

That’s exactly what it is.

He stares at the waveform on his screen and says, very softly, “I think it’s trying to say something I don’t know how to say yet.”

You don’t reply. Not right away.

When you do, your voice is already trailing off into sleep. “You don’t have to say it. It’s already in the music.”

And then you're still.

Breathing even. Eyes shut.

Han doesn’t move for a long time.

Just sits in the soft blue glow of his screen, heartbeat slowing down to match yours, wondering how the hell he’s supposed to finish a song when the thing it’s missing is falling asleep five feet away.

______________________________________________________________

It’s been months since that first night.

Since the couchless sleepover, since the drunken key fiasco, since you fell asleep to the sound of his unfinished song.

And in that time, Han has come out of his shell in the slowest, sweetest way possible.

At first, he was shy. Still the hoodie-wearing recluse with his eyes glued to Ableton and his words tucked somewhere behind clenched teeth.

But then he started showing up more. At your door with takeout. With headphones and half-finished demos. With quiet, tentative smiles that stretched wider the more you smiled back.

You got to know him.

He told you about Malaysia—about sticky summers and midnight noodles and the way his parents still call twice a week even though they’re oceans apart. He told you how he moved to Korea for college, studied for a year, and then dropped out when he realized his brain was wired for sound, not textbooks.

You told him about your life, too—your parents and their ever-shifting conditions for love, the apartment they still pay for, the degree you’re grinding out just to prove something. To who, you’re not even sure.

And Han—turns out he’s kind of a chatterbox. Once he’s comfortable, the boy talks. About anything. About everything. With his hands, with his whole face. About samples and synths and the absolute travesty that is powdered parmesan.

Now, it’s like this: casual, constant, inevitable.

You crash at his place sometimes—not because you're locked out, but just because. Sometimes you bring your laptop and do homework on his floor. Sometimes you nap in his bed while he works. You keep a toothbrush there now. A hoodie of his has quietly migrated to your closet.

You even invited him to your graduation this spring. “It’s not like my parents are coming,” you’d shrugged, and Han had just blinked at you, then said okay, like it wasn’t the biggest fucking deal.

He still blushes when you call him hot. Still won’t take the bed when you stay over. Still treats you like you might disappear if he lets himself want too much.

And today, you’re at your place—your couch this time, legs tangled together on either end, killing time the way only two people who are too comfortable with each other can.

Lazy game of truth or dare. No real stakes. Just soft laughter and shared snacks and the kind of questions that teeter between teasing and tender.

Han’s fingers are brushing against your ankle, casual and unthinking. The popcorn bowl is somewhere on the floor, long forgotten. You’re both half-reclined, cozy and loose, a tangle of limbs and friendship that’s been threatening to become something else for weeks now.

You’ve already dared him to do his worst celebrity impression, and he’d made you sing a jingle from one of your old childhood commercials. The kind of dumb, lazy game that only works when you trust someone enough not to twist the blade when things get close.

Now it’s his turn.

“Truth,” you say, yawning, stretching like a cat in the sun. “I’m feeling vulnerable.”

He gives you a look. One brow raised, fingers tapping thoughtfully against his thigh. “Okay. What was your best orgasm?”

You blink.

Then laugh.

He flushes instantly. “Shit—was that too far? I thought we were in the spicy round.”

“No, no,” you say, waving a hand, trying to keep your smile light. “It’s fair.”

But you don’t answer right away.

You sit there for a second, fiddling with the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His question settles somewhere low in your stomach—not uncomfortable, just… exposed. Like a truth you’ve learned to laugh off before anyone can look too closely.

You glance at him, then say it—half-teasing, like a joke you’ve told a few times before.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Han blinks. “You wouldn’t—?”

You shrug. “Never had one. Not a good one. Not any, actually.”

There’s a pause. His brows lift, lips parting slightly, but you beat him to it with a raised hand and a crooked grin.

“I know, I know. Tragic. I’m either defective or cursed. It’s a toss-up.”

He doesn’t laugh.

You thought he might—just to lighten the mood. Maybe roll with the joke, keep it casual.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

But Han’s expression softens instead. Slowly. Like he’s putting something together.

“That’s not funny,” he says, voice quiet. Barely a wrinkle of sound between you.

You blink. “It’s kind of funny.”

“No, it’s not.” He leans in a little, eyes searching yours. “And it’s definitely not true.”

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than you mean to. “Tell that to every guy I’ve slept with.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t flinch. Just says, soft but certain, “They don’t count.”

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You sit back, let out a soft exhale through your nose. Try again, lighter this time. “I mean, at some point, you start to wonder if it’s just you, right? Like maybe I missed a biological memo.”

“You didn’t,” he says, firm now. “You just haven’t been with someone who cared enough to figure you out.”

You snort softly, eyes dropping to his lips before flicking back up. “What, and you do?”

His breath catches, just slightly. But he doesn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” he says. Simple. Sure. “I do.”

You go quiet.

It’s not the answer that surprises you—it’s how steady he is when he says it. Like it’s not even a question in his mind. Like he’s already imagined it, already decided what he’d do if you ever let him.

That steadiness makes your throat go tight.

“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. “Then what would you do?”

Han shifts slightly, eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable. Focused.

“I’d start slow,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a line—it sounds like a plan. “Let you get used to being touched in a way that’s not… performative.”

You blink.

He leans in, just a little. Not close enough to touch. Not yet.

“I’d watch your face,” he continues, softer now, “and actually pay attention. I’d figure out what makes you squirm. What makes your breath catch. What makes you ask for more.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

“I’d talk to you,” he murmurs. “Tell you what I’m doing. Tell you how fucking good you look while I’m doing it. Make sure you know every second that it’s about you.”

Your pulse thrums at your throat, hot and sharp.

You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Because Han is looking at you like he already has you spread out in his mind. Like he’s memorizing every microreaction, storing them away like he might need them later. Like he’s already tasting the sound you’ll make when he finally breaks you open.

Your voice comes out low. Barely there.

“That’s a lot of attention for one orgasm.”

Han’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not quite yet.

“I’m not aiming for one.”

You feel it in your chest—in your spine—the way his voice sinks into you. Low. Purposeful. Like he’s already in your skin, like the words themselves are a touch.

You can’t breathe.

He’s so close now, and still—still—not touching you. He could. He should. Your body is already leaning into the heat of him, legs still curled beneath you, the hem of your sleep shirt brushing high on your thighs. But he doesn’t move.

“Have you… done this before?”

He blinks. “Made someone come?”

You nod, quick, almost shy.

“Yeah.” His mouth lifts at one corner. “Why?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking over his face. “I… thought you were a virgin.”

Han blinks. Then he laughs—a soft, breathy thing that curls low in his throat.

“Wow,” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck, his cheeks already going red. “That’s, uh… new.”

You’re not teasing anymore. Not really. Not with the way your eyes keep flicking over him—his mouth, his hands, the pink creeping up the slope of his neck. Not with how you’re sitting up straighter, how your thighs squeeze just slightly together without meaning to.

He notices.

And it flusters him, of course it does—he’s Han, after all. All nervous energy and soft-spoken charm. But there’s something else underneath it too. Something steady. Something you didn’t see before.

“You really think I’ve spent this much time listening to you fake it through the walls and didn’t fantasize about doing it better?”

Your breath catches. Hard.

His gaze doesn’t drop. Doesn’t falter.

And suddenly, you’re seeing him for what he is—really seeing him.

The slightly older boy next door. The dropout with big hands and bigger dreams. The quiet music producer who hides behind humor but notices everything. The same Han who always opened his door, always gave you the bed, always walked on the street side of the sidewalk—but now you realize he’s been wanting you the whole time.

And you missed it.

You look at him now—and you feel it.

The shift.

Because he’s still Han. Still hoodie-clad and sweet and overly cautious.

But he’s also a man.

And god, it’s hitting you all at once.

The way his eyes haven’t left your mouth. The way he says things like I’m not aiming for one with such quiet, devastating confidence. The way he can be so careful with you and still make your skin burn like he’s already touched you everywhere.

You swallow hard.

“So,” you murmur, voice dipping low, “you’ve done this before.”

His fingers twitch where they rest against his thigh. “Yeah.”

“How many girls?”

He blushes harder at that. Clears his throat. “I mean, not a lot.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m not—” he fumbles, flustered now, voice high-pitched with embarrassment, “—like, I’m not some sex god, okay?”

You giggle. Can’t help it.

He glares, weakly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

You lean in. Let your voice soften. “Like what?”

He shifts under your gaze, eyes flicking down again before returning to yours. “Like you’re surprised.”

“I am,” you whisper.

And you are.

Surprised by the heat in your belly. Surprised by the tension in his jaw, the way he’s not looking away now. Surprised by the fact that the Han you thought you knew—the one who panicked over burnt rice and once apologized to a houseplant—is sitting in front of you, cheeks flushed, voice low, practically thrumming with restraint.

And the restraint is unraveling. You can see it. You can feel it.

His hand is still resting on his thigh. Tense. Useless.

You want it on you.

He must know, must feel the shift in the air, because he breathes out through his nose—shaky, controlled—and finally moves.

Not to kiss you.

Not yet.

Just slides closer, knees brushing yours. Hands braced on either side of your thighs like he’s holding himself back from climbing into your lap. Like if he gets too close, he won’t be able to stop.

His voice is soft when it comes. Careful.

“I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he says, eyes darting between yours. “You. Us.”

Your heart kicks.

“I’m serious,” he adds. “If you want me to stop, I will. Even if I’ve already started. Even if you change your mind in the middle. I need you to know that.”

You just look at him.

At his flushed cheeks, his trembling fingers gripping the couch cushion, the way his eyes won’t stay still—darting to your mouth, your thighs, your eyes again.

You don’t know how to say what’s clawing up your throat. Don’t know how to explain that you’ve never felt like this. Like you could fall apart and not have to put yourself back together alone.

So instead, you reach for him.

You thread your fingers through his, bring his hand to your thigh—bare skin under the edge of your sleep shirt—and press it there, warm and waiting.

His breath stutters.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His breath stutters.

That’s all it takes.

His fingers flex against your thigh—just a twitch, nothing urgent. But the heat of them sinks in deep. You can feel how careful he’s being, how tightly he’s holding the leash on himself, like he doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he moves too fast.

You tilt your hips slightly. Just enough.

He moves.

Slides his hand higher, beneath the hem of your sleep shirt. Knuckles grazing soft skin, the inside of your thigh, and you’re already trembling. The anticipation is thick—so much thicker than anything that’s come before it. Your body’s aching and he hasn’t even touched you where you need it yet.

Han breathes out slowly. You can hear the effort it takes not to rush.

His fingers reach your panties.

They’re soaked. Clinging to you. And he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he feels it—somewhere between a sigh and a groan, like it’s hurting him, how wet you already are.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

“I’m trying not to.”

“You don’t have to,” he says, and leans in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “You can just let me take care of it.”

And you do.

You sink into the cushions and let his hand keep climbing. Let it trail over skin that’s already too hot, too tight, too aware. The hem of your shirt rides up over your hips as he moves, exposing soft skin and damp fabric.

He touches you through your panties first. Just a single stroke—up and down, slow, deliberate.

You jolt.

Your thighs twitch. Your hips tilt into his hand before you even mean to.

His fingers are steady. Gentle. No fumbling, no testing limits just to say he did. He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

He strokes over the soaked cotton with maddening patience, slow enough that your body’s buzzing before he even slides them aside.

When he does, it’s with a breathless little sound—almost like awe.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice low and tight. “You’re so wet already.”

You shiver.

He doesn’t ask permission again. He doesn’t need to. Your legs fall open on instinct, your body already offering itself up like it’s been waiting for this. For him.

He dips his fingers into you with quiet care—just the first two, slow and unhurried, and it’s so much. Not just the stretch, not just the slick slide of it—it’s the way he groans like he can feel how good you feel around him. Like your body is turning him on just by existing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “How has no one made you cum?”

You whimper.

“Seriously,” he says, fingers curling slightly inside you, rubbing against that spot that makes your toes curl. “You’ve got the prettiest fucking pussy I’ve ever seen. Wet and warm and just—fuck, baby.”

Your hips jolt when he says it—baby—and he notices. His mouth quirks.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, watching your face like it’s giving him instructions. “You like that. Being talked to while I fuck you with my fingers?”

You moan—helpless, high-pitched—and your hand shoots down to grab his wrist.

He stills immediately. “Too much?”

You shake your head. Or maybe you nod. You don’t even know anymore—your brain’s barely holding on, your body dragging you under, soaking up everything he gives like it’s the first drop of water in a drought.

He watches your reaction like it’s gospel. Like every twitch and gasp is holy.

“Thought so,” he says, and starts to move again—slow, controlled pumps of his fingers, careful not to lose that rhythm now that he’s found what works. The way your walls clench when he curls. The way your hips chase him when he retreats. The way your breath hitches when his palm drags across your clit just a little too hard.

And god, he uses it all.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes glued to where he’s working you open. “If this pussy was mine, I wouldn’t be able to leave you alone.”

You gasp.

“I’d keep you like this every night,” he says, voice thick now. “Stuffed, dripping, begging for it. Just like this.”

You keen, head falling back against the cushions, thighs straining around his wrist. Another twist of his fingers, another filthy curl, and you’re spiraling again—clenching, grinding, chasing something you’ve never actually caught before.

But it’s still not enough.

Close, so close. You can feel it in your gut, in the burn behind your eyes, in the way your whole body draws tight like a wire about to snap. But then it slips, slithers away like it always does, leaving you aching and wrung out and panting like you’ve been running in circles.

Han doesn’t stop.

He slows, sure. Eases off that pressure like he knows—like he felt the way you were peaking and watched it fall apart all over again.

Your breath stutters. Your hands tremble where they’re gripping the couch cushions. Your whole body shakes with the frustration of it.

Han looks fucking thrilled.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes glued to the slick mess between your legs. “You’re gonna be a fucking problem, huh?

You whimper—shaky, half-desperate—and try to pull your legs closed, but his free hand slides up your thigh and keeps them open. He’s still panting, still hard in his sweats, and yet somehow entirely focused on you.

Your voice comes out broken. “I can’t—fuck, Han, I was so close—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, leaning over you. His fingers finally slip free, soaked and shining, and he brings them to his mouth like it’s nothing. Like tasting you is just a thing he does between breaths. “You’re so fucking pretty can’t believe no one’s ever made you come.”

He sucks one finger between his lips, humming low in his throat, and your entire body jerks.

He grins around his knuckle. Blushy. Sweet. Still Han, somehow—except his eyes are dark now, slow-burning, locked onto you with intent.

And when he speaks, it’s not teasing. It’s reverent.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he murmurs, dragging his hand down your thigh again. “Didn’t think you’d ruin me this fast, though.”

You squirm, still reeling from the touch of his fingers, still aching from how close you came—how it slipped just out of reach. Your panties are somewhere around your knees now, tangled and damp, and your thighs are trembling despite the warmth of the room.

But Han doesn’t give you time to settle.

He drops back down between your legs like it’s instinct.

Like he belongs there.

You brace for it—his mouth, his tongue—but nothing prepares you for how intentional it is.

Because when he licks you, it’s not just lust. It’s devotion.

The first press of his tongue is slow, hot, drawn out like he’s tasting something forbidden. It drags through your folds, slick and maddening, before he pulls back just slightly and exhales a shaky breath against your cunt like it’s worship.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re so fucking sweet. So wet—dripping for me, baby.”

Your hips jerk. A soft moan tears from your throat, helpless and startled.

He hums at the sound. And then his tongue is on you again—lapping, curling, sliding in lazy circles around your clit, not rushed, not rough. Patient.

But it’s overwhelming.

Too much and somehow still not enough.

You gasp, spine arching. Your thighs twitch against his shoulders again and he presses his hands there—holding you open, keeping you still. His grip is firm, grounding. Gentle only in contrast to the way he eats you.

He groans low when your hips roll, when your slick coats his lips and chin. Like it turns him on more than anything else. Like this is the part he needs.

He devours you like he’s starved for it.

Like he’s been thinking about this—you—for longer than he’s willing to admit. Tongue slow but deliberate, savoring every stroke, every gasp you give him. He doesn’t speak now, doesn’t need to. The sounds alone—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the way your breath stutters every time he flattens his tongue against your clit—say enough.

But it’s your reactions that do it. The way your body jumps every time he moves just right. The way your hands scramble for the couch cushions, for him, like you don’t know what else to hold onto. The way your thighs clamp around his head when he groans into your cunt.

That’s when he realizes.

You’ve never been eaten out before.

It hits him all at once—in the way you shiver, in the way your body doesn’t quite know how to take the pleasure he’s giving. There’s something raw about it. Uncharted. Holy.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tease. Just lets the knowledge settle deep in his chest like a vow.

So he slows down. Not to drag it out—to care. To guide you through it.

He pulls back just slightly, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another one, lower, softer. You can feel his breath against your skin, shaky and uneven, like you are unraveling him just by letting him do this.

He kisses down, worshipful, open-mouthed presses of tongue and lips trailing toward where you’re slick and trembling—until he’s back on you, groaning deep in his chest like he needs this to survive.

He laps at your cunt like a man obsessed. Messy, wet, obscene.

His tongue flicks fast over your clit, sloppy and relentless, and when you whimper—high and panicked—his hands tighten on your thighs, dragging them wider, pushing you open like he can’t get enough. His nose presses into the soft swell of you and his mouth won’t stop.

And god—god, the noises.

The slick suck of his mouth, the soft wet licks between your folds, the broken, wanton moans he keeps letting out like your taste is fucking euphoric.

Your thighs are trembling against his cheeks, toes curling against the cushions, hands fisting in the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this plane of existence. Every time you start to come down, he drags you right back up—tongue flicking, then flattening, then sucking.

You’re soaking him. You know it. Can feel the slick mess coating his lips, his chin, now—but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even flinch. Just dives in deeper, grinds his mouth against you like it’s the only thing that matters.

And maybe it is.

You’ve never made sounds like this before. Never felt anything like this. It’s a full-body unraveling—pleasure so raw and high-pitched it’s almost unbearable. You can’t even find words anymore. You try—gasp out his name, maybe a plea, maybe a warning—but it’s just breath. Just noise.

He hears it anyway.

Groans in response, and the vibration shoots through you—tightens every nerve, every muscle. You feel it everywhere. In your spine, in your belly, in your fucking teeth.

He licks through your folds like he’s trying to commit the shape of you to memory, tongue dragging over your clit in slow, hard laps now—intentional, devastating. One hand lets go of your thigh to slide underneath you, to lift your hips, tilt you toward his mouth like an offering.

Like you’re his altar and he’s ready to worship.

You don’t even realize you're crying until the tears hit your cheeks—silent and sudden, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it, the depth of it, the relentlessness of him.

Jisung doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does and just thinks it’s holy.

Because he’s still moaning against your cunt like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Like this is salvation. Like this is his first time, too.

The warmth is unbearable. Sharp and sweet and all-consuming, climbing up your spine in thick, molten waves that won’t stop—won’t let you go. Your muscles are locking up, your breath catching in your throat, your fingers cramping from how tight you're clenching the cushions.

You’re going to break.

You know it.

You want to.

And he just keeps going—tongue pressed flat and firm against your clit now, dragging in slow, filthy circles while his lips suck softly, reverently, like he’s trying to love you apart piece by piece.

You feel it snap somewhere deep inside you.

The heat—the ache—the need—it peaks.

And then it bursts..

Your thighs clamp around his head, your hips jerk off the couch, your moan rips loose from your throat like you’ve been silenced your whole life and this is the only language your body ever needed to speak.

You’re cumming. Hard. Helpless.

Everything pulses—your cunt, your chest, your fingers. Every nerve is alight, every inch of you clenched and shaking, your whole body seized in the grip of something so big you can’t name it.

And Jisung doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitch.

Not when your body tries to squirm away.

Not even when you sob his name, high and wrecked, too sensitive to breathe.

He eats it up. Literally.

Groaning low in his throat, nose pressed to your mound, tongue still working your clit like he wants to wring another orgasm out of you before this one’s even ended. You try to stop him, legs trembling, fingers pushing at his hair with barely any strength behind them.

But he just moans again, long and loud and ruined, the vibration shooting straight through your core.

“H-Han—” you gasp, voice cracked and teary.

But he can’t stop. He won’t.

You’ve broken open for him—shattered for him—and it’s like something inside him snapped too. His mouth keeps moving, lapping through your folds like he’s addicted, like he needs the taste of you to live, sucking every drop from your body like he’s trying to memorize it.

You try again to push him off. This time with real effort. A desperate shove, your fingers fisting in his hair and yanking—not hard, not mean, but urgent.

“Han, please—”

He finally pulls back.

Gasps.

His chest is heaving. His mouth is slick and swollen, the lower half of his face soaked in your release, and he blinks up at you like he forgot where he is.

“Shit—fuck, I’m sorry, I—” he pants, voice wrecked, dazed.

Then he looks down.

And groans.

Because you’re still dripping.

Slick pooling out of you, slow and obscene, catching the light as it runs in glistening streaks down the curve of your pussy and the swell of your ass, soaking the couch beneath you.

And he can’t help himself.

His hands slide up your thighs again—possessive, reverent—and before you can stop him, he leans back in.

One long, filthy lick—from your entrance to your clit—slurping up everything you spilled. He moans as it hits his tongue, deep and satisfied, and swirls it around like he’s tasting honey.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you.

Face flushed, lips swollen and slick, chin glossy with your release. His eyes are glassy—fucked-out and starving and soft in a way that shouldn’t match the filth of what he just did to you. But somehow it does.

Somehow, it makes it worse.

He’s panting like he just ran miles. Sweat dampens his curls, his hoodie clings to his chest, and his cock is still straining hard against his sweats—visibly aching. But he doesn’t even look at himself. Doesn’t even care.

He’s still looking at you.

At the mess he made.

At your cunt—pink and soaked and fluttering with aftershocks, spread open on the couch like he carved you out just for him.

And he fucking smiles.

“Jesus,” he breathes, dragging his thumb along your inner thigh, slow and lazy, eyes still locked on the slick between your legs. “You’re unreal.”

You’re still trembling—wrung out, flushed, completely silent now except for the shattered sound of your breath.

But he isn’t done.

Not really.

Because then his thumb moves—trails closer, closer, until it’s swiping through the slick seam of you, collecting it, spreading it.

You flinch, hips twitching, breath hitching on a wrecked little gasp.

He freezes.

“Sorry—shit, sorry,” he murmurs, voice gone soft in the edges. “You’re probably so fucking sensitive right now.”

You nod, dazed. Barely. You’re not even sure you meant to.

But his eyes drop back down—and the sight of your cunt twitching under his touch, the way slick is still dripping out of you, slow and shiny, pooling where your thighs meet—

It short-circuits whatever restraint he had left.

“Can I…” he starts, already leaning in again, lips parted, breath ragged. “Just—one more taste, baby. Please.”

And before you can answer, he’s there again.

Licking into you.

Tongue flat and greedy, slow and deep, sliding through the wreckage he left behind like he needs it to breathe. He moans—loud—when it coats his tongue, when it drips down his chin, when he presses another kiss to your clit like he’s thanking it for everything.

You can’t stop shaking.

From how tender he’s being while still devouring you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. From how overwhelmed your body feels—stretched between too much and not enough, oversensitive but still wanting.

He doesn’t rush now. Doesn’t try to make you cum again.

This is different.

It’s reverent. Like he’s cleaning you up with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every slick drop, pressing soft kisses into the mess like he’s trying to soothe the tremble in your thighs.

You whimper, just once—raw and hoarse.

That’s when he stops for real.

You sigh into his mouth, quiet and trembling, the kind of sound that only comes when everything inside you is raw—peeled back, exposed, open. He swallows it like it’s precious. Like it matters.

His hand at your waist shifts, pulling you gently forward until your chest brushes his. You’re still bare from the waist down—thighs sticky, breath uneven—and he’s still clothed, still hard, still aching beneath his sweats.

But he doesn’t grind against you.

Doesn’t ask for anything.

He just holds you.

Your knees fall around his hips, lazy and loose, and his thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw—slow, absent, like he needs the contact to stay calm.

The kiss deepens. Not with hunger. With heat. With reverence. His lips move against yours like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, your breath, the taste of your tongue mixed with your own arousal.

You break first—pulling back just a fraction to breathe, eyes fluttering open.

He’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Something stunned. Struck. Soft.

He whispers, “You okay?”

You nod. Maybe too fast. You feel stripped down to something small and shaking, something new—but his hand doesn’t leave you. His thumb still brushes your cheek. His chest still rises and falls like he’s feeling everything with you.

You whisper back, “I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

Jisung exhales a laugh—wrecked and wrecking.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning forward again to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your temple. “Then I guess we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

You don’t even realize you’re smiling until he kisses it. Presses his lips right there, at the corner of your mouth, so gentle it makes your eyes sting all over again.

There’s a beat of silence—thick and golden, warm between the ruined rhythm of your breathing.

Then he asks, quieter this time, “Can I hold you for a while?”

And god. You’ve never wanted anything more.

______________________________________________________________

The crowd pours out of the auditorium like a tide—caps slightly askew, diplomas clutched tight, families gathered in little clusters of congratulations and cameras. Laughter. Shouts. The click of heels and the flutter of gowns. You scan the crowd, heart racing, eyes darting.

And then you see him.

Leaning awkwardly against a tree, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of grocery store flowers and dressed in the nicest outfit you’ve ever seen him wear. Still a hoodie—because he’s him—but it’s black and clean and zipped halfway up over a plain white tee. His hair’s been pushed back, curls tamed, face soft in the sunlight.

Like he wanted to look good.

For you.

You run.

Full sprint, no hesitation. Laughing, radiant, the hem of your gown flying behind you. And Jisung barely has time to react before you crash into his arms—legs wrapping around his waist, face buried in his neck.

He catches you without thinking. Arms locked tight around your back, holding you like the whole world could fall away and he’d still have you.

“Jesus—hi,” he breathes, stunned, grinning into your shoulder. 

“You came,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy and sunlit.

“Of course I came,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

You swallow, smile trembling just a little. You’re still holding your cap too tightly. Still searching the crowd behind him, over his shoulder, behind trees and between cars—hoping.

And Jisung sees it.

Sees the flicker in your expression when you realize no one else is coming. No familiar voices calling your name. No parents weaving through the crowd, late and disheveled but here. Nothing.

Just him.

You try to play it off—force a smile, tilt your head.

But Jisung just exhales, jaw tight, eyes warm and sharp.

“Hey,” he says softly, tipping your chin up. “Fuck ‘em.”

Your breath hitches—more from the way he says it than what he says. No apology. No pity. Just truth, blunt and biting and yours.

“Fuck ‘em,” he says again, firmer this time. “They don’t get to take this from you.”

And something in you cracks. Not the kind that breaks—the kind that lets light in.

Your cap slips from your hand to the pavement. You don’t even notice. You just lean forward and let your forehead rest against his, eyes fluttering shut as the noise of the world fades away.

“I thought it wouldn’t matter,” you whisper. “That I didn’t care.”

He nods like he already knew. Lets his hand fall to the small of your back, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of your gown.

“But it does,” you admit.

“Of course it does,” he murmurs. “You deserved more than this.”

You pull in a shaky breath. Exhale. Nod against him.

And then you laugh—quiet, almost startled. “God, you look nice.”

He pulls back just enough to give you a crooked smile. “You noticed?”

You sniffle, wiping under your eyes. “You did your hair.”

“I used product and everything,” he says solemnly, and that makes you laugh for real this time. His face lights up at the sound. Then, like he remembers something, his eyes go wide and he fumbles for something in his pocket.

“Wait—here. Got you something.”

You raise a brow as he pulls out a pair of slightly beat-up white AirPods and holds them out like they’re wrapped in silk.

“Your... earwax?” you tease, voice still thick, but lighter now.

Jisung groans, face going red. “Just put them in, smartass.”

You give him a look, lips twitching like you’re holding back another laugh, but you take them. Slip them in with practiced ease, still smirking, still sniffling a little.

And then—

You hear it.

Soft at first. A low, warm hum of synth. That familiar piano progression you’ve heard a hundred times echoing from his bedroom speakers, half-finished and always evolving. A quiet heartbeat of static underneath, the sound of something personal, unfinished—

But not this time.

Now it’s whole.

The bass comes in slow. The melody rises. The rhythm finds its footing like it’s been waiting for you.

Then his voice.

His voice.

Low. Raw. Stripped back and unfiltered, like he recorded it in the middle of the night, barefaced and half asleep. It’s not polished. It’s intimate. Each lyric laid out like a confession, like he’s pressing it directly into your chest.

You freeze.

Your mouth parts, but no words come out. You just stare at him—eyes wide, breath caught, the world suddenly nothing but him and the song in your ears.

Jisung watches you closely, fidgeting, clearly trying to read your face.

“I, uh… I finally finished it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Track 12. I—kind of stayed up all night working on it. Wanted you to be the first to hear it.”

You swallow hard. “You—wrote this… for me?”

He nods, sheepish. “Well, yeah. Who the fuck else would it be for?”

You blink at him, still stunned, still half-floating somewhere between the melody and his smile.

The music wraps around you like a secret, like sunlight through a window. His voice in your ears. His eyes on your face. His hands fidgeting at his sides, picking at the edge of his hoodie sleeve, suddenly nervous like he didn’t just lay his heart bare in a three-minute track.

And then he says it.

Quiet. Almost like it slips out.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your breath stutters.

He panics a little, eyes going wide, hands gesturing now like he’s trying to physically catch the words and shove them back into his mouth.

“I mean—not in like, a weird, ‘I wrote you a song and now you have to marry me’ way. I just—I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I didn’t know how to say it. And then I kept not saying it, and then you let me eat you out on your couch and I was like, oh cool, guess I’m definitely in love with her—”

You stare at him.

Mouth slightly open. Ears still ringing with his voice from the track. Face flushed from the heat of him and the way he’s unraveling in front of you, hands flailing, words tumbling out too fast, too honest, too him.

“And now I’m saying it,” he rushes on, breath hitching. “And maybe it’s too soon or maybe it’s stupid but—fuck, I don’t care. I love you. And I don’t just mean in the afterglow, post-head, 'wow-she’s-so-pretty-when-she’s-cumming' kind of way—which, like, you are—but I mean in the real way. In the way where I think about you all the time and you’re in my music and my coffee and my fucking laundry detergent because you smell like it now—”

You cut him off with a laugh—soft and stunned, the kind that comes from something blooming too fast in your chest. Your hands reach for him instinctively, palms pressed to his chest like you’re trying to slow his heart down, or maybe match yours to it.

Then lean up and kiss him.

He melts into it—hands landing on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float off if he doesn’t hold you down. His mouth is soft, a little shaky, like he still can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s kissing you with both hands behind his back, offering up his heart like a truce.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his.

You’re smiling. He is too, in that breathless, stunned way—like you’ve both finally exhaled.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whisper.

He chokes out a sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “No shit?”

You nod. “No shit.”

Jisung blinks, then grins—slow and wide and boyish.

He just stands there, still holding you, like his body hasn’t caught up with what just happened.

Like he's trying to memorize this moment—your smile, your closeness, the soft heat of your hands resting over his heart.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else. Closes it again.

Then settles for a quiet, breathless, “...Okay.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Okay?”

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Just… okay. Everything’s okay now.”

You lean into his chest, let your head fall to his shoulder. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms wrap around your waist again, this time more certain. More steady.

And for a moment, neither of you says anything.

The crowd is still bustling in the background. Cameras flashing. Tassels swinging. Parents calling names that don’t belong to you. The sound of it used to sting—but not now. Not with him holding you like this. Not with the song still echoing in your ears, a private chorus written just for you.

You glance up. “So what now?”

He looks down at you, still smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“We go home,” he says. “Order too much food. Fall asleep on the couch. Pretend we’re not both crying during The Office reruns.”

You snort. “That’s your big plan?”

He leans in, nudges your nose with his. “No,” he murmurs, softer now. “My big plan is to love you for a really, really long time.”

Your heart stutters.

And it’s so simple—so quiet, so uncomplicated—but it wraps around you like warmth, settles deep in your bones like something you forgot you were allowed to want.

You tip forward and kiss him again, just once. Just enough.

“Sounds like a good plan,” you whisper.

He grins. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Eventually, your fingers find his, threading together as the crowd begins to thin. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze, grounding and sure.

You glance down at the flowers, still clutched in your other hand—slightly crushed, petals soft and folding in from the heat. But they’re yours. Someone showed up. Someone stayed.

You’re walking away with his hand in yours, the sun dipping low behind you, the final track still playing softly in your head.

It ends the way all good songs do.

Quiet.

Certain.

Yours.

[cressidagrey]

Not an accident

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Oscar gets asked about his daughter in an interview. It does not go well. 

Warnings and Notes: Chris Piastri bashing (The poor guy hasn't done anything in real life (As far as I am aware at least) but I needed a bad guy and he fit the bill. Sorry. Mention of Bee's very traumatic birth.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar Piastri sat in the chair with the usual polite calmness etched into his features, the lights warm against his skin, the mic clipped neatly to his collar. He’d hundreds of interviews by now—race recaps, performance breakdowns, media days—but this was one of the first few times he’d walked in knowing the questions wouldn’t stop at racing.

Not after the reveal.

Not after the world found out about Bee.

He braced himself without moving, only the faint twitch of his fingers against his knee betraying any tension.

The interviewer was the usual type: bright smile, confident voice, a clipboard full of questions that made Oscar’s stomach twist the moment he saw the label “life off-track.”

And then it started.

“Oscar,” the interviewer began smoothly, “you became a father at just nineteen years old, and that’s a massive responsibility. How difficult has it been to balance being a father at such a young age with the demands of Formula 1?”

Oscar exhaled slowly. Once. Deliberate. He lifted his gaze, eyes flat and unreadable.

“I don’t balance them,” he said.

The interviewer blinked, startled. “You don’t?”

Oscar’s voice was steady. “No. Because that question assumes my family is something I need to compromise on to succeed. And they aren’t.”

A pause stretched between them like a held breath.

Oscar blinked, fingers tapping the armrest now. His jaw ticked, just barely.

“I’ve been racing since I was a kid. My entire life has revolved around this sport. And then my daughter was born, and suddenly, I had something even more important. That didn’t take anything away from my racing—it gave me more to race for.”

The interviewer tilted his head slightly. “You don’t think it held you back?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “No.”

“But wouldn’t it have been easier if you had waited? Focused on your career first, then thought about settling down later?”

His jaw tightened. The polite edge in his expression vanished, replaced by something sharper.

“You seem very concerned about how I live my life.”

The interviewer faltered for the first time. “It’s just—most young drivers aren’t in your situation. They’re traveling freely, making the most of their careers without the extra weight—”

Oscar’s entire body went still.

“Extra weight?” he repeated, voice low.

“I just mean—”

Oscar’s tone sliced through the room like a scalpel. “No, I heard exactly what you meant.”

His eyes locked onto the man, cold and dark.

“I don’t consider my wife and daughter ‘extra weight.’ They’re the best thing that ever happened to me. My career isn’t something that exists separate from them—it’s because of them. Everything I do, I do for them. If you think loving my family is a burden, that says a lot more about you than it does about me.”

The interviewer cleared his throat, tried to pivot. “Well, balancing Formula 1 and a family is a lot for anyone, let alone someone so young. Some people might say it’s—”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “Some people might say what?”

“That it’s a distraction. That it could have—held you back.” The interviewer paused, then added almost casually, “You became a father at just nineteen, which isn’t exactly… typical. I mean—surely that wasn’t planned?”

Oscar’s silence was lethal.

“What did you just say?” he asked quietly.

“I just meant—”

Oscar leaned forward slightly, calm but unmistakably furious. “No, I want to hear you say it again.”

The interviewer hesitated now. The air in the room was thick, tense, electric.

Oscar’s voice dipped even lower. “You’re asking me if my daughter was an accident. Live. On television. …Are you serious right now?”

Silence.

The interviewer shifted, suddenly nervous. But it was too late.

Oscar leaned in, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Did you seriously just imply that my daughter was a mistake?”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you—”

“No, say it. Be a man about it. Say exactly what you meant.”

“I—I just meant if it was difficult—”

“Difficult?” Oscar let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You sit there and ask me if my daughter was a complication, like she’s some kind of setback? Like she’s something I have to work around?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“That’s exactly what you meant. And let me tell you something, since you clearly don’t get it.”

He leaned forward again, voice calm, words lethal.

“First of all, whether my daughter was planned or not is absolutely none of your business. But since you’re so interested in my personal life—no, Beatrice wasn’t an accident. She was very much wanted. She was very much planned.”

His tone was steel. Precision. Fury cloaked in professionalism.

“You sit there, smiling, asking if my daughter was an inconvenience, if she ‘complicated’ my career. Like she’s a hurdle I had to overcome. Like she’s some kind of burden.”

His jaw clenched. The camera caught the twitch in his cheek.

“Let me make something perfectly clear. My daughter is not—has never been and will never be—a burden. She and her mother are the best thing that has ever happened to me. Bee is the one thing in my life that is bigger than racing. And if you think for a second that I regret having her, then you have absolutely no idea who I am.”

Silence.

“You wouldn’t ask Max that about his girlfriend. You wouldn’t ask Lewis if his family was a ‘challenge’ to his career. But you think it’s okay to sit here and imply that my daughter was a mistake? You’re acting like my wife and daughter are a burden. Like I should regret them. Like I’d be better off without them.”

Oscar’s voice dropped, deadly calm. “You don’t get to talk about my family like that. You don’t get to act like my biggest joy is some kind of inconvenience. Like the love of my life and the little girl who calls me Papa are things I should have avoided.”

The studio was silent.

“You think I wasn’t ready for this. That because I was nineteen, I couldn’t have possibly wanted this life. Like I didn’t make a choice. Like my wife and I didn’t sit down and decide that we wanted a family. That we wanted her.”

The interviewer’s voice was paper-thin. “I was just asking—”

“No, you weren’t just asking,” Oscar snapped. “You were making a point. A pathetic, lazy point. So let me make one of my own—”

He leaned in, every word clipped and crystalline. “I have never, not once, questioned whether being a dad would hold me back. Do you know why?”

A beat.

“Because loving my wife and daughter doesn’t make me less of a driver. It makes me better.”

Oscar’s tone turned to steel. Absolute and final.

“So let me spell it out for you, since you seem to have a hard time understanding. My daughter was not an accident. My daughter is not a challenge. My daughter is not an obstacle. She is my world. Fliss and Bee are the best things that have ever happened to me.”

The pause that followed was blistering.

Oscar’s eyes cut through the silence.

“And if you ever—ever—talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.”

The interviewer was ghost-white, gripping his notes like a lifeline.

Oscar didn’t look at him again.

He leaned back. Let the silence linger.

And then, coolly:

“Next question.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1insidergirl: oscar piastri just verbally assassinated a journalist on live tv for implying his daughter was an "inconvenience" and honestly? good.

@/lanblessed: you can see the moment oscar goes from calm to australian dad rage. interviewer said "extra weight" and oscar said "time to die"

@/verstappenvevo: if i was felicity i would’ve made that entire interview my ringtone

@/gridchaosofficial: lando watching that interview like: 😳🥹😨💘🐝📊🧁

@/f1girlboss: oscar piastri just verbally suplexed that interviewer with the calm fury of a man who’s been waiting YEARS to be asked that exact question. father of the year. husband of the decade. driver of my heart.

@/beewatch24: the way he went from calm to “say it again. be a man about it.” like sir this is formula one not game of thrones

@/trackmoments: Oscar being asked if having a family held him back and him answering “it made me better” has me curled up in a ball. you don’t understand.

@/michelinmealwife: interviewer: “surely it wasn’t planned?” oscar, full deadpan fury: “what did you just say?” me: cancels everything for the rest of the day to watch this meltdown on loop

@/mclarencult:  he really said “if you ever talk about them like that again, this will be the last time I answer any of your questions.” THAT’S a man. THAT’S a husband. THAT’S a father.

@/undercutcentral: You could hear the exact moment the interviewer realized he f**ked up. Piastri went from “media trained” to “do not test me.”

@/felicitynation: Everyone talking about Oscar defending Bee but don’t forget he said “Fliss and Bee are the best thing that’s ever happened to me” LIKE OKAY I’M CRYING

@/haasapoint: Oscar Piastri just did more for paternal representation in motorsport than 50 years of PR combined.

@/beatriceupdates: The way he didn’t raise his voice once. Just iced that man out with pure devotion and fury. He’s not called Ice Spice Piastri for nothing.

@/nobodysgirlfriend:  you can literally see the moment oscar’s expression shifts from neutral to I will end you 10/10 dad rage. I respect it.

@/felicitysbreadloaf: imagine being a journalist and walking into an interview thinking you can imply a child is a “setback” and walking out with your dignity in ashes. couldn’t be me.

@/racingbeeupdates:  🚨 Oscar Piastri just eviscerated a journalist live on air for implying his daughter was a “mistake.” I have never seen someone go from calm to lethal that fast.

@/beeandflissupdates:  Not to be dramatic but if anyone ever implies Bee was a burden again I hope Oscar drives a McLaren directly over their kneecaps.

@/gridtea: the way oscar kept his voice even the entire time?? no yelling. no swearing. just pure, icy rage and surgical verbal destruction. I would have cried on set.

@/formulalads: oh my god did oscar piastri just evaporate that interviewer on live TV???????

@/lan_doughnut: Lando’s probably backstage with popcorn like “YES KING DESTROY HIM”

@/engineeredforlove:  Him: I don’t balance them. Interviewer: 😬 Him: Because my family is not something to compromise on. Me: dead

@/wheelfeels:  This is your reminder that Oscar Piastri became a dad at 19, chose that life, and then defended it like a seasoned lawyer in a murder trial. 💅

@/notyouagainf1:  sorry but what was that interviewer ON. “Surely she wasn’t planned?” WHO SAYS THAT OUT LOUD. ON CAMERA. TO A FATHER??

@/beeandfliss: The question wasn’t even subtle like… “do you regret your child?” is INSANE journalism. Did they think Oscar was just gonna smile and nod???

@/theundercutpod: Imagine sitting across from Oscar Piastri and thinking “yo, let me imply his daughter is a mistake and see what happens.”

@/f1reactions: Oscar’s response was a MASTERCLASS in composure and fury. The interviewer should be ashamed. You don’t talk about people’s families like that. Ever.

@/tiresmokeandtea:  The way the interviewer spiraled from “how’s parenting?” to “your kid was an accident right?” in 45 seconds like it was casual small talk. WILD.

@/f1legalbriefs: PR should’ve cut the mic the moment “extra weight” left his mouth. Unprofessional. Dehumanizing. And Oscar had every right to shut it all the way down.

@/griddreams:  i’m sorry but who LET that interviewer cook?? like did they genuinely think asking “was your daughter a mistake” on live tv was gonna go well???

@/f1familychronicles: literally who approved those questions. “did you plan your child?” “isn’t your wife a burden?” what the actual hell

@/paddockwivesanon:  Let’s be clear: that wasn’t journalism. That was misogynistic, condescending BS dressed up as an “honest question.”

@/oversteerandtears: listen I’ve seen dumb F1 media questions but “was your daughter an accident?” is straight-up career suicide. like. sir. be serious.

***

Lando had seen Oscar angry before.

Not often—Oscar wasn’t the slamming-doors or yelling-in-the-garage type. His anger was usually cold, controlled. The kind that showed up in clipped sentences and narrowed eyes and a post-race debrief that ended early because he’d already told them three times what was wrong with the setup.

But this?

This wasn’t that.

Lando stood just off-set, arms folded, watching as Oscar stalked out of the interview area like a man who had just walked away from a wreckage—calm on the outside, but with wreckage in his wake. His jaw was tight. His shoulders rigid. And his hands? Shaking. Barely. But shaking.

And that scared the hell out of Lando more than anything.

Because Oscar didn’t shake.

He didn’t snap.

He didn’t break.

The interviewer, pale as a sheet, hadn’t moved from his seat. PR was scrambling. The camera crew had stopped pretending to work. Lando just stood there, stunned, as Oscar walked past him like he didn’t even see him.

“Mate,” Lando said, reaching out instinctively, “what the hell happened?”

Oscar didn’t stop walking. Just muttered, “They called Bee a mistake.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

“They asked if she was an accident.” He said it like the words still tasted like ash. “If she held me back.”

And then he was gone—shoulders taut, eyes fixed ahead like he was afraid if he stopped moving, the fury would swallow him whole.

Lando didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

Because that? That wasn’t race-day frustration or missed-lap anger.

That was something else.

That was Oscar Piastri, quiet and even-tempered and scarily precise, brought to the edge of rage.

And Lando—who’d spent years next to him in briefings and press junkets and those awful team-building days—had never seen anything like it.

He swallowed hard.

Oscar had always been calm, cool, calculating.

But now Lando understood something he hadn’t before:

You don’t mess with the people Oscar loves.

Because if you do?

He will burn you down with perfect diction and a smile so sharp it cuts.

And you won’t even realize you’re bleeding until it’s far, far too late.

***

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Oscar hated that.

He had spent years mastering stillness. Learned early that silence could speak volumes, that restraint was sometimes more powerful than reaction. He could wait out storms. He could hold pressure in his bones and still keep his voice steady. He could drive through chaos at 300 kph and come out the other side calm.

But not this.

Not that question.

Not the way the interviewer said it, so casual, like Bee was an unexpected speed bump in a promising career. Like Felicity was a mistake he hadn’t learned from yet.

His hand trembled as he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen blurred for a second. Then cleared.

Fliss 💛

He hit call.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Hi, love,” she answered, breath warm, voice soft and familiar, like home. Like the low light of the farmhouse kitchen at night, the way she always said "you're back" when he stepped through the door, like she hadn’t expected him to leave a piece of himself behind on every flight.

He sat down hard on a bench just outside the studio. Pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“You okay?” she asked instantly, picking up on something in the silence.

He hadn’t said a word yet.

“I’m fine,” he said, and the lie sounded wrong even to him.

A pause. Then: “Oscar.” Her voice was quieter now. Serious. “What happened?”

He swallowed. Let the words sit there like stones.

“They asked if Bee was an accident.”

Silence.

“They asked if I regretted having her,” he said, voice low. “If she ruined my career. If she was a distraction. If—if we hadn’t meant to have her.”

Her inhale was sharp and audible through the line. “What?”

“I shut it down.” His voice cracked despite him. “Hard. Probably too hard.”

“No such thing.” She sounded furious now—quietly, lethally furious, like the way she only got very rarely and that promised vengeance. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

Another pause.

Then, gently, “Where are you?”

“Back hallway. Between media and the McLaren room.”

“I’m going to kill someone.”

He smiled. Brief. Shaky. “You don’t have to. I did enough damage for both of us.”

“Don’t care. You okay?”

He looked down at his hand, still clenched around his phone like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“I just—” He swallowed again. “They don’t know. What it was like.”

He didn’t have to explain. She knew.

The hospital walls. 

The sound of monitors screaming as they wheeled Felicity into emergency surgery. 

Oscar standing there, useless, blood on his hands and no idea if his wife or daughter would survive the next ten minutes. 

Signing papers he didn’t understood, that felt like a death warrant, but where the only, the only way to even have a chance to safe them. 

Bee in the NICU, with more wires attached to her than she had limbs, a newborn baby girl with a scar all the way down her chest where surgeons had cut her open to save her life. 

Felicity unconscious, her skin grey and cold, as they pumped her body full with medication and sedatives and antibiotics and anything else they could think off. 

3 days until he could hold his daughter for the first time. 6 days until his wife opened her eyes again. 

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Oscar whispered.

Her voice cracked. “I know.”

“They don’t get to talk about you like that. Or Bee.” His voice sharpened again. “Like I wasn’t the luckiest person alive the moment I got both of you back.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I almost lost everything before I ever really got it,” he murmured. “And now people want to act like I should be… what? Regretful? Like I should have waited? Like if I could go back, I wouldn’t choose this?”

A sound came through the phone—her breath catching.

“Fliss,” he said, his voice breaking for real now, “I’d still choose you. I’d still choose her. Every single time. Even knowing how terrifying it was. I’d still choose it.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I would too.”

He could hear Bee’s babbling in the background, talking to Button about her cereal like the world wasn’t on fire.

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, eyes burning.

“Can you—can you put me on speaker?” he asked softly.

There was a rustle, a beep, and then—

“Papa?”

Bee’s voice. Bright. Clear. Safe.

“Hi, Bumblebee.”

“Button said he wants ice cream but I said no, because it’s not a food group.”

Oscar laughed through the tears he hadn’t realized were there. “You’re absolutely right.”

“I saved you some cereal,” she added seriously. “But I ate most of it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay, Bumblebee. I love you. I’ll be home soon,” he said.

“We’ll be here.”

He sat there for a while longer after Felicity hung up, phone still warm in his hand, eyes closed.

The anger was still there. But quieter now.

He could breathe again.

***

Andrea Stella had sat through hundreds of driver debriefs in his career.

He’d worked with World Champions. Managed egos the size of paddocks. Navigated every kind of media disaster F1 could throw at a team. He liked to think he was hard to rattle.

But this?

This had rattled everyone.

The media room was still humming with tension when they got back to the motorhome. Sophie from PR was already mid-crisis mode—headphones in, phone glued to her palm, tapping out what Andrea suspected was a fire extinguisher disguised as a media statement.

Lando slumped into the nearest chair, wide-eyed and weirdly quiet. That alone set off Andrea’s internal alarms.

Zak Brown stood with his arms crossed, watching Oscar, who had yet to sit down.

Oscar Piastri, who was usually measured to the point of maddening, stood like a man who had just walked out of a courtroom, not a media call. Shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes unreadable.

Andrea cleared his throat.

No one spoke.

Right. So that was how this would go.

“I take it we’ve all seen the footage,” he said finally, quiet but firm.

Sophie didn’t look up from her phone. “It’s already trending. Hashtag Oscar Piastri is the number one global tag on X. Half the comments are calling it iconic. The other half are debating whether or not it was professional.”

Lando raised a hand. “Just to be clear, I’m in the ‘iconic’ camp.”

Zak gave him a look.

Oscar didn’t move.

Andrea turned to him carefully. “Oscar. Do you want to tell us what happened?”

Oscar’s fingers curled once around the edge of the table. “They asked if my daughter was a mistake.”

Silence.

Andrea inhaled slowly. He hadn’t seen the full interview—just the snippet Sophie had shown them before hauling everyone in. But he’d heard the tone. The steady, controlled fury. The kind that didn't explode—but flayed.

“And your response was…” Andrea paused. “Passionate.”

Oscar looked up at that, eyes dark and guarded. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“I would,” Andrea said without missing a beat. “I’m not here to reprimand you.”

That seemed to surprise everyone, including Oscar. Even Sophie glanced up.

“I’m here to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“By muzzling him?” Lando asked suddenly, sitting forward. “Because if that’s the plan, I’m out.”

“We’re not muzzling anyone,” Andrea said calmly. “We’re protecting our drivers. That question should never have made it through the vetting process. Sophie?”

Sophie sighed. “It was an independent syndicate. We only got the final questions ten minutes before.”

“That’s ten minutes too late,” Andrea said. “We’ll be stricter. From now on, no interviews with unvetted press. I don’t care if it’s the New York Times or Top Gear or someone’s bloody podcast.”

Zak nodded once in agreement. “Fine by me.”

Oscar finally sank into a chair. He looked tired now, the adrenaline clearly ebbing, replaced by something heavier.

Andrea leaned forward, voice softer. “Oscar, no one here is angry with you.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. ““I was asked, live on television, if having a family ‘held me back.’ If I should’ve waited. If my daughter—my three-year-old daughter—was a complication. And then he asked if she was planned.”

Zak let out a long breath through his nose. “Yeah. I saw it. We all did.”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, the picture of exhaustion. “What exactly do you want me to do? Apologize?”

“No,” Andrea said immediately. “You were right.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Oscar,” Andrea continued, measured, “I have worked in this sport a long time. I’ve seen what it does to young drivers. To people who start young, who grow up here, who become machines to survive. You didn’t lose your temper. You didn’t lash out. You defended your family.”

Oscar blinked. Slowly.

“But—” Sophie began.

Andrea raised a hand. “That interviewer was out of line. Deeply. Recklessly. He made assumptions about your wife, your daughter, your entire life. If anything, I’m proud you didn’t throw the chair at him.”

Zak gave a soft snort. “Yeah. If it were me, there would’ve been a chair.”

Oscar didn’t laugh. Not exactly. But some of the iron in his shoulders unspooled. “So what happens now?”

“We control the narrative,” Sophie said, slipping into PR triage mode. “You’re not apologizing. We’re framing this as a boundary. You were disrespected, you responded with clarity and composure. You’re a father, and a husband. And people are going to understand that.”

“We’ll have to smooth things with a few sponsors,” Zak added. “But honestly? Most of them like when a driver shows some spine. Especially over something that personal.”

Lando finally stirred. “You know people are already calling it ‘The Piastri Clapback of the Year,’ right? I mean. I thought you were going to ice that guy through the floor.”

Oscar looked away. “I wasn’t angry for me.”

Andrea’s voice softened. “We know.”

“I was angry because… she’s going to grow up in this world. And if people talk about her like that now, when she’s not even old enough to go to primary school—what the hell are they going to say when she’s fifteen? Or twenty?”

That landed hard.

The room fell quiet again.

Andrea looked at the young man across from him—this precise, quiet driver who never caused a fuss, who internalized stress like it was a competition, who everyone said was unshakable.

And thought, No wonder this cracked him open.

“You did the right thing,” Andrea said, final and firm.

“You’re a father first. A driver second.”

Oscar exhaled, just once. But this time, it sounded like relief.

And Andrea—keeper of calm in the chaos—made a silent promise to himself.

If anyone ever went after Oscar’s family again?

He would not be nearly so diplomatic.

***

GRID GROUP CHAT

Lando: I WOULD LIKE TO FORMALLY STATE FOR THE RECORD THAT I HAVE NEVER BEEN MORE TERRIFIED OF OSCAR PIASTRI THAN I AM RIGHT NOW

Charles: He didn’t raise his voice once I felt physically ill Like I had disappointed a headmaster I respected

Pierre: I have never been so terrified And I wasn’t even in the room

George: The way he said “next question” like he had just buried a body and wiped his hands on his fireproofs 😭

Pierre: He surgically dismantled that man with calm vocabulary and fatherly wrath. 10/10. Would follow into battle.

Lewis: He protected his family. Good. Also: that interviewer needs a vacation. And perhaps a priest.

Carlos: I paused the video halfway through and had to take a walk.

Yuki: He made no threats. But I felt threatened.

Lando: I was IN THE BUILDING HE WALKED PAST ME I SAID "ARE YOU OKAY" AND HE SAID "THEY CALLED BEE A COMPLICATION" AND KEPT WALKING I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO BREATHE SINCE

Max: if someone said that about penelope i would have flipped a table oscar’s version was scarier respect

Lance: Was that interviewer okay after?

Esteban: Define “okay”

Daniel: They showed the full clip on Sky. I was eating a sandwich and almost choked. Man said “extra weight” and Oscar’s soul left his body before returning as a precision airstrike.

Valtteri: He smiled. That was the worst part. He smiled and ruined that man.

Charles: i’m genuinely scared for Bee’s kindergarten teacher if she ever gets a bad report card

Oscar: I can read this, by the way.

Lando: and we love that for you

also: remind me to never, ever, ever imply that your wife or daughter are anything short of divine blessings thanks

George: No seriously, that was… devastatingly composed. Are you alright?

Oscar: Fine now. Fliss and Bee are okay. That’s all that matters.

****

Group Chat: Piastri Fam ❤️

Nicole: I just saw the clip. Oscar. That man is lucky you kept your cool.

Hattie: I would’ve punched him. On live TV. Straight up.

Mae: You were so calm. But brutal. I’m proud.

Edie: You okay, Osc? That was intense.

Oscar: I’m fine. He crossed a line. I responded.

Chris: Okay, hang on. Before we all get defensive, maybe the interviewer didn’t mean it badly. He just said what a lot of people probably think. Oscar, you were 19. It was early. No one expected—

Oscar: Don’t.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: Don’t. Don’t ever say that again.

Chris: Look, I understand you were upset. But the interviewer wasn’t totally out of line. He was just saying what a lot of people are thinking.

Nicole: Chris.

Chris: What? We’ve talked about this before. Bee wasn’t exactly planned. You two were what, 19? The guy just said what’s on a lot of people’s minds.

Oscar: Stop.

Chris: I’m just saying—

Oscar: No. You’re not just saying. You’re repeating something I’ve told you a hundred times not to say. Bee was not an accident. She was wanted. Chosen. Loved before she even existed. Fliss and I made that decision. Together.

Nicole: Chris. Stop.

Oscar: You think I haven’t heard this before? That I don’t know what people say behind my back? That I threw away my career, that I was too young, that it was an accident, a mistake? You think I don’t know?

Oscar: But to hear it from you— To hear you STILL think that after everything—after what Fliss went through, after what Bee went through— Do you have any idea what that feels like?

Chris: It’s not about judgment. I’m just trying to be realistic—

Oscar: You want realistic? Realistic is Felicity and I making a decision and standing by it. Realistic is Fliss fighting for her life after giving birth. Realistic is Bee in surgery at 20 minutes old while I sat in a hospital chair praying she’d live long enough to roll over one day. Realistic is us building a life from scratch. So don’t come in here, years later, and tell me what you think we should’ve done instead.

Nicole: Oscar, honey, take a breath—

Oscar: No, Mum. I’m not doing this again. Not with him. Not anymore.

Hattie: …Okay, Dad. Maybe read the room for once?

Mae: He named her after Mum, and you’re still acting like she wasn’t supposed to exist.

Edie: You know who wasn’t ready? You. You’re the only one who still can’t accept this family looks different than what you expected.

Chris: I just wanted the best for you—

Oscar: And yet you never once trusted I knew what that was. I’m done justifying my life to you. If you can’t respect my family—my wife, my daughter—then don’t expect to be part of it. I won’t let Bee grow up thinking love has conditions. Not from anyone.

****

Felicity’s phone buzzed as she wiped Bee’s fingers clean of strawberry jam.

It was nearing dusk, the light outside golden and syrup-thick, catching the curve of the farmhouse windows. Bee had insisted on a picnic dinner in the lounge—mostly crackers and fruit and a lopsided sandwich she had "made herself." 

She glanced at the screen: Nicole Piastri (Mum-in-law) – Calling…

Felicity blinked. Nicole rarely called unprompted. Especially not during dinner hours.

She picked up, already half-bracing. “Nicole?”

There was a pause, just a breath too long. Then— “Hi, love. Is this a bad time?”

Felicity sat back on the floor, one arm absently wrapping around Bee, who had settled in her lap. “We’re mid-picnic, but you’re fine. What’s going on?”

Nicole’s sigh was soft, but it wasn’t casual.

“I just… wanted to let you know something. Before Oscar does.”

Felicity went still. “Okay?”

“There was a… situation. In the family group chat.”

Felicity didn’t speak, but something in her chest curled. She could guess.

Nicole went on. “Your father-in-law…” Her voice wobbled, just slightly. “Chris said some things he shouldn’t have.”

Felicity closed her eyes. “About Bee.”

“Yes.”

“I figured.”

Nicole exhaled. “He still thinks she was an accident. That you and Oscar should’ve waited. That it would’ve been ‘easier’ if she’d come later.”

Felicity was quiet for a long time. Bee squirmed slightly, and she ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls, keeping her grounded.

“Did Oscar say anything?”

There was a pause. Then— “He snapped. Properly. Not like yelling, not unkind. Just… done. He told Chris he didn’t get to rewrite history to make himself feel more comfortable. That Bee was chosen. Wanted. He told him if anyone calls her an accident again, they don’t get to be around her.”

Felicity swallowed around the knot in her throat. “Good.”

Nicole’s voice dropped, soft and apologetic. “I didn’t know he was still holding onto that.”

“Chris never said anything to me,” Felicity murmured. “But I always wondered why he was a little… distant, when we told him. Not upset, just—off.”

Nicole’s silence said enough.

Then—gently—  “I wanted to call because I don’t want you thinking we all feel like that. I don’t. And neither do the girls. Bee is ours. Entirely. You are, too.”

Felicity’s eyes stung.

“I know,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Felicity’s throat tightened. “We really did plan her, you know. We talked about it for months.”

Nicole cleared her throat. “I know. And… just for the record? That little girl has brought more light into our lives than I knew we needed. And the way Oscar talks about you, about her—I don’t think he’s ever had a single doubt.”

“I know he hasn’t.”

“I just wish his father could see it that clearly.”

Felicity looked down at Bee, who had fallen asleep in her lap, one sticky hand clutching a cracker.

“He doesn’t have to,” she said softly. “He’s not the one raising her. We are.”

Nicole paused. Then— “I’m so glad you’re part of this family, Felicity.”

Felicity smiled, even if her heart was still aching. “I’m glad too.”

They ended the call quietly.

Felicity sat on the floor for a while longer, rocking slightly, Bee warm against her chest. Then she whispered into the crown of her daughter’s hair:

“You were never a mistake. You were the beginning.”

***

Felicity had tried.

 Really, she had.

She’d been patient. She’d bitten her tongue in every family dinner conversation where Chris made offhand comments about “young love” and “life coming at you fast” like Bee had crash-landed into their lives instead of being wanted, planned for, and loved before she ever existed.

But after Nicole’s call, after hearing what was said in that group chat—

She was done.

She sat down at her vanity table, opened the shared folder titled “Project Lemonade: TTC 2019” on her laptop, and pulled up everything she needed.

Screenshot of her fertility tracking app, calendar view, June–November 2019 marked in obsessive detail.

The appointment confirmations from June 2019, two weeks after their wedding.

The notes from her OB consultation.

Even a screenshot of a text thread from that July, where Oscar had written, “Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

And her reply, “Okay. But I’m charting this.”

She copied all of it—PDFs, screenshots, date-stamped calendar entries—and dropped it into a zip folder titled: BEE WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT.

Then, she opened her messages with Chris.

And typed:

Felicity: Since it seems like there’s still some confusion, here’s the full documentation of when and how Oscar and I decided to try for Bee.

 June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

You’ll find medical records, cycle tracking logs, and a conversation from the week we decided we were ready.

Bee was not a surprise. Bee was planned. Loved. Hoped for. Wished into existence with intention and care and spreadsheets and so many vitamins I smelled like a pharmacy.

 And I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

Attached: [Bee_Was_Not_An_Accident.zip]

***

She hit send. 

Across the room, Bee was asleep in the big bed, curled up with Button and a blanket Felicity had crocheted when she was still pregnant—months after that first calendar entry.

Planned.

Wanted.

Cherished.

Felicity exhaled and turned her phone screen off.

There.

Now it was in writing.

She never wanted to have this conversation again.

***

Chris hadn’t meant for it to spiral.

He really hadn’t.

He sat in his home office, the late afternoon sun slanting across the papers he hadn’t touched, the coffee beside him going cold. His phone was on the desk, buzzing once, then going still.

New message: Felicity.

He glanced at it absently—expecting a polite clarification, maybe a tense thank you for his input, though he hadn’t quite expected gratitude. Not after the group chat. Not after what Oscar had said.

He hadn’t meant to start a war.

But the moment he opened the message, he knew he’d lost.

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was… clinical. Final. Devastating.

His eyes skimmed the words once.

Then again.

And again.

The words stung in their simplicity, in how clearly they were laid out, how organized and timestamped and unshakeably real they were.

June 2019. After our wedding. With intent and love and actual spreadsheets.

Spreadsheets.

He swallowed.

He opened the zip file without thinking. It was all there. Meticulously kept. Organized by month and theme. Felicity had highlighted her ovulation charts. The OB consult letter was dated two weeks after their wedding. The texts with Oscar were warm and real, giddy in that quiet, unmistakably them way. A young couple building something with both hands, even if the world around them didn’t understand.

His son’s message:

“Let’s make a tiny human who looks like you. I’m serious.”

Her reply:

“Okay. But I’m charting this.”

Chris sat back in his chair. Staring.

He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. Not really. He thought they were too young. Too quick. He had told himself he was being reasonable. Concerned. Offering perspective.

But what he’d done—over and over—was chip away at something sacred.

He had called love a mistake.

He had taken his son’s joy and dressed it in skepticism. He had looked at his granddaughter—the brilliant, bright-eyed little girl who called him Grandad with strawberry jam on her chin—and failed to see the miracle of her.

He had, with every casual word, implied she shouldn’t have existed.

And Felicity had stayed silent.

She had never once snapped at him. Never yelled. Never stormed out of a room or thrown it back in his face. She had smiled politely through dinners. Let him hold Bee. Answered his small talk. Shared updates when asked.

And now—now, finally—she had said what he hadn’t been willing to hear.

I am done pretending your “jokes” or “concerns” are harmless.

He stared at the line.

Then closed the file.

And sat in silence.

There were no words he could send back that would fix this. No response clever enough to untangle the damage.

He thought of Oscar in that interview—so composed, so furious, his voice like ice.

He thought of Felicity holding it in for years.

He thought of Bee.

He had always loved her, in his way. But maybe not the right way. Not in the way that said I believe in how you came to be. I believe your life is a gift, not an accident.

And now?

Now he wasn’t sure if they’d ever let him close enough to prove he’d learned.

Chris looked at the blinking cursor in the message box. His fingers hovered, stilled, then pulled away.

For once in his life, he didn’t hit reply.

Because some things—finally, painfully—had been said exactly as they needed to be.

And it wasn’t his turn to speak anymore.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Chris Piastri

Chris: I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. What I said in the group chat. I want to apologize. Properly. You were right to call me out.

Chris: I let my own assumptions get in the way. I didn’t listen. I didn’t respect the decisions you and Felicity made. I see that now.

Chris: You didn’t need judgment. You needed support. And you deserved that from me—from the beginning.

Chris: I’m sorry, Oscar. For what I said. For what I didn’t say. For making you feel like Bee wasn’t a gift.

Oscar: … Where is this coming from?

Chris: I’ve been thinking. And reflecting. And I received some things today that made it very, very clear I’ve been wrong.

Oscar: What things?

Chris: Felicity sent me a file. With everything. The charts, the messages. The appointment letters. It was… undeniable.

Oscar: She sent you what?

Chris: She wanted to make sure I understood. That there was no room left for doubt. And there isn’t. Not anymore.

Oscar: She shouldn’t have had to do that.

Chris: I know. But I’m glad she did.

Oscar: You think a file is what makes Felicity credible? That her tracking spreadsheets make her believable? Is that really what it takes for you?

Chris: No. I just… I didn’t understand how much care went into it. How much planning. I didn’t want to believe it was real because I was afraid for you. I let that fear turn into something else. And it came out wrong. Again and again.

Oscar: She didn’t tell me she sent you anything. You realize that, right?

Chris: She probably didn’t want to put you in the middle again. Or maybe she just didn’t want to make a big deal of it.

Oscar: It is a big deal.

Oscar: Felicity had to defend our daughter’s existence with spreadsheets. You do understand how insane that is, right?

Chris: I do.

Oscar: I’m not angry that you got the file. I’m angry that it had to happen at all. That she had to pull medical records just to get basic respect.

Chris: I’m sorry. Truly.

Oscar: You want to show you’re sorry? Stop acting like we owe you an explanation for the life we built.

Chris: I’ll do better.

Oscar: Don’t say it for me. Say it for Bee. Because she’s going to grow up smart enough to know when someone’s love comes with strings. And I won’t let her think that’s what family looks like.

Chris: Understood.

***

The front door creaked open just after midnight.

Oscar stepped into the farmhouse with his bag slung over one shoulder, his hoodie damp from the misting rain that had rolled in while he was driving. He closed the door gently behind him and breathed in the familiar quiet.

The house smelled like lemon balm and vanilla and something else—cinnamon? Maybe Bee had talked Felicity into baking again. That thought alone made his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.

He toed off his shoes by the door, left his bag where it fell, and padded softly through the hall.

The lounge light was still on. Dim. Warm.

Felicity sat curled up in the armchair in one of his old hoodies, a cup of tea balanced on her knees, one leg tucked under her. Her hair was twisted up, messily clipped back like she hadn’t really planned on staying up—but she always tried to wait for him after a race. Even now. Even still.

Oscar stopped in the doorway.

She looked up, met his eyes, and smiled quietly. “Hi.”

He didn’t smile back—not yet.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Bee did,” she murmured. “I just… couldn’t quite. Not until you were home.”

Oscar stepped into the room, his eyes scanning her face.

Then, without preamble: “Why didn’t you tell me you sent him the folder?”

Felicity stilled, the tea cooling in her lap.

Oscar sat down across from her, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight like he was holding something fragile.

“I found out from him,” he added softly. “And I—God, Fliss, I had no idea. You had that ready? All this time?”

Felicity didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled and set the tea down on the side table.

“I wasn’t hiding it from you,” she said at last. “I just… didn’t want to burden you with it.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed. “You think defending our daughter’s existence is a burden?”

“No,” she said gently. “I think you already carry enough. I’ve seen what those comments do to you, Oscar. I didn’t want to add to the weight.”

“You didn’t add anything,” he said, sharper now. “He did.”

Felicity dropped her gaze. “He said it again, didn’t he?”

Oscar nodded slowly. “And you knew he would.”

“That’s why I sent the file.”

There was a beat of silence. Only the soft tick of the old kitchen clock and the distant wind brushing the farmhouse walls.

“Do you remember Novmber 2019?” she asked quietly.

His brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“We got that positive test.” She smiled, small and private. “And we both cried. Do you remember that?”

“I remember shaking,” Oscar whispered. “Because I couldn’t believe it. Because I was so happy I felt sick.”

Felicity looked up, eyes shining now. “That’s what I wanted him to understand. That this wasn’t a mistake. That we wanted her. Planned for her. Loved her before she was even real.”

“You shouldn’t have had to prove that.”

“I know. But I needed to say it. On my terms.”

Oscar stood up, crossed the room, and knelt beside her chair.

He reached for her hands, cradling them between his.

“You know what scared me?” he said softly. “Not that you sent him the folder. That you felt like you had to do it alone. That you didn’t tell me because somewhere deep down, you thought maybe it wasn’t my fight too.”

Felicity blinked fast. “It wasn’t about keeping you out. It was about protecting you. That interview—what they said about Bee—you were already carrying so much.”

He leaned in and kissed her knuckles, each word slow and steady: “You don’t have to protect me from defending our family.”

She exhaled, trembling a little, then pulled him into her arms. Oscar sank into her, arms wrapping tight around her waist, head tucked beneath her chin. She held him there, rubbing gentle circles into his back.

“You were brilliant in that interview,” she whispered. “Brutal. Beautiful. Like always.”

He huffed a small, tired laugh. “I didn’t know my voice could sound like that until I said it.”

“You meant every word.”

“I did.”

She kissed his hair. “So did I. In the folder. Every timestamp. Every note. Every line.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“She’ll never doubt it,” he said softly.

“No,” Felicity murmured. “She never will.”

[kaisentine]

5 things itoshi sae will do.

he will make you cry.

intentional or not, this man has the magical ability to turn the faucets behind your eyes. the once warm salty tears running down your cheeks become cold the moment they make contact with that one spot below your eyes.

he will force you to attend his games.

you’re immediately obligated to attend his matches as soon as you two make it official. he’s not embarrassed about you watching his matches like at all because he’s quite confident in his abilities. you technically get dragged into the stadium by the team’s guards who escort you to your seat.

he will let you see him walk around with his fuckass bangs down without any hairspray.

he’s quite shameless when he’s alone—except he isn’t, he’s in the room with you . . . but you don’t count as someone to be wary about. so when he first came to you with his bangs down, you almost squealed. it’s somewhat of a reward when you see it. he still looks like he came straight out of the photos his mom sent you from when he was younger.

he will tolerate your touches.

nope, he is not known for his affection. even with you, he doesn’t initiate it. not like it would kill him to do so, he’s just . . . clueless—you could say. but when you wrap your arms around him, hover your hands over his body, entangle your fingers with his hair, touch his face, kiss him—he’ll accept them.

he will leave you on seen.

yup. either one : he doesn’t know how to respond so he just looks stares at your text like a clueless child—debating whether he should send a stupid millennial gifs or not respond at all. or two : he’ll respond you when he meets you. “i’ll buy you dinner.” “what?” “that text. you asked what you should get for dinner.” “sae, that was 4 days ago.”

5 more things itoshi sae won’t do.

he won’t let you cry in front of him.

he’ll turn you away or he’ll walk away. look, he’s trying to give you some space but honestly, it isn’t helping. it’s not that he doesn’t want to comfort you—he just doesn’t know how to handle his own feelings, let alone yours. so he’ll leave you alone. however, when your tears dry up, he’ll come back to you and pray to God that you don’t hate him.

he won’t lie to you.

even white lies. it just isn’t part of his vocabulary. but it does come in handy—for example, when you see an article about some stupid ship between him and another celebrity, he shuts it down and you know he’s telling you the truth. then there’s the down side . . . “do you think this shade suits me?” “no. you should find another one.” he finds there is just no use in coating lies.

he won’t put you above soccer.

it sounds harsh but he doesn’t expect you to expect him to give up his livelihood for a relationship and neither should you give up yours for him. he’ll love you to the end and back—soccer isn’t on his love spectrum, more like his obsessive spectrum. so yeah, he’ll love you more than soccer but he doesn’t put you above the sport.

he won’t hide you.

it’s actually futile to get him to listen to his PR team. no, he is not ashamed going to an event with you in hand. no, he is not ashamed with keeping one highlight of you on his inactive instagram account. no, he is not going to entertain other set-ups. no, he won’t give a fuck.

but he won’t ever hate you.

don’t even try because it won’t happen.

sticky note. ARLENE IS BACK??? this week has been crazy as fuck like hello? i need a whole separate post to talk about it but you guys BETTER promise me you WILL read it.

[requiemforthepoets]

the story we won’t tell is my greatest fantasy ⟢ LN4

PAIRINGS: lando norris x female!reader

SUMMARY: seven years. you and lando had been together for seven years, but it all went down the drain the moment he decided to come clean about the mistake that he did.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, breakup, cheating, cheater lando, pregnancy, secret child, mentions of nausea and vomiting, fainting, angst, open ending, math is not mathing (but i tried), some inaccuracies, named side characters (except for the reader), single!mom reader, and minor typographical errors

WORD COUNT: 7.2k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this fic is inspired by niki’s song ‘apartment we won’t share,’ ik that we have diff interpretations for the songs, but i interpret it as the way how i wrote this fic. i’m not planning on doing a second part of this, and just leave it an open ending. but if someday i get inspired, i’ll try and make a part 2 for this, though for now, there will be no part 2 for this fic. i will be leaving the ending all up to you. you comments/reblogs is highly appreciated, and i hope that you’ll enjoy this one.

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It had been a long and exhausting week. The lingering ache from your family emergency still tugged at your heart, so to keep off your mind from things, you had spent most of the day sorting through Lando’s things, folding clothes and making sure his suitcase was ready for his flight to another race weekend. It was the kind of task you had done so many times in the last seven years, but this time, it felt heavier, like there was something wrong that you couldn’t quite place.

When Lando returned to Monaco a few days later, you expected him to be his usual vibrant self, but something was off with him. Lando’s eyes seemed heavier, his posture slouched, and smile lacked the spark that you were used to.

“Hey, can we talk for a second?” he asked, voice unusually subdued.

You set down the shirt you had been folding, brows furrowing. “Sure, of course,” you replied, taking a seat on the couch. “What’s on your mind?”

Lando hesitated, hands fidgeting with the edge of his hoodie. He sat across from you, knees bouncing slightly as he stared at the floor. “You know I love you, right? More than anything.”

A faint smile crossed your lips. “I know, Lan, and you made sure to let me know everyday for seven years.”

He looked up briefly, gaze fleeting before dropping back to the floor. “I need to tell you something, I wanted to be completely honest with you…and it’s probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Lando’s tone, demeanor—it was all wrong, and you were getting really nervous by now. “What is it?” you asked, voice quiet, wary.

Lando took a deep breath, his hands now gripping his knees as if to ground himself. “When I was out for a night with the guys a month ago…I messed up.”

Your stomach churned. You didn’t want to interrupt him, waiting for Lando to continue, though every fiber of your being wanted to scream at him, to demand some answers.

“There was…someone at the club that night,” he said, words slow and measured, like he was forcing them out of him. “It was stupid, an honest mistake. I was so drunk, caught up in everything, and I wasn’t thinking.”

You felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. “W-What are you saying?” you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Lando finally looked at you, eyes glistening. “I accidentally slept with her. It was a one-time thing, I swear, then she called me last week—I don’t even know how she got my number, but she told me that she’s pregnant.

Pregnant.

The words hit you like a freight train. You stared at him, mind completely blank, unable to process what he had just said. Tears began to blur your vision, but you didn’t wipe them away.

“Lando…” you tried to speak up, but your voice cracked.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he said, voice shaking. “I didn’t know what to do. All I could think about was how much I’ve hurt you. But I can’t let my kid grow up without a family. I know how much family means to you, to me. I have to be there for them.”

Your heart shattered into pieces. You could see how much Lando was struggling, the guilt etched into every line of his face. But the pain of his betrayal was unbearable.

“I don’t…I don’t have anything to say anymore, honestly,” you said finally, voice trembling. “Because you had already made your decision—you’re choosing them.”

Lando shook his head vehemently. “No! No, I’m not choosing anyone over you. You’re the love of my life. That hasn’t changed and never will.”

“Lando, you can’t have both,” you said, tears streaming down your face. “I can’t stay here knowing all of these. I can’t be a part of this.”

He reached out as if to touch you, but you recoiled. You couldn’t bear his touch right now. “Please love,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I love you. I don’t ever want to lose you.”

“You already have,” you said softly, standing up and wiping your tears. “I won’t hold you back, Lando. You need to do what’s right for your child. They deserve a family, and I will not be the reason why they don’t have one.”

You walked to your shared bedroom, your movements mechanical as you began packing your things. Every item you placed in your suitcase felt like a dagger to your chest. This apartment had been your home, your safe haven, and now it was just a place you needed to escape from. Lando just stood in the doorway, watching you pack all of your things, his face pale and tear-streaked. He didn’t try to stop you—he knew that he couldn’t.

When you zipped up your suitcase and grabbed your bag, you turned to him one last time. “Take care of both of them,” you said, voice barely audible. “Be the father they need.

With that, you walked out of the apartment, out of the life you and Lando had built together. You had loved him for seven years, trusted him with every piece of your heart. But now, all you had was the emptiness of what could have been.

The crisp night air bit at your skin as you stood by the entrance of the apartment building, clutching the handle of your suitcase. Your ride to the airport was just a few minutes away, but the wait felt eternal. You stared blankly at the sidewalk, mind is a chaotic mess, the weight of everything that had happened tonight pressing heavily on your chest.

You heard familiar voices approaching before you saw them, their cheerful tones instantly recognizable. Quickly, you wiped at your cheeks, hoping your red-rimmed eyes wouldn’t give you away. Plastering on a smile, you turned towards Max and Kelly as they walked towards the entrance, hand in hand, their expressions bright despite the late hour.

“Hey! What are you doing out here so late?” Kelly asked, brows knitting in concern as she noticed the two large suitcases beside you.

You hesitated, forcing your smile to stay in place. “I, uh, have a family emergency,” you lied smoothly, voice steady even though your heart was pounding. “I need to head back home for a bit.”

Max tilted his head slightly, sharp blue eyes scanning you with the protective gaze you had come to know so well over the years. “Two large suitcases for just a quick trip? That seems a bit much,” he remarked lightly, though his tone carried a hint of suspicion.

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “It’s just…really complicated right now. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, so I packed extra, just in case.”

Kelly’s hand tightened on Max’s arm as she stepped closer to you, her concern evident. “Is Lando not home right now? Why didn’t you tell us earlier? We could’ve helped you pack, we can drive you to the airport.”

You shook your head quickly. “Lan’s already sleeping and I hate to wake him up, he just recently got back from his trip. I also didn’t want to bother you, I’ve already called a car, and it should be here any minute.”

They exchanged a look, clearly unconvinced but respectful enough not to press you further. “Well, we’re not leaving you out here alone,” Max said firmly. “We’ll wait with you until your ride gets here.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the determined set of his jaw told you it would all be just pointless. Instead, you nodded, grateful for their presence even as it made it harder to hold yourself together.

Kelly gave you a warm smile, trying to ease the tension. “It’s late, but P was asking about you earlier,” she said softly. “She’s been begging to have another day with her favorite Auntie.”

Your heart clenched at the mention of Penelope, and you forced your smile to widen. “I’ll miss her so much,” you said, voice thick despite your best efforts. “Tell her I’ll see her soon.”

Kelly’s brow furrowed slightly at your words, but before she could say anything, your ride had pulled up to the curb. Relief and dread washed over you in equal measure. Max then stepped forward immediately, grabbing your suitcases with ease.

“I’ll load these up for you,” he said, tone gruff but kind.

“Thank you,” you murmured, watching as he placed your suitcases in the trunk of the car.

When Max turned back, Kelly pulled you into a tight hug, her familiar perfume bringing a rush of bittersweet comfort. “Take care of yourself, okay?” she whispered. “Whatever’s going on, we’re here for you.”

You nodded against her shoulder, your throat too tight to respond. When she pulled away, Max had stepped forward, wrapping you in a hug that was strong and protective, just like he always was.

“Be back soon, okay? P will be missing her favorite Aunt.” he said, chuckling. “If you need anything, you call me or Kelly. No excuses.”

“I will,” you promised, though you knew that you wouldn’t.

As you stepped back, Kelly offered you a gentle smile. “When you get back, P will be so excited to see you again. You know how much she loves spending time with you.”

The lump in your throat grew, and you could only nod in response. You managed a faint smile as you climbed into the car, giving them one final wave.

“Safe travels,” Kelly called out as Max closed the door for you.

You watched them through the window, standing together on the curb, their figures illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlights. They waved as the car pulled away, but you couldn’t bring yourself to wave back again. Instead, you turned your gaze forward, the city lights blurring through the tears that silently slid down your cheeks.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

When you finally arrived back home, the weight of the long hour of flight clung to you like a heavy fog. You dragged your suitcases through the familiar front door, exhaustion etched into every inch of your body. The warm, welcoming scent of your childhood home did little to comfort you, instead, it only amplified the ache in your chest. All you wanted was to collapse into your bed and wake up to a world where none of this had ever happened—a world where your heart wasn’t shattered into pieces. But this was your reality, as cruel as it was.

You definitely hadn’t anticipated seeing your older sister, Noelle, and her husband, Mike, in the living room, seated across from your mother, their laughter filling the space. The sound abruptly stopped when they noticed you standing in the doorway, your pale face and tired eyes a huge giveaway of the turmoil you tried so desperately to hide.

“What are you doing here?” Noelle asked, rising from her seatc brows knitting together in concern. “You didn’t tell us that you were coming home.”

Noelle’s brows knit together as she took in your disheveled appearance, her sharp eyes catching every detail—dark circles under your eyes, stiffness in your movements, and the forced smile you mustered.

“Yeah,” you replied quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I, uh, needed to come home for a bit.”

Your mother rose from her seat as well, concern etched into her features. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she asked softly, gaze darting between you and the suitcases you had left by the door.

You hesitated, throat tightening. You had been dreading this moment, knowing full well how much your family adored Lando so much. They had welcomed him with open arms from the start, treating him as one of their own. Now, you were about to break their hearts almost as much as he had broken yours.

“It’s nothing,” you said, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I just needed a change of scenery, that’s all.”

Noelle stood, arms crossed as she gave you a pointed look. “Don’t give me that kind of excuse. You don’t just show up unannounced looking like this for no reason. What really happened?”

You swallowed hard, avoiding Noelle’s gaze. “Lando and I broke up,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The whole room fell silent, the weight of your words sinking in. Your mother’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. “Oh, my darling sweetheart,” she breathed.

Noelle, however, was not so subdued. “What?” she exclaimed, voice rising. “What do you mean you broke up? What happened? Did he do something stupid?”

“No!” you said quickly, shaking your head. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” she pressed, tone sharp.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay composed. “We just…fell out of love. The both of us,” you said, hating the words even as you said then. “We’ve been together for so long, and I guess we just realized that we weren’t the same people years ago anymore. It didn’t make sense to keep on pretending, we’ll just end up hurting ourselves in the long run.”

Noelle’s eyes narrowed, clearly unconvinced. “That doesn’t sound like Lando at all. The man adores you so much, even worships the ground you walk on.”

“He did,” you said softly, chest tightening. “And I adored him too. But people change, feelings change.”

Your mother stepped closer, her hands reaching for yours. “Are you sure this is what you wanted?” she asked gently.

You nodded, the lump in your throat growing. “It’s for the best,” you lied, voice cracking slightly.

Mike, who had been silent until now, placed a hand on Noelle’s shoulder. “If this is what she’s decided, we should respect it,” he said quietly, giving you a small, understanding nod.

Noelle just sighed, clearly torn between pressing you for further information and letting it go. Finally, she relented, though her expression was still skeptical.

“I just don’t want you to regret this,” she said, voice more softer now. “You two were so good together.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep you from breaking down. “I’ll be okay, eventually,” you said, words hollow.

Your mother pulled you into a tight embrace, her warmth briefly soothing the ache in your chest. “Whatever happens, we’re always here for you,” she murmured.

“Thanks, mommy,” you whispered, blinking back tears.

As you pulled away, your sister gave you a long look, her expression unreadable. “If he hurt you—” she started, but you cut her off.

“He didn’t,” you said firmly, voice steady despite the storm inside you. “It just didn’t work out. That’s all.”

Noelle still didn’t look convinced, but she nodded, clearly sensing that there’s more to it, and you didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Alright,” she said quietly. “But if you ever want to talk, I’m here, okay? We’re all here.”

You gave her a small smile, though it didn’t reach your eyes like it used to. “Thank you,” you said, words barely audible.

Excusing yourself, you retreated to your old bedroom, closing the door behind you gently and sinking onto the comfort of your bed. The familiar surroundings brought no comfort, only a stark reminder of the life you had left behind. While you lay down, staring at the ceiling, the tears finally came, silent and unrelenting.

You had still protected Lando from your family’s anger, even though he did not deserve any of it, and now, you were left to pick up the pieces alone.

The Nausea hits you like clockwork every morning. You found yourself rushing to the bathroom, stomach twisting in protest against seemingly nothing. It had started a few weeks ago, and though you had initially dismissed it as a lingering flu or perhaps the stress with work finally catching up to you, it was becoming harder to ignore. Rest didn’t seem to help you, but you assured yourself that it wasn’t that serious. Besides, you have work to focus on, and that was enough to keep your mind occupied, most of the time.

Two months had already passed since you had left Monaco for good, and life had begun to settle into a new rhythm. Yes, the ache in your chest was still there, but it had been dulled into something manageable. You were slowly rebuilding yourself, piece by piece, though the nausea was an unwelcome distraction.

It was a normal afternoon, while you were curled up on the beanbag chair in your bedroom after a long and tiring day, your phone buzzed. The caller ID that was displayed on the screen made your breath catch for a moment—Kelly. You hesitated before answering, already bracing yourself for the conversation. Her face appeared on the screen, bright and concerned.

“Finally, I caught you!” she said with a smile, though her tone was tinged with worry. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

You shook your head, chuckling and offered her a small smile. “I’m so sorry, Kelly. Things have been so busy with me lately.”

Kelly’s brow furrowed slightly as she studied your face. “You look tired. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, it’s just a silly flu,” you said quickly, but the faint edge in your voice didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said gently. “Max and I found out about it already, about you and Lando.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to stay calm. “Oh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” she asked, expression softening. “We would’ve been there for you. You’ve been through this all alone.”

You sighed, your shoulders sagging. “I didn’t want to drag anyone else into the mess, and I didn’t even know what to say.”

Kelly’s voice grew firmer. “You didn’t have to say anything, we would’ve understood. Max is furious with Lando, you know. So is Carlos. I even have to break the two of them away from Lando.”

Your heart sank at the thought. “Please don’t be mad at him. It’s not worth it.”

Kelly shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “It is worth it. What Lando did to you was unforgivable. You didn’t deserve any of that.”

“It’s okay,” you murmured, though the words felt hollow. “I’ll move on, eventually.”

Kelly’s expression softened again, and she leaned closer to the camera. “I just wish you’d let us help you. You know we love you, right? You’ve always been family to us.”

“I know,” you whispered, tears pricking at your eyes.

Her face brightened slightly. “But speaking of family, someone’s been dying to talk to you!”

Before you could respond, the screen shifted, and Penelope’s little face appeared, her eyes lighting up when she saw you. “AUNTIE!” she exclaimed, voice high with excitement.

”Hi, P!” You said, heart aching at the sight of her.

“I miss you so much!” she said, pouting slightly. “When are you coming back? Mommy says you’re not in Monaco anymore.”

You hesitated, unsure of how to explain. “I miss you too, darling. I just…I had to be somewhere else for a while.”

“But you’ll come back, right?” she asked, her big eyes staring at you expectantly.

You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “We’ll see, P. For now, you have to be good for your mommy and Maxie, okay?”

“I’m always good!” she declared, puffing out her chest.

Kelly’s voice chimed in from the background. “That’s debatable,” she teased, earning a giggle from Penelope.

You couldn’t help but smile, even as your chest tightened. “You’re the best, P. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Okay!” she said brightly before turning to Kelly. “Mommy, can we call Auntie again tomorrow?”

Kelly returned to the screen, giving you a knowing look. “We’ll let her rest for now, P. But yes, we’ll call Auntie again soon.”

“Promise?” Penelope asked, her eyes wide.

“Promise,” Kelly said, smiling before turning back to you. “Take care of yourself, okay? And if you need anything, anything, just call me.”

You nodded. “Thank you so much, Kelly. I will.”

After ending your facetime call with Kelly, you stumbled into the bathroom, your stomach churning violently. The moment you stepped inside, you collapsed in front of the toilet, heaving uncontrollably. It felt as though your insides were twisting, every muscle tensing in protest. When it finally subsided, you shakily wiped your mouth, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You looked pale—paler than usual, and eyes were bloodshot from the strain.

It took you a couple of minutes to compose yourself before heading to the kitchen, hoping the water would help settle your spinning head. Grabbing a glass from the cabinet, you poured the water, but as you lifted it to your lips, another wave of dizziness hit you. This time, it was stronger. Your grip faltered, and the glass slipped from your hand, shattering loudly as it hit the floor.

The sharp noise brought Noelle and Mike running into the kitchen. They froze when they saw you swaying on your feet, barely managing to stay upright. You blinked, trying to focus, but everything around you was growing hazier. Before you could say anything, your legs gave way beneath you, and you crumpled to the floor, your vision blackening as you began to lose consciousness. Noelle was by your side in an instant, her hands gentle but urgent as she checked your pulse.

“Don’t worry, she’s alive,” Noelle muttered, voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “Mike, call an ambulance now!”

Mike didn’t hesitate, rushing to grab his phone and calling for help. You could hear Mike’s voice in the background, muffled and frantic as he spoke to the operator.

“Yes, we need an ambulance,” Mike said, tone clipped, almost too calm for the situation. “My sister-in-law collapsed, and we need help immediately.”

Noelle’s voice cut through your haze, trying to keep you steady. “Come on, stay with me, okay? Just hold on.”

You couldn’t respond, couldn’t even make a sound, but you could hear them both, voices blending with the rush of adrenaline in the air. Mike’s footsteps moved swiftly, his voice growing more distant as he spoke with the ambulance on the phone.

The minutes that followed felt like hours. The sound of the ambulance siren grew louder, and relief flooded Noelle’s face as the paramedics rushed into the house. They quickly assessed the situation, asking Noelle questions about your symptoms and recent health conditions.

“She’s been experiencing dizziness for weeks now,” Noelle explained. “She’s stubborn, didn’t want to see a doctor. This morning she was nauseous, and now she’s fainted.”

The paramedics nodded, lifting you onto the stretcher carefully. Noelle and Mike followed closely as they carried you out to the ambulance. “I’m coming with her to the hospital,” Noelle said firmly, climbing into the back of the ambulance without hesitation.

Mike stayed behind, watching the ambulance doors close with a worried expression. “Alright, I’ll be informing your mother when she arrives, but call me as soon as you know something,” he said to Noelle before they drove off.

Inside the ambulance, Noelle held your hand tightly, her fingers trembling against your own. “You’re going to be fine,” she said, though her voice was thick with concern. “Just breathe, okay? We’re almost there.”

You couldn’t focus on what Noelle was saying. The world had gone dark around you, only the pulse of your own heartbeat reminding you that you were still there, still fighting to stay conscious.

The steady beeping of the machines was the first thing you registered as you slowly opened your eyes, the sterile smell of the hospital room making everything feel surreal. Blinking against the harsh fluorescent light, your gaze landed on your sister, Noelle, sitting in one of the chairs beside your bed, her expression a mixture of worry and relief when she noticed you stirring.

“Noelle,” you croaked, voice hoarse from sleep and dryness.

She shot up almost instantly, coming to your side and helping you adjust into a sitting position in the hospital bed. Her hands were gentle but firm as she propped a pillow behind your back.

“Hey, take it easy, okay?” she said softly. She reached for a bottle of water on the bedside table, unscrewing the cap before handing it to you. “Here, drink up. Small sips.”

You followed her instructions, taking slow, careful sips, the cool water soothing your parched throat. “What happened? Why am I in the hospital?” you asked weakly, mind still foggy.

“You fainted in the kitchen,” Noelle explained, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You scared the hell out of us. Mike called the ambulance, and I came with you here. Mom and Mike are both on their way. They’ll be here soon.”

Before you could respond, there was a knock at the door, a doctor entered, her expression professional but kind. Noelle immediately stepped aside, letting her approach you.

“I’m glad that you’re awake now, my dear,” she began, smiling at you. “We’ve run some tests to determine the cause of your fainting and other symptoms.”

You nodded slowly, stomach churning with apprehension. Noelle moved closer to your side, her presence grounding you.

“We’ve reviewed your results,” she continued, glancing at her clipboard before meeting your eyes. “The dizziness, nausea, and vomiting you’ve been experiencing for the past weeks are all consistent with early pregnancy symptoms. Congratulations, you’re seven weeks pregnant!”

Pregnant. Pregnant.

For a moment, the words did not register. The hospital room seemed to grow impossibly still, the doctor’s voice fading into the background as you processed the news. Seven weeks. The timeline clicked into place, and your heart sank as realization hit. Seven weeks pregnant. You could hear the faint ringing in your ears, a sharp contrast to the quiet gasp from Noelle beside you.

“I…I’m sorry, what?” you managed to stammer, voice shaking.

“You’re pregnant, dear,” the doctor repeated gently. “Seven weeks along. Your vitals look good, but it’s important to start prenatal care as soon as possible. We’ve referred you to an OB-GYN who will guide you through the process and answer any questions you might have.”

You nodded numbly, unable to form any coherent response. The doctor continued to explain what you should expect in the coming weeks—dietary recommendations, plenty of rest, and the importance of regular check-ups. But her words felt very distant, as if you were hearing them through a fog.

When the doctor finally left, you were left staring blankly at the sterile white wall, the weight of the revelation crushing you. Seven weeks. You did the math in your head, mind racing. By now, you know that the woman Lando had gotten pregnant would be around three months into pregnancy.

Tears began to well up in your eyes, the enormity of the situation was starting to overwhelm you. You were carrying Lando’s child. That man had broken and shattered your heart into pieces, and who had chosen someone else, was now bound to you in a way that you could not escape.

“Noelle,” you whispered, voice breaking.

She knelt beside the bed, taking your trembling hands in hers. “I’m here. Don’t worry, I’m here, okay?” she said softly, her tone steady and reassuring.

“I don’t know what to do,” you cried, tears streaming down your face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. How am I supposed to handle this?”

Noelle’s grip on your hands tightened slightly, eyes full of concern. “I don’t have all the answers,” she admitted, “but you don’t have to go through this alone. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be here for you—Mom and Mike, too. We’ll all figure this out together, okay?”

Two years had already passed, and your life was a world away from where it had been. Astrid, your little ray of sunshine, was turning two today. She was the center of your universe, your whole life, her giggles filling every corner of the house you had worked so hard to call your own. It was a beautiful home, just three doors away from your mother’s home, ensuring that Astrid was always surrounded by the love and warmth of your family.

Noelle and Mike, ever the doting aunt and uncle, spoiled her endlessly. They brought over toys, books, and clothes—sometimes more than you thought Astrid needed, but you couldn’t deny the happiness on Astrid’s face when they arrived with surprise in hand.

It’s true that your pregnancy and the early days of motherhood had not been easy, but you were able to survive. More than that, you thrived. With a promotion to a top position at work and a comfortable life for you and Astrid, you finally felt at peace. The past—Lando, was no longer a wound, but now a distant memory you had learned to accept. Your family also had long stopped asking questions about the details of your breakup, and while they knew Lando was Astrid’s father, they never dwelled on it. Astrid had all the love she needed, and that was what mattered most.

But there was one part of your life you had not reconciled yet—Max and Kelly. Despite keeping in touch with Kelly through regular facetime calls, you had managed to keep Astrid a secret. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust them, it was just too complicated to explain everything. It was already enough that they found out what Lando had done that caused your breakup.

However, when Kelly had mentioned that they would be spending their vacation in your home country and would be arriving the day before Astrid’s second birthday, you had a window of opportunity. It was time to take a step forward. So you had invited them to what you described as a simple gathering at your home. You didn’t explicitly tell them that it would be Astrid’s birthday party—just that it would be a chance to catch up and spend time together.

As the day drew closer, you found yourself torn between excitement and anxiety. What would they say when they realized the gathering that you had talked about was actually a celebration for your daughter? Would they feel hurt that you had kept Astrid a secret for so long?

These thoughts lingered as you finalized the decorations, baked Astrid’s favorite cake, and prepared the house for your guests. But when you looked at Astrid, happily playing with her toys in the living room, the doubt began to fade. This was your life now—a life filled with love and laughter, even if it was different from what you had once imagined.

The backyard was a colorful dream, adorned with streamers, balloons, and a banner that read, Happy 2nd Birthday! and Astrid’s favorite colors painted every corner of the space, and the laughter of children filled the air as they played games and ran around laughing. Astrid herself was the picture of happiness, twirling in her pretty dress, a bright smile on her face as she clung to her grandmother’s hand.

You excused yourself from the backyard, your hands brushing against your dress nervously as you stepped back into the kitchen to double-check the desserts. Rows of cupcakes sat neatly on the counter, each one topped with swirls of frosting and sprinkles. You picked one up, turning it slightly to make sure everything was perfect. Then the doorbell rang.

Your heart skipped a beat, a wave of nerves rushing through you. It had to be Max, Kelly, and Penelope. You wiped your hands on a towel, took a deep breath, and walked to the front door, steadying yourself before opening it. The moment you opened the door, cheerful shouts of ‘surprise!’ had greeted you. Kelly was the first to throw her arms around you, pulling you into a warm hug.

“It’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed, stepping back as Max swooped in for a hug.

“You’ve been hiding!” Max teased lightly, squeezing your shoulder before stepping aside to let Penelope in.

“Hi Auntie!” Penelope chirped, small arms wrapping tightly around your waist as she hugged you with all her might.

You bent down to her level, pulling her into a proper hug. “Hi, darling. I missed you so much!”

Penelope pulled back, her face beaming. “I missed you too, Auntie! Can I see your house?”

Before you could respond, the sound of children’s laughter drifted in from the backyard, catching their attention. Kelly tilted her head curiously.

“What’s going on back there?” she asked, brows furrowed. “That sounds like a lot of kids.”

Max glanced at you, an eyebrow raised. “Is this the simple gathering you mentioned?”

A nervous smile tugged at your lips as you stepped back, gesturing for them to follow. “Come on, follow me.”

You led them through the hallway and out through the glass doors that lead to the backyard, where the yard was buzzing with activity. Children were playing games, some of them are having the time of their life on the bouncy castle, parents chatted near the tables of food, and Astrid was in the middle of it all, her laughter carrying above the noise.

Penelope gasped in delight. “Can I please go play?” she asked, bouncing on her toes as she looked up at Max and Kelly.

Kelly nodded with a smile. “Of course, go ahead.”

Penelope dashed off, her excitement blending seamlessly with the other children. Kelly and Max, however, stood frozen, their eyes scanning the scene. It wasn’t long before they realized that this was not just any gathering.

“Is this…” Kelly began, voice trailing off.

“A birthday party?” Max finished for her, tone laced with confusion.

You nodded slowly, your smile nervous. “Yes. Actually,” you glanced at Astrid, who was now in your mother’s arms, laughing as your mother tickled her sides. “It’s her birthday party.”

Their confusion deepened as they followed your gaze. Max opened his mouth to speak, but Kelly beat him to it. “Her?” she asked, voice soft, almost uncertain.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over to your mother and gently took Astrid from her arms. Astrid immediately snuggled into your shoulder, her tiny hands clutching at your dress as she peeked at the newcomers. Turning back to Max and Kelly, you smiled, though your heart was racing.

“Guys, this is Astrid,” you said softly. “My daughter.”

For a moment, there was only silence as Max and Kelly processed your words. Kelly’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide, while Max stared at you, his expression a mix of shock and something deeper.

“You have a daughter?” Kelly finally asked, voice trembling slightly.

You nodded, holding Astrid a little tighter. “I do.”

Max’s voice was careful, almost cautious. “Where’s her father?”

The question hung heavy in the air, heavy and unspoken truths lingering just beneath the surface. You looked down at Astrid, avoiding Max’s gaze as you shifted your weight uncomfortably.

“He’s…not in the picture anymore,” you said quietly.

Max’s eyes narrowed slightly, jaw tightening. It was clear he had pieced everything together, but decided not to press further. Instead, his gaze softened as he looked at Astrid, who was now peering curiously at him. Kelly stepped forward, her initial shock melting into warmth.

“Can I hold her?” she asked gently.

You nodded, carefully handing Astrid over. Kelly cradled her as if she had been waiting for this moment forever, her face lighting up as Astrid stared at her with wide, curious eyes.

“She’s so beautiful,” Kelly murmured, voice thick with emotion.

Max crouched down slightly to Astrid’s level, his serious expression softening. “Hey there, little one,” he said, playfully covering his eyes with his hands and then revealing them. “Peekaboo!”

Astrid blinked at him, tiny lips began curling into a smile as Max covered his face with his hand again and revealed it with a loud ‘boo!’ Astrid’s laughter was immediate and infectious, filling the air and making Max grin wider.

“She likes you,” Kelly said with a laugh, glancing at Max as she bounced Astrid gently.

Max looked up, his expression a mix of amusement and something more tender. “What can I say? Kids love me.”

Penelope had run up to you with little Astrid in tow, face glowing with excitement. “Auntie, can Astrid play with me? I promise that I’ll take care of her,” she said, her little hands clasped together as she gave you the most earnest look.

You smiled, crouching down to their level. “Alright,” you said gently, brushing a strand of hair out of Astrid’s face. “But remember, she’s still very small, so be careful with her, okay?”

“I promise!” Penelope chirped. “Come on Astrid, let’s play!” she took Astrid’s hand and led her back towards the group of children.

Once they were settled, you turned to Max and Kelly, who were waiting nearby, their expressions a mix of curiosity and seriousness. You gestured towards the patio table, and the three of you moved to sit down. For a brief moment, there was an awkward silence, only broken by the distant sound of children laughing.

It was Max who spoke first. “So,” he began, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “are you going to tell Lando about Astrid?”

“No.” you said firmly, meeting his gaze.

Kelly’s brows furrowed. “No?” she repeated, voice a mix of confusion and concern. “You don’t plan on telling him that he has a daughter?”

“Telling him that he has a daughter is not included in my plans,” you said quietly, glancing briefly at Astrid, who was now sitting on the grass with Penelope, giggling as they played.

Max exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “But why?” he asked, voice steady but tinged with disbelief. “Don’t you think he has the right to know?”

You looked at Max, expression calm but resolute. “He had already made his choice and I made mine,” you said softly. “By the time I found out that I was pregnant, he was already committed to building a life with someone else—for their child. I’m not that ignorant, I’ve seen the articles, Max. It’s clear as daylight that he’s happy with them, he’s being the father that the child needs.”

Max sighed. “This isn’t about the articles or public perception. It’s about Astrid. She has the right to know who her father is, and Lando has a right to know about her.”

Kelly nodded in agreement with what had Max just said. “And what happens when she grows up and starts asking questions?”

“I’ll tell Astrid,” you said. “I’ll tell her when the time is right, I’ll explain everything to her. But for now, I’m protecting her. I don’t want her to feel like she was a second thought or an obligation. I don’t want to make her feel unwanted.”

Max shook his head slightly. “It’s not fair to Astrid, or to Lando,” he said, voice low. “He deserves to know. He deserves the chance to be a part of her life.”

“And what if Lando doesn’t want to be a part of her life, Max?” you said, voice cracking slightly and gripping the edge of the table. “What if yes, I ended up telling him, and he rejected her? What if I ruin the good thing he has now, for nothing? I’m not going to be the person who will bring chaos to my daughter’s life by trying to force something that might not even work, and I most definitely won't be the one who will tear Lando’s life apart just to ease my conscience.”

Kelly reached out, placing a hand gently on yours. “I understand that you’re scared,” she said softly. “And I understand why you’ve made your choice. But you don’t have to do this alone. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you. But please, just think about it, okay?”

You nodded, though you knew that your decision was firm and wouldn’t change. “Thank you,” you said quietly, looking between Max and Kelly. “I just need you both to trust me on this one. Trust that I’m doing what’s best for Astrid.”

Max hesitated, then finally nodded. “We’ll be keeping this just between the three of us,” he said, though there was a note of reluctance in his voice. “But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find us.”

Kelly smiled faintly, her grip on your hand tightening briefly before she let go. “Astrid is lucky to have you as her mother,” she said, voice warm. “She’s amazing and gorgeous, you know. She’s already so full of life.”

You smiled softly at Kelly’s words. “She is,” you said. “She really is.”

Glancing back towards the yard, you watched Astrid and Penelope play together, the sound of Astrid’s uncontrollable laughter filled the air, warming your heart in a way that words could never even describe. Her happiness was infectious, an important reminder of everything good in your life despite the path it had taken to get where you are now. But as your eyes lingered on her, there was a familiar ache that settled deep in your chest.

You couldn’t deny it—Astrid’s features were very unmistakable. Her eyes, so full of wonder and innocence, were a mirror image of Lando’s. Every now and then, when she turned her head a certain way or smiled just so, it was like seeing a glimpse of Lando again. The resemblance was undeniable, and it only grew stronger as Astrid got older. It was a bittersweet reality you carried with you every day.

Yet, despite the pain that came with those reminders, you were happy. Truly, deeply happy. Astrid was surrounded by love—a love so abundant that it filled every corner of her little world. She didn’t need anything else, not when you, your whole family, and everyone who cherished her. That love was enough, it had to be enough.

Letting Lando go was not easy. It had taken every ounce of strength you had to accept that the life you once imagined with him was not meant to be. But you had done it, you had learned to let him go. You had made peace with the fact that you were not the one he chose, and the woman you would never be was the one who was not his.

Someday, you knew, the time might come when you were ready to tell Lando about Astrid, ready to introduce him to the child you both brought into this world. But that day was not today. For now, you would let him continue living the life he had chosen, with the person he had chosen. You wished him nothing but happiness, even if it wasn’t with you.

You also hoped that Lando would one day find everything he was searching for, that he would feel fulfilled and content in the life he was building. Even if it hurts, you wanted that for him, and while he was busy living that life, the daughter you both would not raise together would still be here—waiting for him, even if he didn’t know it yet.

The breakup, heartache, and the choices you made were not what you had wanted, but they were what you needed. Sometimes, it’s hard to accept the fact that love is not enough to keep two people together, and that’s okay. It didn’t make the love you once shared with Lando any less real.

But for now, everything else could wait.

[solxamber]

Holding Them and Not Letting Go with: First Years

the rest will be in a separate post <3

Others: Housewardens + Jamil ; Vice housewardens + Rollo, Neige

Ace Trappola

Ace bounces into the room, still riding the high of his basketball victory. His grin is wide, and he’s practically glowing with confidence. “Alright, so are we going with Sprite or Coke for this exclusive VIP party?” he asks, digging through the mini fridge with exaggerated flair.

You don’t answer. Instead, you step closer and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a firm hug.

He freezes for a second before letting out a laugh, his tone teasing. “Wow, I didn’t realize winning a game made me this irresistible.” He turns his head to try and catch your expression, expecting a playful retort, but when you don’t let go or even laugh, his teasing fades.

“Hey,” he says more softly, twisting slightly to look at you. “You good?”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your hands still gripping his jersey. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, voice steady but warm. “I just… I love you, Ace. And I’m really, really proud of you.”

For a moment, he’s completely still, blinking at you like he can’t quite process your words. Then he lets out a shaky laugh, his arms coming up to pull you closer. “Don’t get all soft on me now,” he mutters, but there’s a tremor in his voice, and his hold on you is anything but casual.

Ace is the kind of guy who hides behind his jokes and bravado. He’s the loudest in the room, the one always cracking jokes to deflect attention from anything that might feel too serious or too vulnerable.

He plays it cool, like nothing ever really gets to him. But deep down, he’s always wondered if he’s enough—enough to be taken seriously, enough to make someone proud, enough to deserve the kind of unconditional love he’s always quietly craved.

Hearing you say those words, feeling the sincerity in your hug—it’s almost overwhelming. The teasing grin he wears so easily is replaced by something softer, something real.

He buries his face in your shoulder, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks,” he says, the single word carrying more weight than he usually lets on.

In your arms, Ace allows himself to feel it all—the pride, the love, the relief. He might joke about being irresistible or too cool for heartfelt moments, but the truth is, you make him feel like he doesn’t need to be anything other than himself. And that? That’s everything.

Deuce Spade

Deuce sits at his desk, the faint sound of pencil scratches and frustrated sighs filling the room. His brow is furrowed, and his leg bounces anxiously under the table. “Why can’t I get this?” he mutters, flipping through his notes for the hundredth time. “I should know this by now. I have to get this right.”

You watch him for a moment, heart aching at the stress etched into his face. He’s always trying so hard—pushing himself to be the perfect honor student, the model example. You know how much he wants to prove himself, but sometimes, he forgets that it’s okay to lean on others.

Without a word, you walk over and wrap your arms around him. At first, Deuce stiffens in surprise, but the tension melts away almost instantly as he leans into your embrace. “Hey,” he says softly, his voice a little shaky. “What’s this for?”

You don’t answer right away, just holding him tightly. His hands come up to rest on your arms, his grip firm, like he’s drawing strength from you. After a moment, though, he shifts slightly, craning his neck to look at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern lacing his voice. “You’ve been holding on for a while…”

You smile, shaking your head gently. “I’m fine. I just… I’m really proud of you, Deuce. I see how hard you work, how much you care about doing your best. I don’t think you hear it enough, but I’m proud of you.”

For a moment, he’s silent, his wide eyes searching yours like he’s trying to make sure you mean it. And then, without warning, he pulls you back into the hug, tighter this time, his arms wrapped around you like he never wants to let go.

Deuce has spent so much of his life trying to prove himself—to his mom, to his teachers, to his classmates. He worries constantly about whether he’s good enough, whether he’ll ever live up to the expectations he’s set for himself. Deep down, there’s a part of him that fears he’ll always be that hotheaded troublemaker he used to be, no matter how hard he tries to change.

But in your arms, all of that seems to fade. When you tell him you’re proud of him, it feels like a gift he doesn’t quite deserve, but one he’s so grateful for that it hurts. He doesn’t feel like he has to pretend to be perfect or have it all figured out—not with you.

“You’re… you’re the best,” he mumbles into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

To Deuce, you’re like a miracle—a gift from the Sevens themselves. Someone who sees him for who he is and believes in him even when he’s struggling to believe in himself. And as he holds you close, he silently vows to keep doing his best—not just for himself, but for you, too.

Jack Howl

Jack sets the heavy crate down with ease, brushing his hands on his pants before glancing at you. “Alright, that’s the last one,” he says, his voice steady and sure. “You didn’t have to lift a finger. Told you I’d handle it.”

You smile at him, watching as he dusts himself off, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. Jack always insists on doing the hard work, carrying the weight—literally and figuratively. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t ask for help, just powers through with quiet determination.

Before he can turn back to the next task, you step forward and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens slightly, caught off guard, but then his arms come up to hold you in return.

“What’s this for?” he asks, his voice soft but curious.

You don’t answer right away, simply holding him tighter. Jack stays quiet, but you can feel his tail wagging behind him, a faint swish against the ground. When you don’t let go, though, he starts to shift slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern evident in his tone. His ears flick nervously, his golden eyes scanning your face.

You smile up at him, shaking your head lightly. “I’m fine, Jack. I just… I just love you, and I’m really glad to have you in my life. You’re always looking out for me, always working so hard. I don’t think I say it enough, but I really appreciate you.”

For a moment, Jack just looks at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he pulls you back into the hug, his grip firm and grounding. He doesn’t say anything, but his tail betrays him, wagging faster now, practically spinning like a motor.

Jack isn’t used to hearing things like that. He’s always been the dependable one, the one people rely on but rarely the one people go out of their way to thank. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’s only valued for his strength, for what he can do rather than who he is. It’s a quiet insecurity, one he keeps buried deep, but it’s there all the same.

But when you hold him like this, when you tell him how much he means to you, it feels like a weight has been lifted. You don’t just see him as the reliable guy who carries the heavy stuff or takes care of the hard work. You see him—Jack, with all his flaws and strengths, and you love him anyway.

His tail thumps against the ground now, a silent giveaway to how much your words mean to him. He doesn’t need to say anything; the way he holds you, the way his tail wags furiously, tells you everything.

In your arms, Jack feels something he’s not sure he’s ever felt before—completely understood and appreciated for who he is, not just what he can do. And for him, that’s more than enough.

Epel Felmier

The two of you were walking back to Ramshackle, Epel chatting animatedly about something funny that had happened during class. His hands were moving as he spoke, when a sudden whistling sound cut through the air.

You didn’t even have time to react before Epel’s hand shot out, summoning a precise burst of magic that sent the incoming magift disc flying back in the direction it came. It hit its mark with a loud clang before tumbling harmlessly to the ground.

“Idiots need to watch where they’re aiming,” he muttered, brushing it off like it was nothing. Then, without missing a beat, he reached for your hand, his grip firm yet casual as he led you back toward your dorm.

The moment you stepped inside, you turned to him, your arms wrapping around him tightly. He let out a small, surprised “Whoa,” his hands instinctively coming up to hold you back.

“Hey, what’s this for?” he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and a bit of embarrassment. He hugged you back anyway, his fingers lightly rubbing your back, but when you didn’t pull away, his expression shifted to concern.

“You alright?” he asked, leaning back just enough to look at your face. “Did that disc scare ya? I didn’t think—”

“I’m fine,” you interrupted softly, squeezing him tighter. “I just love you, Epel. And that was so cool. You were so quick, and you didn’t even hesitate. I’m… I’m really lucky to have you.”

Epel blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to process your words. Then, as your words sank in, his cheeks flushed a deep pink, and his lips curled into a small, bashful smile.

“You think… I’m cool?” he asked, his voice almost timid, as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“I know you are,” you said, your tone firm and sincere.

Something in him seemed to shift at that. Epel pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly now, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

He’d spent so much of his life feeling like he had to prove himself—to his family, to his classmates, even to himself. Being underestimated because of his height or his face had always left a bitter taste in his mouth, pushing him to work harder, fight stronger, and shout louder just to be taken seriously.

But in this moment, none of that mattered. You didn’t see him as fragile or weak, didn’t treat him like someone who needed to prove anything. You saw him for who he was, and you loved him for it.

The warmth in his chest spread to his face as he buried it against your neck, his arms tightening just a little more. He didn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence speak for him.

When he finally did speak, his voice was quiet but steady. “I’m lucky to have you too, y’know. More’n I deserve.”

You smiled, holding him just as tightly, letting your presence remind him that he was already more than enough. For the first time in a long time, Epel felt like he didn’t need to prove a thing. You thought he was cool, and that was all he needed to hear.

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek was mid-sentence, his voice rising in animated fervor.

“And that’s why this tale of heroism directly correlates to Lord Malleus's own virtues! Truly, how could anyone miss the resemblance? Why, if they merely paid attention—”

You didn’t let him finish. Stepping forward, you wrapped your arms around him tightly, pressing your cheek against his chest.

Sebek froze instantly, the words dying in his throat. “Wha—? What are you doing?!” His voice pitched higher, equal parts flustered and confused.

His arms hovered awkwardly for a moment before he tentatively settled them around you, his usual composure crumbling. “Are you hurt? Is something wrong? Speak to me at once!”

When you didn’t respond immediately, Sebek’s grip tightened slightly, and he pulled back just enough to inspect you, his eyes scanning your face with concern. “What has happened? Are you unwell?”

You smiled softly at him, your fingers curling into his uniform as you leaned back into his chest. “I’m fine, Sebek. Really. I just love you.”

Sebek blinked, his mouth opening and closing as your words sank in. He seemed at a rare loss for words as you continued, “I love how passionate you are, how much you care about the things and people you love. It makes me love you even more.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his lips pressed together tightly. Then, without warning, he hugged you back gently, yet firmly, his arms encircling you as though he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“...I see,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual.

Sebek had spent so much of his life trying to live up to expectations—his own, his family’s, even the ones he imagined Malleus might have for him. He had always been painfully aware of his mixed heritage and the silent whispers it inspired, of the way his fiery temper and unwavering loyalty often set him apart from others.

Yet with you, none of that seemed to matter. You didn’t judge him for his intensity or his quirks; you embraced them, cherished them, even. And in moments like this, when he felt your arms around him and heard your steady words of love, he was reminded that he didn’t need to prove himself to you.

You saw him—not just as a knight or a servant, but as Sebek.

“I…” His voice wavered for a moment before he steadied it. “I love you as well.”

The words were simple, but the way his arms tightened around you spoke volumes. For all his loud proclamations and larger-than-life demeanor, Sebek’s love was quiet and steadfast, an anchor that held firm against any storm.

And as he rested his chin atop your head, silently committing this moment to memory, he realized something: as long as he had you, everything else seemed just a little less important.

Masterlist

[imtaashu]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜.

✮ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader ✮ Summary: Bucky learns the meaning of the left hand how it’s closest to your heart and quietly, he starts reaching for it every time. Every moment. Every time he needs to remind himself you’re his. Based on “The Holding the Left Hand Theory” ✮ Genre: Pure fluff, soft love, super clingy Bucky, subtle intimacy, emotional warmth ✮ Word Count: ~1.3k ✮ Author Notes: this is for the hand-holders, the slow lovers, the ones who believe love lives in the quiet touches. Bucky holding your left hand is him holding your heart. 🫶 ✦ welcome to my bucky brain rot. masterlist lives here ✦

Bucky learns about it from a book.

You’re the one reading, legs over his lap, half asleep on a lazy Sunday.

“Did you know…” you mumble, flipping the page, “the left hand is closer to your heart? That’s why wedding rings go there.”

He hums like he’s not really listening, but something in his chest tugs.

You keep talking “That’s why holding the left hand means more. It’s like… holding a piece of someone’s heart.”

You don’t even notice the pause in his breathing.

But he does. And from that moment on, he never forgets.

✦✦✦

That night, when you cross the street together, he doesn’t just grab your hand he reaches for your left. You glance down in surprise.

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds it tighter.

You don’t ask. You smile.

✦✦✦

It becomes a quiet thing. An unspoken thing.

At breakfast, when your knees bump under the table, he reaches across the pancakes and hooks his fingers into your left hand.

When you’re watching a movie, half-asleep on the couch, his left arm cradles you while his right hand finds your left, tucking it beneath the blanket like a secret.

When you curl into bed, he reaches around you in the dark not just to hold you, but to slide his fingers into your left hand, lacing them together like a promise.

✦✦✦

One day you tease him “You know I have two hands, right?”

He raises an eyebrow “I like this one better.”

You squint. “Why?”

He shrugs casually, eyes soft as he brings your left hand to his lips “This one’s the one that matters.”

✦✦✦

You notice it more after that. When you’re walking through crowds, he always grabs your left.

When you offer your right hand for help off the couch, he huffs, ignores it, and grabs the left instead.

Even when you’re sitting across from each other doing separate things he’ll gently reach across the space and tug your left hand into his lap without looking up.

You don’t say anything anymore. You just let him have it.

✦✦✦

It’s not about habit. It’s not about routine. It’s about reassurance.

Every time he touches your left hand, it’s like he’s reminding himself you’re here, you’re real, you’re his.

And every time you let him hold it, you’re telling him I’m not going anywhere.

✦✦✦

One night, after a rough mission, he comes home bruised and quiet.

You don’t ask questions. You just sit beside him on the couch, hand open.

He stares at it. Then slowly, like it hurts to move, he takes your left hand in both of his. His thumb runs over your knuckles. His eyes close “I needed this,” he whispers.

You press a kiss to his temple “I know.”

✦✦✦

Sometimes, he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

You’ll be mid-argument something stupid, like what kind of pasta to order and he’ll still reach out for your left hand under the table.

Like he can’t not touch it.

Like even if you’re annoyed, he needs to feel your heart in his palm.

✦✦✦

One morning, you wake up first.

You’re tangled together in a mess of sheets, his face soft with sleep, breathing steady.

And even then half-conscious, dead asleep he’s holding your left hand.

Like his body knows what his mind forgot.

You tuck your face into his shoulder and smile.

✦✦✦

When he proposes, you’re in your pajamas. It’s not a big moment. Not planned.

You’re standing in the kitchen, pouring cereal, and he just walks up behind you and wraps his arms around your waist.

You lean back into his chest, eyes still sleepy.

“Marry me?” he mumbles into your neck.

You blink “…What?”

He turns you around, takes your hands. Your left one, held between both of his.

“I mean it,” he says. “No pressure. Just love.”

You laugh through your tears. “Of course I will.”

And when he slips the ring on? It fits like it’s always belonged there.

Right next to your heart.

✦✦✦

He still holds your left hand every night.

Long after you’re married. Long after everything.

Even when your hair starts going gray, even when he’s tired, even when your fingers are cold from doing dishes and he grumbles and warms them up in his palms It’s always the left.

Always the one that matters.

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

💌 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 💌

@nerdreader @starstruckfirecat @baguwagu @sunday-bug @murnsondock @thiscornerofmyfanficbrain @okaytrashpanda @aceofheartsssss @the-real-kellymonster @7batsinatrenchcoat @overwintering-soldier 🎀🩷

wanna be tagged in all upcoming theories + emotional damage + forehead kisses? ➝ reply or send me an ask and i’ll add you ♡

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

[grandline-fics]

Hi!!! I LOVED the unconscious one and I was wondering if you could do a version of that with Law and Sanji?

DESCRIPTION: When you suddenly lose consciousness

WARNINGS: descriptions of fainting/ falling asleep. fluff

CHARACTERS: Law, Sanji, Ace | Luffy, Zoro | Sabo, Killer, Marco

WORDS: 1824

A/N: Thank you for this request! Someone else also requested this prompt so I doubled up the characters. I hope you like what I came up with for this one.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

———————

LAW

You understood Law’s unstoppable need to further his already extensive and impressive medical skills. Every island was researched thoroughly, including the kinds of herbs and other plants that were native to there to use in future medicines he could make. When he ventured to his own lab after an island visit with the newest additions you knew he’d be shut inside for hours on end until he’d found every possible use and countermeasure for his research in the event that anything turned out to be poisonous or bring about negative side affects. 

When night had fallen and there was still no sign of movement or sound of activity from his lab, you volunteered to go and fetch your Captain for dinner. You knew he hadn’t eaten anything since the breakfast you’d all shared together but even then it hadn’t been much given how fast he wanted to dock at the island. Leaning against the cold steel wall of the Tang you lightly knocked on the lab door, listening to the dull echo from inside. Thankfully a more human sound followed, footsteps but he never opened the door. “Captain? It’s time to eat and don’t say you’re not hungry because we both know you haven’t eaten much today.”

“I’ve eaten enough.” Law’s muffled reply came and you scoffed.

“Okay so if I ate what you’d consumed today and then skipped dinner you’d say…?”

“That’s not the point.” You smirked at the grumbled reply, knowing that was the most out of him by means of admitting he wasn’t looking after himself. 

“If I bring you a plate of food will you eat it?” You asked, knowing you had to compromise with him on days like these. 

“Fine…” For someone so serious and in charge all the time, Law really could become a grumpy child at times. Laughing softly you went to the kitchen to grab a plate of food for him. Your plan had been to hand him the food and then return to the dining hall and eat with the others so Law could continue with his work in solitude. Since he knew you were coming back you knocked once on the door and continued inside, not needing to wait. 

However the second you did you were hit with the overwhelming strength of the smell of Law’s different experiments with the plants. One second your vision was clearly on his face, the next it was blurring and you were swaying and toppling over, the plate dropping from your hands. Law saw it happen in slow motion. Immediately he activated his room ability and had you safely in his arms while what would have been his dinner smashed on the ground. Law looked at you and let out a slow sigh. He hadn’t expected that kind of reaction and made a mental note to write down this new outcome from the combination of the plants but that would have to wait. Shifting you so you were held more comfortably in his hold he carried you out of the lab and to his room so you were away from the fumes that caused this in the first place and somewhere you could rest peacefully. You were the priority and he refused to let you out of his sight or hold until you woke up.

SANJI

Another day on the Sunny, another day of typical chaos and noise. By now you were used to it to the point that if things were peaceful for too long you’d be concerned. On today’s schedule of activity Sanji and Zoro were bickering as usual in the build up to lunch time. Franky and Usopp were working on their own separate weapon modifications. When Usopp proudly announced that now his Kabuto was even more improved that practically anyone could use it Luffy loudly demanded to try it out, springing it up from his perch on Sunny’s head. After a lot of back and forth, Usopp gave in to his Captain’s whims and reluctantly handing Kabuto over along with his more harmless ammunition pellets. 

Luffy being in charge of the weapon managed to grab everyone’s attention, even halting Sanji and Zoro’s routine brawl. Even with Usopp’s assurances that everything would be safe, you knew better than to doubt Luffy’s ability to cause trouble even with little to no outside influence. To be on the safe side you abandoned your comfy place on the deck to observe from the kitchen, believing that being in an entirely different room was your best option. Watching in amusement you saw Luffy mostly strike poses with Usopp’s weapon before actually trying to use it and the safe ammunition he’d been given to play with. Then Luffy pulled back the pouch, wondering how far it would go with his added stretching ability. 

However this was something Usopp had never taken into account and when Luffy pulled beyond the strain the weapon was capable of, one of the elastic cables snapped. Not expecting it, Luffy released the weapon and toppled over as the pellet sailed through the air and directly into the kitchen. You didn’t have time to dodge and the tiny blue pellet connected against your shoulder, bursting into a small cloud of smoke. All it took was a small breath and it overcame your senses completely, sending your already unconscious body to the floor. 

Sanji was the first to drop to your side with Chopped quickly behind him. While Chopper checked you over Sanji began yelling at Luffy for being so stupid and at Usopp for being even more idiotic that the Captain by allowing this to even happen. “You better not have harmed a hair on their head or I’m not feeding either of you morons for a week!”

“I promise they’ll wake up!” Usopp insisted while grabbing Luffy to stop him from launching himself at your sleeping form to try and wake you with force at Sanji’s threat of no food. “It’ll just…take a little while.”

“What do you mean a little while!?” Sanji demanded with a glare, his anger faltering when in your sleep you rolled onto your side and relaxed closer beside Sanji, subconsciously seeking the warmth of his hand that was protectively laid on your arm. As reassuring as it was to see you seemed okay and merely sleeping soundly you were still in this situation because of his stupid crewmate and Captain. Quickly he looked to the sniper for his explanation, his anger returning in force.

“W-well I made those sleep stars to ensure whoever we used them against wouldn’t wake up right away and give us all enough time to make our escape if we needed them.”

“How long Usopp?!”

“A few hours at least.” At that revelation and the look of murder in Sanji’s eyes both Usopp and Luffy fled, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Even that didn’t rouse you. Chopper reassured Sanji that you would be okay and also left. With a small sigh, Sanji gathered you into his arms and carried you to the sofa against the wall so you could sleep comfortably while he cooked and could keep a close eye on you at the same time.

ACE

Ace took Whitebeard’s belief that everyone on the ship was a family to heart. As commander of the second division he knew the responsibility on his shoulders to ensure everyone under his command was protected and safe. Did he pay you a little extra attention and ensure you were protected and happy and safe first before the others? Maybe but he couldn’t help it. You were so easy to talk to and work along side. You made his days better and he always had a smile on his face when he was near you. Every morning he woke and would make his way to share breakfast with the crew, his spot at the table almost always either beside or opposite you. So long as you were in range to talk to that was all that mattered.

On this adventure on the winter island, Ace kept a close eye on you. While he could just boost the internal heat of his devil fruit so he couldn’t feel the cold you were left to huddle closer into your thick coat and layers when a surge of bitter wind cut through the air. You suppressed the constant urge to shiver and focused your mind on thinking of other things all the while trying to avoid looking Ace’s way otherwise you would only become increasingly jealous each time you saw how unaffected he was by the snow and cold. He was getting to truly enjoy the beauty of the island and all it had to offer. You wanted to step closer to your division commander but you resisted, not wanting him to think you were only doing so to make use of his body heat. On that principle you held back a little more than you normally would and suffered the cold.

Every step seemed to sap your strength. Even with all of your resilience and training, the walk through the elements like this always took its toll. Ace glanced back when your footing slipped for the third time in twenty minutes and saw the exhaustion clear in your face. The dropping temperature from you both trudging through a shaded area and the day dragging on wasn’t a good combination. “Hey let’s stop for a while, catch our breath?”

“Ace, you don’t need a break.” You protested with a small huff, rubbing your arms as you tried not to get too close to Ace now that he’d stopped. The second you felt his body heat, the second you’d all but give in to his suggestion. 

“Sure I do.” Ace grinned at you, offering you his winning smile, the one that could convince you to do anything. “C’mon please? Feel like you’ve been avoiding me. I don’t stink do I?”

“Oh that’s playing dirty.” You lectured with a small pout. “You know I’m not avoiding you.”

“Prove it.” Ace’s smile broadened into a grin and held out his arms to gesture you to finally come closer. Knowing you didn’t have the energy to resist Ace watched you finally close the distance. When you were in touching distance Ace slung an arm around your shoulder in a light embrace. “There we go! Geez you’re freezing!”

You weren’t even listening to Ace’s comment. The second you were in the warmth your body began to relax and your heavy limbs finally felt lighter. Your eyes began to droop and you let out a long yawn, pressing your head against Ace’s body. Before you knew it Ace had stooped down and lifted you to settle onto his back. He let out a soft laugh at the feeling of your body completely relaxing and sound of your breath evening out. You’d already passed out. “You rest up back there. We’ll be at the town soon.”

——————————————-

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[rinskazuu]

→ half asleep, wishing i still had you ⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

synopsis. ꨄ︎ weeks had passed since your breakup with the bllk men. it seems they can no longer handle your absence and decide to drink away their sorrow. it turns out that liquor is capable of bringing out the emotions they've carefully concealed, so with the liquid courage they've gathered, they decide to break their silence.

featuring. ꨄ︎ fem!reader x sae, kaiser, otoya, karasu (separate)

includes. ꨄ︎ post relationship, angst, happy ending, alcohol consumption, pining, yearning, begging, aged up!characters to legal drinking age (kaiser is already of drinking age in germany), characters might be a teensy bit ooc (not sorry), not fully proofread

notes. ꨄ︎ i was going to add yukimiya, aiku, and ness but this has been sitting in my drafts for weeks and i really didn't have it in me to do any more.

♪ track. ꨄ︎ your shirt by chelsea cutler

ITOSHI SAE ⋆｡°✩

sae isn’t the type of man to drink casually. sure, a celebratory drink here and there wouldn’t hurt, but even then, he would never leave himself in a vulnerable position.

sae is a precise and meticulous man, measuring his every sip, cautious not to go over his limit. yet, him gulping more than his usual was a direct result of his current state. i mean, sure, he knew the breakup would sting, but not this much. not to the point where he felt his entire being would shatter if he breathed wrong.

and that’s how life currently felt for him. like every single breath was solely to counter his existence—like his very presence was to appease you. and sae was not the type of man to put somebody else first.

the breakup was primarily sae’s fault, and he knew it. he didn’t have to see the disappointment on your face or the frustration in your teary eyes to know it. despite dating someone famous, you absolutely despised the publicity surrounding you; the attention, the lights, the rumors. so when he brushed off your concerns, feeling angry was more than an understatement. aside from the paparazzi, sae was cold. it wasn't to the extent of how he treated everybody else, but it shouldn't have been how he acted toward you. he was cold to where you would be excited and he would still have that look of indifference and boredom etched all over his face—as if he was saying, “this isn’t worth my time.” while it’s true sae was a loving and attentive boyfriend, those traits had its limits, and you were simply over it.

sae called when he knew you would be relaxing after a long, hard day worth of work, usually indulging in a book or playing a game. you were suspicious but picked up anyway. if anybody asked, you were not picking up because you missed him. surely not.

“come home,” he croaks immediately after you pick up. you were taken aback to say the least. he didn’t even bother to greet you, let alone attempt to make small talk, like asking you how your job was or how your parents were doing. but then again, itoshi sae had no space for unnecessary words or actions.

“i’m sorry?” was all you managed to utter out, shock still lingering in your system. a sigh was let out on the other end of the line. as you were shuffling and ordering your emotions, sae was picking at his supposed “genius” brain to see how exactly he was supposed to win you back. it was a miracle he won you over in the first place, considering his knowledge outside of football—or more accurately, the lack of.

he had missed your presence; seeing your face in the crowd, coming home to your sweet fragrance, holding your hand during even the most mundane everyday tasks, having you in his arms as he drifted to sleep, and everything. what was he supposed to say to convince you that he loves you?

itoshi sae is not the type of man for big gestures or fancy words. he won’t be the one to serenade you or put thought into a romantic poem, and you were more than okay with it, but you refused to lay down and take his disregard for your concerns like a good dog.

after a long stretch of silence, sae finally gathers his thoughts. “i want you to come home,” he repeats, a slight slur evident in his voice. “i want you to understand how apologetic i am. i should’ve listened to your concerns, and i should’ve protected your feelings better.”

“i appreciate your apologies, itoshi, but i think it’s best to stay on different paths.”

sae winces at the usage of his last name. to the world, he is itoshi. he is the prodigious elder brother of the itoshi family; he’s the calculating, genius soccer player, but to you he was just sae. he didn’t have to control his every move as if one wrong step would result in all his hard work falling apart. to you, he could fall apart in your arms and you would still love him.

“sae,” he corrects. “i’m not itoshi to you. regardless of what you might think, i’ll always be sae to you.”

his gaze directs up to the roof of his car, his seat cranked all the way back as his free hand grabbed the canned beer; an accurate representation of exactly what he was feeling—disappointed and bitter. it’s as if sae was purposely torturing himself for letting you go.

“i don’t know what to say,” you reply honestly, twiddling your fingers as you stare at the cover of your book, the words blurring as you zone out.

“i love you, cariño.” your heart stops for a moment. the way his lips utter the pet name so softly—like you would fade away from his life if he said it any differently—causes a hitch in your heart. “from this day forward, i will listen to you more honestly. not because i have to, but because i want to.”

your lips part, partly at his heartfelt confession—where his voice wasn’t devoid of emotion for once—and the other part because you were surprised. sae is opening up to you, even with the idea of rejection lingering in his mind, unlike the itoshi sae you knew who doesn’t toy with intentions that aren’t going to guarantee him success.

“i’m sorry i let you down. i’m sorry i allowed you to feel like i didn’t care. i’m most sorry that you didn’t feel the love that i felt for you. please, amor. i feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest and throw itself into a fire.”

at last, you found your voice and answered him honestly. “i miss you, sae. i love you. i want you to treat me the way i want, but i can't just take your words at face value.” sae understands fully. you made it clear that actions were louder than words, and he is going to fulfill that.

“i know, amor. i just need you to understand that it’s you or nobody. you’re going to be the woman i marry,” he states. it wasn’t a halfhearted swear; he pledged it. “now, please. let me in at least. let me see you again.”

you open the door to a sluggish sae, reeking of beer. despite your dislike for it, you pulled him in for a long awaited hug on both ends. of course, the two of you were a long way from how you were again, but for now, this is perfect. for now, you’re okay with just holding him until the two of you fell asleep.

KAISER MICHAEL ⋆｡°✩

kaiser loathed alcohol. it reminded him of the helplessness and weakness he felt whenever he came home to his drunk father, fists curled up into balls, and angry about whatever it was that upset him that day. and yet, here he was, downing the whiskey like he was held at gunpoint.

here he was, turning out to be the man he detested. never having laid hands on you, kaiser still managed to hurt you, and in turn fucked up the only relationship he ever cared for. you never saw him as dollar signs, only as the broken shell of a man that he wanted to be. you had the patience to love, help, and improve him for his sake, and somehow, he broke you instead.

kaiser knew better than anyone how hurtful words could be, but when push came to shove, he chose to close himself off in fear of what you might think of him. contrary to his image, he was embarrassed to show you just how shameful he is. he could never understand how you were capable of loving him—loving the little boy who never got over his mother leaving him alone with the father who beat him senseless. he never understood how it was possible to still love someone who was never loved.

at first, kaiser was angry. you leaving him? how dare you?! how dare you fall into the same crowd of everybody else in his life; promising him a happy ending and then leaving when it got too hard? but then he came to the realization that you left because he couldn’t step up to be the man he swore to be.

kaiser didn’t bother to call or even text. his entire body was on fire, and he was determined to see you in person rather than speaking to you through a phone. so as you were preparing to snuggle into your bed—and totally not with the unicorn plushie he bought you—you’re suddenly startled by the sound of frantic knocks.

your immediate reaction was to stay in your room—a straight response to those horror movies you forced yourself to watch with kaiser. but the knocks never stopped. they grew more erratic and panicked.

the moment you open the door, you’re greeted with a visibly exhausted kaiser; blond hair a tousled mess, lips swollen from biting, and blue eyes dull—which was massively different from your kaiser.

you stand frozen in front of him, unable to react or even speak, so he takes the initiative. “i’m sorry,” is the first thing kaiser mutters, quiet but loud enough for it to send a shock wave down your spine. kaiser, the emperor, is apologizing.

“what?” his eyes turn down, a clear sign that he was embarrassed. nonetheless, kaiser couldn’t care less right now. all he wanted in that moment was to cease his hopelessness and earn your love back.

“the man i am—was—isn’t somebody i’m proud of. that man hurt you; me, i hurt you,” he pauses, taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts, because frankly, he didn’t expect you to actually open the door (despite his relentless efforts). “i-i’m not good at this. forgive me, mein liebling.”

on the other hand, you’re still motionless; hand gripping the door, heart pounding, and dozens of different emotions invading your mind. “kaiser, i don’t think we should do this,” you finally whisk up the courage to say. despite still loving him with your entire being, you made it impossibly clear that you were no longer going to love him at the expense of yourself.

“wait. just hear me out, okay?” he whispers, his hand finding its way to your door, not pushing but hoping to be heard. “i didn’t know that loving something—someone—could feel so rewarding. all i know how to do is take and break, and in spite of all your attempts to see me, i pushed you away. for that, i don’t think i could ever forgive myself. you make me feel human, mein liebling, and i despise that, because i have built this monster out of malice towards the man i resent. but i also know that if i let you go here and not shove my past away for you, i wouldn’t know how to live with just myself.”

you’re stunned because despite kaiser admitting that he didn’t know how to get his feelings through to you, he was very much capable of doing just that. his message tugs at your heartstrings; after so long of rotting as you waited for him to open up, you finally get to hear the words that stemmed from his heart.

“i’m not asking you to forgive me right away, sweetheart. you know i’m a man of patience, and even though it’s killing me to wait, i’ll bide my time for as long as you want me to, because i love you. i love you so much i’d defy every rule that defines me just to have you again.” discounting the fact that this was a very big and vulnerable moment for him, the shine in kaiser’s warm blue eyes return.

you heave out a sigh. knowing that this may very well end poorly, you still wanted to give it a try. you understand kaiser’s feelings are rooted in his troublesome childhood and you want to help him, because you love him just as much as he does you. “come in, mikka,” you reply in a whisper, tugging lightly at his sleeves.

the sound of his nickname rolling off your tongue warms kaiser’s heart. he’s aware now that you don’t hate him like the little voice at the back of his head keeps telling him. you still care for him; you still love him.

kaiser huffs out a long awaited breath of relief, his heart rapidly beating against his chest. you wrap your arms around him, inhaling his intoxicating scent along with the whiskey, which is evenly stimulating. he plants a kiss atop your head, silently promising that he would do better.

OTOYA EITA ⋆｡°✩

otoya is inherently a free spirit who does anything and everything based on his own whims. that goes for everything in his life, including the amount of alcohol he was consuming.

otoya, opposite of what the media claims, is immensely loyal to you, which came to a shock to even himself. as much as he disrelished being tied down, he couldn’t even bear the thought of another woman, let alone acting on any impulses to leave. regardless of his problematic past, he willingly devoted himself to you wholeheartedly, but it still doesn't erase the very fact of what he had done; what he was capable of.

he understood the limitations of your understanding and patience when it came to his past. in fact, he was grateful you stayed as long as you did. just the thought of you brought him a sense of humility that he surprisingly liked. needless to say, otoya was still devastated when you expressed your desire to leave. he didn’t stop you—as selfish as he is, he couldn’t. not when he knew that it would permanently destroy your relationship if he pushed you any further. then life changed for the worst—just like that. he saw it coming but he didn’t expect it to be as anguishing as it was. unfortunately, it didn’t seem like otoya cared much for your discomfort any time somebody would bring up another girl he messed with; whether it be a reporter, his friends, or his teammates. regardless of your longstanding tolerance, you just couldn’t endure the thought of coming home one day to find him in bed with another woman. so you broke things off.

it felt like otoya was constantly drowning, as if the thought of you—or lack thereof—was physically pushing on his heart. every breath was a reminder that this was his karma. this was the so called 'consequences,' that everybody spoke of. everything in his apartment reminded him of you—of what he had, what he couldn’t be strong enough to handle.

otoya contemplated going to your home, but the better part of him knew you were just going to slam the door in his face—as he rightfully deserves. then he thought of calling. he desperately wanted to call, to hear your voice, but in the end he was too ashamed to do it. his finger hovered over the call button for many long, stretched out minutes before deciding against it.

so he opted to text you. it was safe, even if it went against his usual do-what-you-please attitude. you were staggered to find a text from your ex boyfriend looming on your phone after your shift. even more confusing, it was a jumbled mess full of typos and nonsense. you kept asking him what he meant and in the end, just made the choice to call him.

when otoya sees your name flashing on his screen, he pauses. with an uncharacteristically anxiousness building up in his body, he hesitates to answer. but he can’t withstand another day without hearing the soft and gentle tone of your voice.

the two of you exchange greetings before you ask, “what did you mean in your text? i’m not understanding any of it.”

his voice hitches before responding, “i miss you. i hate that i ruined this. even though i’ve ruined relationships many times, you weren’t meant to be one of them.” he’s straightforward, not giving you a chance to even process the first part before continuing. “i know my actions—or actually, the absence of it—warranted this, but i refuse to spend another day without you.”

to say you are baffled is an understatement. you knew about otoya’s playboy personality, and you knew it was unlikely for him to settle down, so hearing this not only affirmed your feelings, but also emphasized his love for you. there was no point in your relationship that he had given you a reason to doubt his loyalty, besides not respecting your boundaries about his past, and you were suddenly getting a sense of clarity out of it.

“you’re not the type of person to settle down, otoya,” you reply accompanied by a sigh. even so, you still weren’t completely sure if you should trust his words.

“i know. and i’m sorry. i should’ve started with i’m sorry. listen, i’m not used to having someone to put before myself. as much as it goes against who i am as a person, i don’t hate it because you’re part of who i am now. you’re what i look forward to during every part of my day, and if it means i get to see you and spend every day with you, then yeah, i would gladly tie myself down. i love you and that’s never going to change.” otoya, who had downed just about enough to pass him out, is suddenly sobered. this was the first time he’d ever said i love you, and it felt amazing.

hearing his confession sent your heart beating so fast you were nearly convinced you were going into cardiac arrest. his voice ringing out of your device snaps you back into reality. “i. love. you. i love you and nobody else. i can’t love anybody else. you’ve officially ruined women for me. if it’s not you, nobody else is going to ever make me feel this way again. it’s just not possible.”

“otoya…” you start, unable to find the right words to reciprocate.

you hear the strong inhale of breath he takes on the other end. “eita,” he corrects. “your eita, remember?”

you let out a breath, a chuckle following after. “yes. you’re right. but this doesn’t mean we’re okay again.”

otoya’s heart pounds against his chest. he knows. “i’m aware. i know we’ve got a long way ahead, and i’m going to prove to you that i’m the right choice.” a smile graces your lips at this until you realize the slur in his voice.

“have you been drinking?” you ask cautiously, much familiar with his habits of doing things based on the context of his surroundings.

he admits sheepishly, “yes. it doesn’t help, but it gave me the courage to text you at the very least.” you roll your eyes at his statement, simply amused.

“you texted me a string of random letters. how am i supposed to decipher that?” you question.

given his disheveled state, otoya was pretty satisfied with the outcome of this. he makes a silent promise that he wouldn’t drink again unless given permission as to appease you. but still, he doesn’t regret it. currently, he’s content. everything in the world feels just about right.

“i’m going to bed if you care to join me,” you say, piquing his undivided attention. does he? of course he does!

otoya’s green eyes light up. “are you kidding? i’d be crazy if i said no.”

“okay. we’ve got things to work on and talk through, but for now, i think we did an okay job,” you say in response, laughing at his. “and eita.”

“yes, pretty?”

“i love you.”

KARASU TABITO ⋆｡°✩

karasu is very particular and self-disciplined, rarely consuming any alcohol as it leaves him in an unguarded position, which is a massive disdain. when he does allow himself to drink, he's cautious with the amount he's ingesting; still wary of his surroundings.

as opposed to karasu's attitude toward particular individuals, he was incredibly inferior toward you, always nitpicking his own actions, and holding you on a high pedestal. while he praised and cherished even the ground you walked on, it didn't take long for you to grow exhausted of his constant criticism against others he deemed lower than him. he generally focused too much on other people's ethics.

each insult went hand in hand with the very real belief that he was clearly better. karasu didn't need to see the dismay in your usually sparkly eyes to know he was losing you. and yet, when it mattered the most, he couldn't better himself for you.

life was unbearable and nothing could take him out of this state. karasu—as he does with everything—overanalyzes every detail of your relationship, examining your exact words methodically over and over until he swore his body would simply explode without your existence in his life. a small fire lit inside of him; an ugly, burning rage that was tearing him inside out. a blazing rage that he built against himself. he was hyperaware of his bad habit of scrutinizing others, and he's trying to work it out, now more than ever.

as you exited your work place, you could spot karasu's figure in the distance. perhaps it was your exhaustion after a long day, or the hazy november air clouding your view, but you couldn't help but submit to the pull of curiousity. cautious, you took a step. and another. and then another until you could see his face excruciatingly clear.

eyebags decorated his face, his pursed lips were tucked beneath the warmth of his scarf, and his physique was slumped. you stand halted just a couple feet away, his deep blue eyes boring into yours. karasu leans off his car and takes slow and steady steps in your direction.

you clear your throat seeing him stride your way. "what brings you here, karasu?" his eyes widen just the smallest amount, his step faltering the slightest at the mention of his family name. it's not very noticeable to the public's eye, but to you—who knows him like the back of your hand—it was clear. it was a sign of karasu's image falling apart at your feet.

"i came to see ya," he says casually. except none of this is casual. him showing up at your work place the exact minute he knew you were leaving wasn't casual. him appearing to pick you up like it was routine was not casual.

you blink at him, confusion written all over your face. "why?" slips past your trembling lips.

"because i miss you. i miss ya in my bed, snugglin' in my arms, in my life. i miss everything about life when i had ya." karasu is straightforward, enunciating every word with a breath of confidence. his eyes hold a cool fire that feels like it'll burn you if you kept staring.

you bite in your lip in contemplation. "i'm not so sure about us anymore," you admit in a mutter. "i don't know if it's possible for an us." his face twists in agony.

hearing this shatters karasu's heart and the confidence he had going into this. for a moment, he considers leaving; he knows more than anyone that he wasn't even close to your league, so why should he keep pestering you? but then he's reminded of his brightening love for you—the flame that can't be doused no matter the amount of water.

"i admit that the insults i hurl at people are nothing more than a cover. i know better than anyone that i'm nothing but just a man. i'm nothin' special, but you make me feel like i am. you remind me that i have the potential to be the man i claim to be. i want to turn that into a reality, darlin'. i can promise ya i'll work harder than anyone to become a version of me that you can be proud of."

karasu can only hope that you felt the plea and begs within his message. the plea to end his torment; to take him back. he'd willingly give up football if it meant he could spend every moment—waking and unconscious—with you.

"i'm an insecure, flawed man, and you... yer everything. i'm sorry you had to witness the things i said, the things i made others feel. i'm incredibly sorry for planting doubt in yer mind; that i would ever treat you the same. because i wouldn't—i couldn't."

you peer up at karasu through your lashes, your breaths quiet, and your heart heavy. your heart longs for him, but your brain is uncertain.

at your deafening silence, karasu adds, "there's nothin' i can do right at this moment to prove what i'm sayin', but i want—need you to believe the very fact that i'm so far gone fer ya. i'm so damn in love with you, you can ask me to jump and i'll ask how high. nothin' in this world can rip me apart from ya, sweetheart."

the heat in his eyes burn brighter, and with that last statement, it burns down your walls. "okay. i'm willing to try again, but if you go back on your word, it's over for good."

"i know, darlin'. i'm grateful yer even considering this." karasu sighs a breath of relief, wasting no time nor movement to close the space between the two of you. his arms wrap around you so tight, one would think you'd disappear if he'd let go.

"i'm driving though," you declare, your voice muffled through his sweater.

"why's that, darlin'?"

"you reek of alcohol, tabito." he huffs a chuckle, handing you the keys after parting.

end notes. ꨄ︎ i'm happy with the way this fic ended, but i'm also so relieved it's finished. dare i say good riddance. if u breathe hard enough, u might catch some dust particles flying off from how long this has been rotting in my drafts

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