#she was the whole world and my whole heart

[pucksandpower]

Don’t Let Go

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: five times, spanning nearly three decades, that you and Charles held hands (a little treat for Valentine’s Day from me to you)

Warnings: mentions of Jules Bianchi’s death and depictions of labor

Based on this request

The Mediterranean sun bathes everything in warmth, and the beach is alive with laughter and the salty scent of the sea. Families dot the sand, umbrellas casting colorful spots of shade, and kids run along the shoreline, kicking up sprays of water that glint in the sunlight. You and Charles stand together, eyes wide with the thrill of the world around you, hands clasped tightly.

“Don’t let go, okay?” He says, giving your hand a little squeeze. His face is solemn, as if this is the most serious promise he’s ever made.

You nod with all the gravity a four-year-old can muster. “I won’t.”

And then his face breaks into a grin, eyes bright with excitement. “Look! Over there!” He points, and you both tilt your heads up to see a man spinning cotton candy onto a cone, a swirl of pastel pink and blue that looks like a cloud.

“Can we get some?” You ask, voice small and hopeful, like the entire day depends on this one piece of fluffy sugar.

Charles looks at you, then at the cotton candy man, then back at you. He lowers his voice, like he’s plotting something daring. “We’ll ask Maman, but … maybe we could sneak away?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, we’re not allowed.”

“Oh, fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh, as if being five years old and following rules is already exhausting. “But if we did, you’d have to hold my hand the whole time.”

“I’m already holding your hand,” you remind him, swinging his arm a little.

He laughs, and then your parents call out, reminding you both to stay close, to not let go of each other.

“We’re not letting go!” Charles calls back, his hand still firmly in yours.

Together, you walk with your families through the crowded boardwalk, weaving around beach bags and coolers, dodging groups of older kids with towels slung over their shoulders. But then, in one sudden, disorienting moment, everything changes. A group of teenagers pushes through, their laughter loud and jarring, and somehow, in the confusion, Charles’ hand slips from yours.

He realizes it just a split second too late, his fingers grasping at air. He turns, panicked, eyes wide. “Y/N?” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, and in the noise of the crowd, it’s swallowed up.

You’re gone.

Charles stands there, frozen, heart pounding. He looks around frantically, calling your name again, louder this time. “Y/N!”

He sees nothing, only the sea of legs and sunburned shoulders and wide-brimmed hats. His heart races, and his chest feels tight. He can’t lose you — not like this. He bolts back to where your parents are, his voice high-pitched and breathless.

“Maman! Y/N … she … she’s gone!”

The look on his mother’s face goes from confusion to alarm in an instant. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

“We were holding hands, but … but then-” He’s trying to explain, but the words feel sticky in his mouth, and he can barely get them out. “She’s gone! She’s not here!”

Your mother’s face pales as she clutches Charles’ arm, her eyes darting around. “Where did you last see her?”

“There!” He points back toward the spot by the cotton candy vendor, but it’s as if the place has transformed in the few seconds you’ve been gone. Nothing looks the same. Every face, every family, every child blends together into a blur.

The panic spreads, rippling through the small group of adults as they start scanning the crowd, calling your name with voices that tremble.

Charles stands rooted, clutching at his mother’s hand. It’s all his fault. He let go. He was supposed to keep you safe. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling tears start to sting at his eyes. “I didn’t mean to …”

Your father places a hand on Charles’ shoulder, his voice calm but with an edge of urgency. “Stay with your mother, Charles. We’re going to find her, okay?”

But even as the adults scatter, scanning the faces in the crowd, calling your name with increasing desperation, Charles can’t just stand there. He looks up at his mother, his voice tiny. “I want to help.”

“Charles-”

“I have to help,” he insists, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Please. I promised I wouldn’t let go.”

There’s a pause, then a nod. His mother’s grip tightens on his shoulder, as if grounding him. “Stay close, mon chéri. We’ll find her.”

Together, they start moving through the crowd, calling your name. Charles’ voice cracks each time he says it, and with every passing minute, his chest feels heavier. He keeps glancing around, hoping to see your face, to see you waving back at him with that little smile. But all he sees are strangers.

The minutes stretch, dragging into what feels like hours. He begins to wonder if maybe you’re lost forever, that maybe this is his punishment for letting go, for letting his fingers slip from yours.

And then, in the distance, he catches sight of a cluster of people gathered near a lifeguard stand. His heart skips a beat. He grabs his mother’s hand, tugging her in that direction. “There! I think … I think I see her!”

They make their way through the crowd, weaving between the umbrellas and beach chairs. As they get closer, Charles’ heart beats faster, and he barely dares to breathe. And then, finally, he sees you.

You’re sitting on the edge of a bench, a scrape on your knee, a police officer crouched in front of you with a first-aid kit. Your eyes are red, and you look so small, clutching the edge of the bench like it’s your lifeline.

“Y/N!” Charles shouts, breaking into a run.

You look up, and the relief that washes over your face makes his heart soar. Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s running up to you, arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry!”

You sniff, burying your face in his shoulder, and for a moment, the two of you just cling to each other, letting the world fall away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, though your voice wobbles a little.

Charles pulls back just enough to look at your scraped knee, his face scrunched up in worry. “Does it hurt?”

You nod, biting your lip. “A little.”

“I shouldn’t have let go,” he says, voice choked with guilt. “I promised I wouldn’t.”

You reach for his hand, holding it tightly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

But he shakes his head, and there’s a fierce determination in his eyes. “I’m never letting go again,” he says, as if the promise itself is enough to keep you safe.

The adults gather around, relieved but still shaken, fussing over you and asking if you’re alright. But for Charles, none of that matters. All he cares about is that you’re here, safe, with his hand in yours.

And this time, he’s never letting go.

***

The sky is a steely gray, heavy with clouds that seem to press down on the earth. There’s a chill in the air, one that makes the hairs on your arms stand up as you stand at the back of the chapel, your hand locked in Charles’. His grip is firm, steady, and you cling to it like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground.

There’s a silence that fills the chapel, a thick, suffocating silence punctuated only by soft sobs and the occasional clearing of a throat. People fill the pews, faces somber, eyes red-rimmed. Friends, family, teammates — people who loved Jules, people who are hurting. But none of it quite feels real. Like you’re stuck in some strange dream that you can’t wake up from.

Charles squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that’s meant to be soothing. He leans in close, voice barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the casket at the front of the room, draped with flowers, a picture of Jules propped up beside it. “No,” you murmur. “I don’t … I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”

Charles’ hand tightens around yours. “Me neither.”

The words hang between you, a shared understanding, a grief that you both carry but can’t seem to put into words. You look up at him, at the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes are fixed forward, like he’s afraid to let his emotions show. And yet his hand never leaves yours.

The service begins, a series of voices taking turns, sharing memories, stories that make people laugh, others that draw out quiet tears. You sit through it all, barely moving, your hand clenched in Charles’ so tightly that your fingers start to go numb. But you don’t let go. You can’t let go. Not now.

When it’s time for your parents to speak, you feel yourself tense, fighting back the tears that have been threatening to spill over all morning. Your mother’s voice cracks as she starts, her words halting, her grief so raw it’s like a wound ripped open. You stare down at your lap, feeling the weight of it all press down on your chest.

Charles leans over, voice low and soothing. “If you want to leave, just say the word, alright?”

You shake your head, blinking back tears. “No … I want to stay. I need to stay.”

He nods, pulling you closer, and you feel his arm around your shoulders, warm and steady. “Okay. I’m right here.”

The room blurs, faces and voices blending together. Your mind drifts, memories of Jules flashing through your mind, moments you thought you’d have forever but now feel so achingly out of reach. His laugh, the way he used to ruffle your hair, the way he’d tease you and then instantly apologize whenever he saw you starting to get annoyed. The last time you saw him, hugging him goodbye before he left for his race, the way he promised to bring you back a souvenir from Japan. And now he’s gone, and it feels impossible to wrap your head around.

You glance at Charles, who’s staring ahead, his expression stoic but his eyes filled with pain. He’s hurting, too. You know how close he was with Jules, how much he looked up to his godfather. And somehow, even in his own grief, he’s here, holding you up.

When the service ends, everyone slowly files out of the chapel, moving in a quiet procession to the gravesite. Charles doesn’t let go of your hand, guiding you through the crowd with a quiet determination, shielding you from the sympathetic looks and soft murmurs of condolences.

As you stand by the gravesite, surrounded by people but feeling more alone than ever, Charles keeps you grounded. You barely hear the words the priest is saying, barely register the people around you. All you can focus on is Charles’ hand in yours, his steady presence, the way he keeps glancing over at you, checking to make sure you’re okay.

And then, the moment comes. Charles takes a deep breath, his hand slipping from yours for the first time since you arrived at the chapel. He gives you a look, one that’s filled with so much understanding and pain and strength that it nearly breaks you all over again.

“I have to go,” he says softly, his voice choked.

You nod, even though you don’t want him to leave. “I know.”

He hesitates, looking at you like he wants to say something more, but the words seem to catch in his throat. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers. “I promise.”

And then he’s gone, moving to join the other men, their faces grim as they prepare to carry the casket. You watch as they lift it, your heart twisting with every step they take, each one a reminder of the finality of it all. It’s real now, in a way that it wasn’t before.

Jules is really gone.

You stand there, watching as they carry him to his final resting place, feeling like your heart is breaking into a million pieces. Tears blur your vision, and you quickly wipe them away, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no hiding from the pain.

When they lower the casket into the ground, you feel a fresh wave of grief wash over you. It’s like losing him all over again, like the wound has been ripped open and there’s no way to stop the bleeding. You cover your mouth, a sob escaping despite your best efforts.

And then, suddenly, Charles is there again, slipping his hand back into yours, pulling you close. His own eyes are red, his face streaked with tears he can no longer hold back. He wraps his arm around you, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, clinging to each other, letting the grief wash over you.

You bury your face in his shoulder, letting yourself cry, letting yourself feel the full weight of it all. Charles holds you tightly, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, his voice a soft murmur. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

You don’t know how long you stand like that, lost in the pain, but eventually, the crowd starts to disperse, people offering quiet words of sympathy before leaving. You barely register any of it, your focus entirely on Charles, on the way he keeps holding you, grounding you.

When it’s just the two of you left by the gravesite, Charles finally pulls back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looks at you, his expression soft but filled with an intensity you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I don’t have the right words for this.”

You shake your head, your own voice barely a whisper. “There aren’t any right words.”

He nods, swallowing hard, and then, after a moment, he takes your hand again. “Do you want to sit? Or … walk?”

“Walk, I think,” you say, your voice shaky.

He leads you away from the gravesite, his hand still holding yours, and the two of you walk in silence for a while, the weight of the day pressing down on you like a physical thing. The cemetery is quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, and you let the calmness settle over you, soothing some of the ache in your chest.

After a while, Charles speaks, his voice soft. “I miss him too, you know.”

You look up at him, surprised. “I know.”

He hesitates, looking down at his feet. “I looked up to him. He was … I don’t know. He was like a second big brother.”

You nod, understanding completely. “He was the best. He always made everything seem … possible.”

Charles smiles, a bittersweet expression that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. He did.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, letting the silence fill the space between you. And then Charles lets out a shaky breath, his hand tightening around yours. “I’m not going anywhere, you know. I’m here. For whatever you need.”

You feel a fresh wave of tears prick at your eyes, but this time, it’s not just from grief. There’s something else there, something warmer, something that feels like hope.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

He nods, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a gentle, comforting way. “We’ll get through this,” he says quietly. “Together.”

And somehow, standing there with Charles, his hand in yours, you believe him.

***

The paddock buzzes with energy — the sound of engines mixing with the hum of reporters and the fast-paced clatter of team members shuffling between garages. The air is thick with the scent of fuel, rubber, and anticipation. But for all the excitement and all the people around, Charles only seems to have eyes for you.

He’s been gripping your hand tightly since you both walked through the gates, his eyes flicking nervously over every inch of the bustling scene as if he’s trying to take it all in at once.

“You okay?” You ask, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, of course,” he says quickly, but his voice betrays him, a touch higher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a knowing look. “Charles …”

“What? I am,” he insists, flashing you a grin that’s a little too bright, a little too quick. “I mean … you’re okay, right?” His tone shifts, softer, more concerned. “I know how you get sometimes with all the noise and people.”

You almost laugh but hold back, letting him keep up the charade. “I’m fine.”

He glances around, still keeping a firm grip on your hand as he leads you down the paddock walk. “I just don’t want you to be … I don’t know, uncomfortable or something. This place is … chaotic.”

You glance at him, taking in the way his jaw is clenched, his brows drawn together. “I think I’ll manage,” you say, your tone soft, teasing. “If anything, I think you might be the one who’s a little uncomfortable.”

His head jerks up, and he looks at you with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “Me? Uncomfortable? No, not at all.”

You smile, brushing a thumb over the back of his hand. “Good to know, because I’d hate for you to be nervous or anything.”

He clears his throat, casting a quick glance around as if looking for a way to escape the conversation. “Well, I’m not,” he says, his voice firm, though he still refuses to let go of your hand. “I’m just … making sure you’re okay.”

“Of course you are,” you say, unable to hold back your grin.

He leads you toward his team’s hospitality suite, and you can see the Alfa Romeo logo emblazoned on the side. He hesitates at the door, glancing at you as if he’s not sure if he should go in or not.

“I’ll be right here,” you reassure him, squeezing his hand again.

He nods, but instead of letting go, he steps closer, looking down at you with that soft, serious expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

You tilt your head, amused. “Where would I even go?”

“I don’t know. Just … promise.”

“Promise.”

That seems to settle him, at least a little. He takes a deep breath, nodding to himself before pushing the door open and leading you inside. The room is a hive of activity — strategists and engineers clustered around screens, mechanics talking in low voices as they discuss parts and plans.

“Charles! You made it!” A tall man with a headset and clipboard hurries over, offering him a firm handshake. “Ready for your first big day?”

Charles nods, but his hand tightens around yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.”

The man’s eyes flicker to you, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Ah, and who do we have here?”

Charles glances at you, then back at the man, standing a little straighter. “This is Y/N,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet pride. “She’s … she’s here with me.”

“Ah, got it,” the man says, giving you a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Y/N. Quite a day to be here, huh?”

You nod, giving a small smile. “It’s definitely … exciting.”

Charles looks at you, his expression softening. “Yeah, she’s a bit nervous, so … I thought it’d be good if she could stick around.”

You bite back a smile, deciding not to correct him. If he wants to pretend that you’re the one with nerves jangling out of control, you’ll let him. “You’re very thoughtful, Charles.”

He grins, looking relieved, as if your words have eased some hidden weight off his shoulders. “Well, someone’s got to keep you calm, right?”

The team member chuckles, clapping Charles on the shoulder. “You’re in good hands, then.”

As the man walks away, Charles pulls you closer, lowering his voice. “See? I told you I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

You roll your eyes but squeeze his hand, letting him believe his little fiction for now. He needs this, you can tell — needs you here, needs the quiet reassurance of your presence.

He leads you through the paddock, his grip on your hand never faltering. Every so often, he pauses to introduce you to someone, his voice filled with a quiet pride each time he says, “This is Y/N, my girlfriend.”

You smile and nod, feeling the warmth in his words, the way he seems to draw strength from saying them out loud. Each introduction, each little moment, seems to ease some of the tension in his shoulders.

Eventually, you make your way to the garage, where his car is waiting, sleek and gleaming under the bright lights. Charles stops in his tracks, his gaze fixed on the car, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and nerves.

“Wow,” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper.

You look up at him, watching the way his expression shifts, the excitement and fear flickering across his face. “You okay?”

He nods slowly, not taking his eyes off the car. “Yeah … yeah, I am.”

For a moment, he seems lost in thought, his hand loosening in yours as he stares at the car. Then, as if snapping out of a trance, he turns to you, his expression softening. “Can you stay right here? I just … need to check something real quick.”

“Of course,” you say, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go.

He steps forward, reaching out to touch the car, his fingers brushing over the cool metal. You watch as he takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, and you can almost feel the weight of his emotions — this dream he’s been chasing for so long, finally within reach.

After a few minutes, he turns back to you, his face a little calmer, a little more settled. He walks over, taking your hand again without a word, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

“For what?”

“For being here. For … everything.”

You smile, leaning into him. “Always.”

He nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”

“You’d be fine, Charles,” you say, nudging him playfully. “But I’m glad you want me here.”

He chuckles, his fingers threading through yours. “I’d probably be a wreck without you.”

You both stand there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around you. And then, suddenly, one of his engineers approaches, clipboard in hand, looking a little flustered.

“Charles, we need you in the strategy meeting. Now.”

Charles tenses, his grip on your hand tightening. “Right … okay.”

The engineer hesitates, his gaze flickering to you. “It’s … it’s a closed meeting. I’m sorry, but your guest can’t come in.”

Charles’ face falls, a slight pout forming as he looks down at you, his expression almost pleading. “But … she’s with me.”

The team member shifts uncomfortably. “I understand, but it’s policy. Only team members and essential personnel.”

Charles’ pout deepens, his eyes fixed on the man. “But she’s … she’s my good luck charm. And besides, she’s nervous.”

You stifle a laugh, watching as Charles’ pout turns into a full-fledged puppy-dog look. It’s so endearing, and clearly, the team member is wavering.

“Please?” Charles says, his voice soft, almost childlike. “Just this once?”

The team member sighs, glancing between you and Charles before finally relenting. “Fine. But she has to sign a confidentiality agreement. A dozen of them, actually.”

Charles’ face lights up, and he turns to you, grinning. “See? You get to come with me.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Well, if I’m signing my life away…”

He leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Thank you.”

Together, you follow the team member into the conference room, where a stack of paperwork awaits. Charles never lets go of your hand, even as you pick up the pen, signing each NDA with his fingers intertwined with yours.

As you finish the last signature, Charles looks at you, his eyes filled with a quiet, grateful warmth. “Now we’re ready,” he says softly, his voice steady, sure.

And as you walk into the meeting room together, hand in hand, you know that, no matter what happens out on the track, you’ll be by his side — just as you’ve always been.

***

The lights pulse in dizzying shades of blue and red, the music thrumming deep enough to shake the walls of the crowded club. The place is packed — friends, family, team members, strangers all shoulder to shoulder, all there for one reason: to celebrate Charles’ win at the Monaco Grand Prix. His first home victory. The energy is electric, and the night feels like a dream he’s been waiting his whole life to have.

Charles is beside you, his arm draped heavily around your shoulders, his hand gripping yours like he’ll lose himself if he lets go. His eyes are bright, and his laughter fills the air as he turns to you for the hundredth time tonight.

“Can you believe it?” He shouts over the music, eyes wide, dazed with disbelief and the effects of far too many celebratory drinks. “We did it! I did it!”

“You did, Charles!” You say, grinning up at him, matching his energy. “You won Monaco. Your home race!”

He lets out a roar of joy, pulling you close, swaying unsteadily as he laughs. “Home race!” He echoes, like he’s trying to savor the words, rolling them over his tongue. “Did you see it, though? Did you see it happen?”

“I saw it,” you assure him, laughing. “I think everyone saw it!”

He laughs, a sound so bright it’s almost childlike, and then he leans close, lowering his voice like he’s about to share a secret with you. “I really thought I’d never get it, you know? It’s Monaco. It’s just … Monaco.”

You squeeze his hand. “You deserved this one. More than anyone else.”

He tilts his head, considering your words, his gaze unfocused but sincere. “Do you really think so?”

“Of course I do,” you say, your voice strong enough to cut through the noise, and he nods, satisfied, the smile on his face softer now, less manic.

But then someone calls his name from across the room, and Charles is yanked back into the whirlwind. He lifts his drink — something fizzy and definitely too strong — and waves it around with a cheer. The crowd erupts in applause, chanting his name like he’s royalty.

“Charles! Charles! Charles!”

He takes a deep gulp of his drink, wincing as he swallows, then laughs, shaking his head as if he can’t believe any of this is real. “All these people …” he mutters, glancing at you with a slightly drunken smile. “Do they even know me? Really?”

You chuckle, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “I think they know you well enough to celebrate. Besides,” you tease, “I’m here. That should be enough, right?”

“More than enough,” he says, his gaze fixed on you, intense even in his inebriated state. “You’re … you’re the reason I’m even here.”

You laugh, brushing it off, but he shakes his head, suddenly serious.

“No, really.” His words are slurred but sincere. “You — remember all those times I thought I’d never make it? You were there. And now look at us. Monaco! My Monaco.”

You smile, feeling the warmth of his words, the affection that cuts through the chaos of the club. “I’m so proud of you.”

He grins, his face lighting up like he’s just won all over again. “Say that again.”

“I’m so proud of you, Charles.”

He beams, then tugs you closer, spinning you in a clumsy half-circle that nearly sends both of you toppling over. “You’re coming with me, always. Even if I’m-” He fumbles for words, laughing. “Even if I’m old and can’t drive anymore. You’re coming with me.”

“Wherever you go,” you say softly, humoring him as he wobbles, leaning his full weight against you.

“Wherever I go,” he repeats, nodding as if this is the most important promise he’s ever made. He glances down at your joined hands, lifting them for a moment as if to check they’re still there. Then, just as quickly, he clutches them to his chest. “You’re my good luck charm, you know that?”

“You’ve told me,” you say, laughing. “Probably about fifty times tonight.”

“Then fifty-one,” he declares, raising your hand like he’s holding a trophy. “You’re my good luck charm!”

“Okay, Charles,” you say, glancing around at the curious looks people are starting to give you. “Maybe a little less shouting?”

He scoffs, his face scrunching up in indignation. “Shouting? I’m not shouting!” Then he laughs at himself, realizing he’s practically yelling.

You shake your head, laughing as he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “But really,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “Thank you for everything. I wouldn’t have done any of this without you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you feel your throat tighten, emotions welling up. But before you can respond, someone else is clapping him on the back, dragging him back into the raucous celebration. He goes willingly, laughing as he lifts his drink again, but he doesn’t let go of your hand — not for a second.

People congratulate him, hug him, raise their glasses in his honor, and through it all, he keeps glancing over at you, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re still there, that this night, this victory, isn’t a dream he’ll wake up from.

“Charles!” An old friend shouts, clinking his glass against Charles’. “How’s it feel to finally win your home race?”

Charles laughs, tipping his head back. “Feels amazing! Like … like nothing else!”

Another friend chimes in, “And you’ve got the best date to celebrate with, huh?” He winks at you, raising his glass.

Charles nods, his grin widening as he wraps an arm around you, his hand still holding yours. “The very best,” he says proudly, his words a little slurred. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, but you just smile, squeezing his hand. “I’m lucky to be here with you.”

He laughs, leaning in so close that his forehead brushes yours. “Not as lucky as me.”

And then, in one swift, impulsive move, he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment. It’s sweet and almost innocent, and despite the noisy club, it feels like a quiet, private moment just between the two of you.

He looks at you, eyes soft, the drunken haze giving his expression a kind of unguarded warmth. “Promise me something?”

You nod. “Anything.”

“Promise you’ll be with me next year, too. For the next Monaco. And the next … and the one after that.”

You laugh, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “I think I can manage that.”

“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting closed as he rests his forehead against yours. “That’s all I need. Just you … and Monaco.”

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady. “And maybe a bit of sleep.”

He groans, shaking his head. “Sleep? No, no … we have to … keep celebrating! I mean, it’s Monaco!”

But despite his protests, his eyelids are starting to droop, his body leaning more heavily against you.

“Charles,” you say gently, guiding him to a quieter corner of the club. “Maybe we can take a little break?”

He mumbles something incoherent, his head resting on your shoulder, his hand still holding yours in a loose but unbreakable grip. Even in his exhaustion, he refuses to let go, as if the victory, the night, everything will disappear if he loosens his hold.

“Just … five minutes,” he mutters, his voice soft. “Then … more dancing.”

You smile, brushing a gentle hand over his hair. “Five minutes.”

But as he drifts off, his breathing evening out, you know he won’t be getting up for any more dancing tonight. He’s given everything — his heart, his soul, his strength — to this race, and now, finally, he’s at peace.

You sit there with him, holding his hand, listening to the muffled thrum of the music, and you realize that, in his own way, he’s won more than just a race. He’s found a sense of belonging, of fulfillment, a piece of himself he’d been chasing for so long.

And as you sit together, the noise of the club fading into the background, you feel that same sense of peace. You’re here, with him, exactly where you’re meant to be.

***

The hospital room feels impossibly small, filled with sounds of beeping monitors, the hum of the fluorescent lights, and the murmured voices of nurses and doctors. But for you, it’s all a blur — just flashes of movement and noise as you lie there, clutching Charles’ hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

His grip is firm, steady. He’s been by your side since the contractions started hours ago, and now, with each excruciating wave of pain, he tightens his hold, murmuring to you softly, his words meant only for you.

“Breathe,” he says quietly, as if he can breathe for you. “You’re doing amazing.”

You grit your teeth, feeling another contraction start to build, a pressure so intense it’s as if your entire body is caught in its grip. “This doesn’t … feel amazing,” you manage to say, your voice strained.

Charles chuckles softly, though you can see the tension in his eyes, the worry that’s been there since you first squeezed his hand, hours ago. “I know,” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “But you are. I promise.”

You close your eyes, focusing on his words, on the warmth of his hand in yours. For a moment, it distracts you, gives you something to hold onto in the midst of the pain. But then the contraction peaks, and you’re squeezing his hand so hard you hear him suck in a sharp breath.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, the pain so intense it’s blinding. “I’m so sorry … your hand-”

He just shakes his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice gentle. “Just focus on you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to stay,” you say, half-laughing, half-crying as the contraction finally starts to ease. “You can go … take a break or something.”

His expression softens, and he leans in close, his eyes locked on yours. “Are you kidding? You think I’d leave you now?”

You shake your head, managing a breathless laugh. “I don’t know how you’re not terrified.”

“Oh, I am,” he admits with a grin, glancing at the nurse nearby, who raises an amused eyebrow. “But you’re stronger than me. I have to keep up.”

The nurse chuckles softly, patting you on the shoulder. “You’re in the home stretch now, almost there. Just a little longer.”

“A little longer,” you echo, glancing at Charles, trying to find the strength to keep going. “Okay … I can do that.”

He nods, his hand never loosening from yours. “Of course you can. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Another contraction hits, and the pain tears through you like fire. You can feel your grip on his hand tighten again, your nails digging into his skin. “I’m sorry,” you gasp, but it’s all you can manage. The pain is blinding, all-consuming.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. “Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, his voice calm, steady. “You hold on as tight as you need to.”

“Charles …” Your voice is choked, and you can feel tears prickling at your eyes. “This … this is …”

“I know,” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “But you’re doing it. You’re so close.”

The doctor speaks softly to you, offering encouragement, but all you can focus on is the feel of Charles’ hand in yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He’s been there through everything — every fear, every doubt — and now, here he is again, steady, unwavering.

Another contraction builds, and this time it’s different. The pressure feels like it’s reaching its breaking point, like something’s about to give. You squeeze his hand harder than ever, and he leans in, his forehead resting against yours as he murmurs, “Just a little longer. You’ve got this.”

You close your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his breath, the feel of his hand, and push with everything you have. The room fills with noise — your own cries, the encouraging voices around you — and then, finally, there’s a new sound. A tiny, piercing wail that cuts through everything.

You open your eyes, gasping, and see the doctor holding a small, wriggling bundle. Charles’ hand is still in yours, his face pale, his eyes wide with something like awe as he stares at the baby. “Is that …”

“That’s your son,” the nurse says, beaming as she places the little bundle in your arms.

You’re exhausted, every muscle in your body aching, but as you look down at the tiny face, your heart swells with a love so fierce it’s almost painful. You glance up at Charles, tears shining in your eyes, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Look at him,” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. “Just … look.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek as you cradle the baby close, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You glance down, realizing you’re still clutching his hand in a death grip. “I think … I nearly broke your hand,” you say, laughing softly, tears blurring your vision.

Charles laughs, glancing down at your intertwined fingers, his own knuckles white from the pressure. “I’d let you do it a thousand times over,” he says softly, his voice filled with all the love and pride in the world. “For this moment … I’d happily let you.”

[cressidagrey]

The mysterious Mrs. Piastri

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming for a Valentine's Day Treat. Remember that video where Oscar was asked "Get married or get a tattoo?" Well, it showed up on my FYP and I was like..:WAIT

Summary: 

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Easy. Straightforward. Oscar barely had to think before responding, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Because one second later, Lando spat out his drink.

“YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned, confused. “What? No.”

Lando, looking equal parts betrayed and horrified, pointed an accusing finger. “Mate, I’ve seen you in swim trunks. There’s no way you have a tattoo. Where is it?”

Oscar frowned. “I don’t have a tattoo.”

Lando’s face twisted in confusion. “But you just said—” He stopped. His eyes widened. Oscar could see the moment his brain caught up.

“WAIT. WAIT.” Lando practically jumped out of his seat. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” Lando looked genuinely stunned, his mouth hanging open in shock. 

Oscar nodded, calm as ever. “Yeah.”

Lando’s reaction was not calm. Lando let out a strangled, guttural noise, kind of sounding like an indignant cat.

“WHAT?!”

The interviewer, who had been mostly observing up until now, leaned forward, eyes shining with the excitement of a woman who had just stumbled upon the biggest scoop of the season. “Okay, hold on. You mean married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar frowned. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands were now on his head, his entire world seemingly crumbling around him. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged. “A while now.”

The crowd lost it. The interviewer looked like Christmas had come early. The McLaren PR team, wherever they were, was probably having a collective heart attack.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU HAD A GIRLFRIEND.”

Oscar frowned. “You know that," he told Lando pointedly.

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT,” Lando shouted. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oh well. Oscar just shrugged. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando let out a hysterical laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. No, no. You’re telling me you have a freaking WIFE?!”

The interviewer seized the moment. “Okay, no, we need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Since we were 15."

Lando made a strangled noise. “15?! YOU’VE BEEN WITH HER SINCE YOU WERE 15?!”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

The interviewer looked delighted. “How did you meet?”

Oscar tilted his head. “School?”

Lando groaned and turned to the audience. “Look at this guy. Look at him. Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course.”

The interviewer pressed on. “When did you get married?”

Oscar shrugged. “When I was 18.”

The entire crowd erupted. Fans were screaming, phones were recording, and McLaren PR was definitely hyperventilating somewhere.

Lando, meanwhile, looked like his whole world had just collapsed in real-time.

“You—you got MARRIED at EIGHTEEN?!” he wheezed. “WHY?!”

Oscar looked at him like he was stupid.  “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

The interviewer cooed over the answer. Lando physically recoiled. “What, like straight out of high school?!”

Oscar frowned. “Not straight out of high school. We waited a bit.”

“HOW LONG IS A BIT?!” Lando demanded.

Oscar thought about it. “Like… three weeks after graduation?”

Lando let out a strangled noise. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, OSCAR. THAT’S BASICALLY IMMEDIATELY.”

Lando dramatically fell back in his chair. The interviewer, meanwhile, was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Okay, okay, follow-up question—how did you propose?”

Oscar thought about it. “I asked her to marry me.”

The interviewer stared. “…That’s it?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “UNBELIEVABLE.”

The interviewer, trying desperately to salvage something remotely romantic, asked, “Where did you propose?”

Oscar, as if this were a perfectly reasonable answer, said, “Uh. At home?”

The interviewer looked at him. "...At home?"

"On the bed," Oscar added.

Lando looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.

The crowd groaned. The interviewer looked physically pained. Lando just laughed in disbelief. “I knew you’d be the most unromantic bastard alive.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

Lando wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “That poor woman.”

The interviewer shook her head in awe. “Oscar, mate, I have to ask—how did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?”

Oscar blinked. “No one asked?”

Lando just screamed.

The interviewer, who had completely abandoned all pretense of professionalism, leaned forward. “Okay, wait, wait, who is she?”

Oscar blinked. “My wife?”

Lando threw up his hands. “YES, OBVIOUSLY, but who is she? What’s her name? Where’s she from? What does she do?”

Oscar's forehead creased. "Is that... relevant?"

The interviewer just about had a stroke. Lando looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

The fans were losing their freaking minds.

Lando nearly fell out of his chair. “YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND I’VE NEVER MET HER.”

“I mean, I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!” Lando yelled. “BECAUSE IT WASN’T OBVIOUS TO ME.”

Oscar just shrugged. 

Lando groaned. “Mate, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE EXISTED!”

Lando looked like he was seconds from grabbing Oscar and shaking him until some kind of information fell out. "Okay, I can't believe I have to ask this, but why the hell didn't you tell me?”

"I thought you knew," Oscar answered simply.

Lando just gaped. "How on earth would I have known?"

Oscar shrugged. The interviewer, meanwhile, was leaning closer, clearly invested in the whole thing now.

Lando, apparently having had enough, decided on a different tactic. Lando pointed at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting away with this. You are going to introduce me to your wife.”

Oscar sighed, clearly knowing a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine,” he said after a moment.

Lando sat back, satisfied. “Good.” Then he paused. “Wait—does anyone else know? Like, do the team know?”

Oscar shrugged. “I think Zak does.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “Why does Zak get to know?!”

Oscar pointed out, “Because he’s my boss?”

The interviewer, clearly having thrown all professionalism out the window, was just enjoying the chaos. Lando looked like he wanted to scream. “But I’m your friend!”

Somewhere in the background, McLaren PR was probably losing their minds, trying to figure out how to handle the fact that Oscar Piastri, their quiet, low-maintenance driver, had accidentally revealed he’d been married since he was 18.

Not Oscar’s problem, though...After he escaped Lando Norris' clutches.

He had a wife to call after all.

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, love,” she greeted, her face appearing on screen. She was sitting in their apartment, hair tied up, wearing one of his hoodies. 

Oscar felt himself relax immediately. “Hey.”

She smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”

Oscar sighed. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar shook his head. "I thought he did."

She let out a small laugh at that. "How the hell did you think he knew?"

Oscar shrugged. "I dunno. We've been married for, what, five years now? How could he not know?"

Her smile widened. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're about as romantic as a cactus?"

Oscar let out a huff. "I can be romantic."

Before she could respond, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar sighed through his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly seconds away from laughing. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE EXACTLY THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND—”

Oscar hung his head. “Yes.”

She was laughing now, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad because it was an adorable sound.

The banging continued. “I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE. STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “You should probably let him in before he tries to break the door down.”

Oscar debated not letting him in, but realistically, Lando would either A) find a way in, or B) make this everyone else’s problem.

So, with a long-suffering sigh, he got up and opened the door.

Lando barreled in immediately, eyes wild.

“WHERE IS SHE?!?” he demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar sighed, holding up the phone. “She’s on FaceTime, you absolute lunatic.”

Lando’s head whipped around, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the couch. He pushed past Oscar with a huff, then stared, wide-eyed, at the phone.

Lando was silent. For once.

His wife was, bless her soul, doing her best to fight her laughter at the look on Lando’s face. “Hi,” she said. “You must be Lando.”

Lando just continued to gape.

Then, slowly, he pointed an accusatory finger at the screen. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

Lando turned to Oscar, looking personally betrayed. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “And you married him? At eighteen?!?”

She smiled. “Yep.”

Lando reeled. “WHY?!”

She tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

His wife stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar sighed. “Lando—”

Lando pointed at the phone. “I need to meet her.”

Oscar sighed. “Fine. Silverstone.”

Lando gasped. “Really?!?”

Oscar deadpanned. “No, I just said it for fun.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you at Silverstone.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to his wife, who was fully laughing.

“I love Lando,” she said. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Posted: 1 day ago

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 15. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

She’s still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???

↪️ @/mrspiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @mrspiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/lanoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of. ↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/mrspiastri: 10/10, would marry him again. (Even if he forgets to tell people.) ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

@/mrspiastri

Posted: 2h ago

Caption:

"So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love (and slightly impulsive).

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of three years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer? 10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments: 

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/paddockinsider: Be so honest. What did people say when they found out you guys eloped? @/mrspiastri: Oh, everyone thought we were insane. Random people who barely knew us were convinced we’d crash and burn. Now we get a lot of, ‘Wow, you guys really made it work.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Wasn’t hard.

@/f1obsessed: Did you guys ever break up? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. Not once. Not even a ‘we were on a break’ situation. We’ve been together since we were 15, which is wild when I think about it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere lol. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/gridgossip: So who knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark. Andrea. Probably Zak? Our families, obviously. And, um. That might be it?

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: “OBVIOUS TO WHO??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/f1insider: We need more details about Mark Webber finding out. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I swear I saw his soul leave his body. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Didn’t seem necessary to tell him at the time ↪️@/landonorris: “HOW IS MARRIAGE NOT NECESSARY INFORMATION???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark Webber sat Oscar down like a disappointed dad and was like, ‘Mate. How do you just… forget to mention you’re married? ↪️@/mclarenupdates: “And what did Oscar say??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: “He just shrugged and went, ‘Not really relevant to racing. ↪️@/landonorris: “I NEED TO LIE DOWN.”

@/paddockdrama: People always joke that Oscar is a robot. Does that ever bother him? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. I once asked him and he just shrugged and went ‘Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone as long as you know how much I love you.’ ↪️@/landonorris: NO BECAUSE WHERE WAS THIS ENERGY WHEN I TOLD HIM I GOT P2 AND HE JUST WENT ‘NICE’??? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It was nice.

@/paddockgossip: “Did ANY other drivers know???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/foreverf1: Wait, I need to know—who said ‘I love you’ first? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar did. Completely out of nowhere, too. We were 16, lying on the floor doing homework, and he just looked over and went, ‘Oh. I love you.’ Like he just realized it in real time.

@/f1teaqueen: Okay but like… NO COLD FEET?? Not even a little?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. We were 100% sure.

@/wildforwags: Who actually officiated your wedding?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Some very lovely lady at a London registry office. She called us ‘sweethearts’ and I think she knew we were completely insane, but she was very supportive about it.

@/racewifematerial: What did you wear?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A white sundress I bought the week before. Oscar wore a suit that was slightly too big because he borrowed it last-minute. We looked like two teenagers who ran away from home, which, to be fair… we kinda did.

@/formula1fangirl: Who took the wedding photos? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We handed a disposable camera to two very confused tourists outside the registry office. They did a great job.

@/landoandchaos: Oscar, babe, how did you manage to keep this from your friend for FIVE YEARS? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Listen, Oscar is elite at two things: racing and not offering information unless directly asked.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/fastandflawless: Be honest, did you ever have a moment of ‘Oh my god, I married an 18-year-old racing driver, what have I done’?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really? I mean, other people definitely thought we were nuts, but we knew exactly what we were doing. The real crisis moment was a few months later when I realized I’d have to file taxes as a married person.

@/waggossip: “Did Oscar have a big, romantic proposal, or was it just like, ‘Wanna get married?’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar woke up one morning, looked at me, and said, ‘We should get married. Logically, it makes sense.’ ↪️@/f1softies: YOU’RE JOKING. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I was like, ‘Okay?’ And he said, ‘Great, I’ll book an appointment.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: So let me get this straight. No knee. No ring. Just ‘We should get married.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Correct. ↪️@/f1wifeguys: And you weren’t even a little mad?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nah, I thought it was funny. If he’d done some big, dramatic proposal, I’d have thought he was concussed. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Please tell me he at least got a ring after that. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He did! We picked one out together. It has both our birthstones.

@/paddocktea: Okay, but does he ever get super romantic out of nowhere?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. Once, when I was really stressed out, he just looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m always going to be here.’ ↪️@/f1wifeguys: STOP THAT’S SO SWEET.

@/paddockinsider: What’s the most uncharacteristically romantic thing he’s ever said? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were lying in bed once, just scrolling on our phones, and out of nowhere he goes, ‘You know, no matter how my life turned out, I think I would’ve found you in every version of it.’ And then he just went back to reading about Formula 2 tire degradation like he hadn’t just ruined me.

@/backmarkerbrigade: “So, like, what did you do after you got married? Fancy dinner? Celebratory champagne?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: ...Sandwichs at Pret-a-manger

@/gridlove: What’s the most Oscar Piastri way he’s ever told you he loves you? ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time he texted me ‘You’re my favorite human’ completely out of the blue. No context. No follow-up. Just that. It was adorable.

@/pitlaneprincess: Who cried more at the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Me. Oscar was annoyingly composed. He did squeeze my hand really tight when we said our vows, though.

@/drsforlove: “This man has been giving post-race interviews like ‘Yeah, good race, car felt good’ and then just casually drops a wife like it’s a tire strategy.

@/wildforwags: What’s something you wish you had done for the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly, nothing. It was chaotic, but it was ours.

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/paddockprincess: Wait, so how did Oscar’s family react to you guys getting married so young? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? They were really supportive. His mum just went, ‘That makes sense,’ and his dad laughed. Oscar’s family has always been the ‘if you’re happy, we’re happy’ type. ↪️@/oscarpiastriupdates: “So no dramatic reactions from the Piastris??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: “The most dramatic reaction was his mum sighing and saying, ‘You two are hopeless.’ But she meant it fondly.”

@/chaosinthepaddock: What about your family? 👀 ↪️@/mrspiastri: Ah. Well. See, they did not get over it in five minutes. ↪️@/f1tea: Omg. HOW mad were they??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Very. Like, ‘multiple angry phone calls’ mad. Like, ‘we refuse to speak to you for years’ mad.” ↪️@/landonorris: Did they actually say you were ruining your life? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, yes. There was a lot of dramatic ‘you’re throwing your future away’ speeches. Which was funny, because my future was literally the same, just with more love and an Australian husband. ↪️@/piastrination: Did Oscar ever try to talk to them about it? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, he tried. But Oscar is Oscar, so he just very calmly said, ‘I love her, we’re married, and that’s not changing.’ Which, surprisingly, did not make them less angry. ↪️@/f1gossip: Have they come around since then? ↪️@/mrspiastri: No.

@/landonorris: Lando’s reaction when he found out vs. your family’s reaction when they found out—who had the bigger meltdown?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, my family by far. Lando was just confused—my relatives were furious.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: “This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.”

@/f1softies: “The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.”

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: “Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: “Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.”

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/mrspiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/mrspiastri: To be fair, you two were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He still does that, btw. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/jehannadaruvala: “The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/jehannadaruvala: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/ollicaldwell: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1softies: Okay but does he ever have romantic moments?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. They just happen out of nowhere and leave me emotionally ruined. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Example, please. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I was having a bad day, and he just looked at me and said, ‘You know, the best part of my life is that I get to love you.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME SIR??? ↪️@/landonorris: “WHAT THE HELL.”

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1insider: So how did Mark find out?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We didn’t tell him. He found out when Oscar referred to me as his wife in conversation. ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were in a meeting. Mark stopped mid-sentence and went, ‘Your WHAT?’ ↪️@/landonorris: HIS WORLDVIEW SHATTERED. @/mrspiastri: Oscar, completely unbothered, said, ‘Oh. Yeah. We got married a while ago.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: I CAN HEAR MARK WEBBER’S EXASPERATION. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark didn’t speak for a full minute. Then he sighed, rubbed his temples, and went, ‘Mate. You can’t just drop that into conversation like it’s nothing.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I didn’t see the problem. ↪️@/landonorris: YOU WOULDN’T. ↪️@/f1updates: Does Mark ever bring it up now? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Every single time we see him. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It’s been years. He should let it go. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Finally he just said, ‘Yeah, I should have figured.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Apparently, Oscar was too relaxed for someone hiding a major life decision. Mark said he’d seen too many drivers try to balance racing and relationships, and he knew Oscar had already locked it down. ‘Kid’s too stable for anything else.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: That’s actually terrifying. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Immediately after he went ‘Alright. Suppose we better make sure this doesn’t derail your career then.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Classic Webber. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Did he at least congratulate you? ↪️@mrspiastri: Yes. Eventually. But only after making sure we’d thought it through. ↪️@/f1softies: Did he give you a lecture?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. More like a ‘If you’re doing this, do it properly’ talk.

@/drsfordays: The fact that her family was furious while Mark Webber just sighed is sending me.

@/oscarpiastri_fanclub: So Mark Webber has known this whole time??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. And I think he’s still mildly offended that Oscar didn’t ask for any advice beforehand.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Oscar is so calm and logical on track. Is he the same at home? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mostly, yeah. But sometimes, out of nowhere, he’ll just say the most devastatingly romantic thing. ↪️@/f1softies: EXAMPLES PLEASE. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I joked, ‘You’re stuck with me forever,’ and he just looked at me, completely serious, and said, ‘That was the goal.’

@/f1updates: Do you ever wish you dated other people before settling down? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Not even a little? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Why would I? I already found my person.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Anxiety. And I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yep. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

[barnacles34]

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide. 

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

‘Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.’ You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.  

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You’re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

[beloveds-embrace]

Back again (outside of anon lmao) to lay out the brain worm that's been chewing on my grey matter for a few days now: designationless!reader whose secondary gender presents super late in life.

It's not super unheard of for kids to present a little late. Babies don't always have their scents until after a few weeks or months, and it's a rarer chance for kids over two or three to not develop a scent or display certain qualities that are noticeably of a certain designation. But typically, if someone doesn't have a designation before they're five, they don't have one at all.

Which is why there's absolutely no protocol for it when reader wakes up one day and everything just hurts. Her body is sticky with sweat and hot to the point where it feels like the only thing able to quell the heat would be to claw her own skin open.

Everything is so overwhelming, but she hadn't realised that scents were everywhere. On her, on the blankets, in the air. Everything has a scent - she has a scent, since when did she have a scent? Overwhelming her poor nose to the point where the only way to stop the frying in her brain is to crawl into a cold shower and let it wash everything away.

Yesss but also we should really consider the aftermath 😩 spending your whole life getting used to one thing, and it gets ripped apart just like that? Devestating.

You’ve never felt more like a stranger to yourself than you do now.

The world is different. Everything is different. The air feels different- thick, heavier, like the scent of something that doesn’t belong is clinging to your skin, following you everywhere you go. It’s like you’re drowning in it, suffocating you from the inside out.

You can’t stop smelling it. Their scents. It’s there, all of them, wrapped up in the air around you, pressing in on your every move. It’s too much. Too strong. Too intimate. You don’t know how to process it- any of it, when previously there’d been nothing but candles to give you a sliver of an idea about what they smell like.

Your body aches under the weight of it all, and it’s not just from your own overwhelming heat anymore. It’s everything. Their presence, their voices, the way they’re always so near, always so protective, so unwavering. You can’t get away from them. You can’t escape the constant pull, the way your body reacts, how your mind feels like it’s turning to mush.

You don’t understand what’s happening to you. You feel... wrong. Unnatural. More than you’ve ever been.

The others are trying their best, truly. They’re there. But you can’t stop the wave of shame that crashes over you when you think of what you’ve become.

The shame of your late presentation. The shame of not being the kind of omega they expected- normal, clean and in control. Everything you are currently not.

But you’re not like that. You never have been. And now... you’re broken. As if being designationless already wasn’t so strange- you had to present so late you had no doubt you were really, truly, unnatural.

It’s too much.

They’re gentle with you, patient, but you can see it in their eyes- they’re worried. They don’t say anything, but you feel it. You feel how different you are from them now, how out of place you are with their instincts swirling around you. Their scent fills your lungs in a way that makes your heart ache, because you don’t know how to feel about it. It’s comforting but it’s too much.

You don’t know how to feel about them.

When you catch yourself shying away from their touch, feeling overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of their scent, the weight of their attention, your chest tightens with guilt. You can’t look them in the eye. It feels like an invasion.

Your body craves something you can’t give, but you don’t know how to push it away.

Your mind, too, races with irrational thoughts. Maybe you’re too much now. Too unnatural. You resent it. You don’t want it. You never wanted it. You can’t believe there’d been days you’d craved this- this mess you’ve become.

You can’t stop smelling yourself either- the newness of it, the strangeness, the instincts that have begun to claw at the back of your mind. You catch yourself trying to make a nest. You hate the way your skin burns with need whenever any of them are near, the way you feel pulled toward them without any control over it.

You want to run.

But where would you go? Where can you even go?

Johnny’s the first to try and properly talk to you, catching you in your room after you’d shoved yourself there. While command decided on what to do with you, you were exempt from missions and drills.

“Hey,” he says gently, his voice quiet, a little uncertain. “Y’alright, hen?”

You don’t answer. You can’t look at him. You don’t know how to tell him that you’re not, that you feel like you’re suffocating. That you want to bury your face in his neck and breathe until all other sensations are washed away.

“You don’t have to hide from us.” He continues, his hand reaching for your arm, but you jerk back with a sharp intake of breath, and you can hear the sharp edge of concern in his voice when he speaks again. “You’re still you. You’re not some... freak, love. We’re here.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath coming too fast. Please don’t touch me.

But it’s too late.

The flood of scents, the pressure in your chest, it all rises again. The overwhelming wave of emotions, the shift of something inside you that you’ve never felt before, it’s too much to bear.

You don’t know what’s happening to you.

You don’t want them to see you like this. Even if they’d seen you the cursed day you designation presented itself.

John and Simon appear in the hallway, eyes trained on you as if they already know. Simon steps forward first, and you already know what expression he has underneath his mask. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with a quiet understanding.

You want to yell at them, tell them to go away, but you don’t have the strength.

It’s too much.

“Love,” John says, firm but gentle, reaching for you in that way he always does. “Talk to us. Let us help.”

Kyle joins as well- you can feel his warmth as he sits down beside Johnny, not yet touching you, but the smell of concern almost chokes you.

You want to. You really do. But the words are caught in your throat, lodged there with the lump of shame, of self-loathing.

“I- I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips. “I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I’m not... I’m not like this. I wasn’t supposed to... to...”

“Hey,” Kyle says softly, his hands gentle as he slides his fingers under your chin to tilt your face up. His eyes are full of something that makes you ache. “You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Your chest tightens, and the tears you’ve been trying to hold back finally spill over, leaving a trail of shame behind them.

“I’m a mess,” you sob, your voice breaking. “I’m not supposed to be like this. I’m too late, too... too wrong.”

Simon’s hand wraps around yours, his warmth steadying you, calming the storm inside your chest just a little. They are slowly sureounding you- a living nest cocoon of warmth you are undeserving of. “You’re not wrong, lovie,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be anything but you.”

Your eyes meet his, searching for some kind of truth. His grip tightens on yours, and the grounding presence of the others behind him steadies you just a little.

“You’re ours,” John continues in a murmur in his stead, his thumb brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear. “And that’s enough. Presenting like this doesn’t suddenly make you any less than who you were, love.”

You can’t answer, can’t process all the words they’re giving you. But their hands are on you, and their presence fills you up in a way that begins to soften the sharp edge of the shame gnawing at you.

Maybe you’re still too much for yourself. But you just… have to trust them.

Omegaverse masterlist

[fandomfablesunleashed]

Heartfelt Deception

Law x reader (she/her)

Modern AU, fake-dating, friends-to-lovers, like one swear word.

Summary: Law asked you to attend a charity event his hospital is hosting as his fake girlfriend. As if that wasn’t enough, it’s happening on Valentine’s Day.

Words: 7.5k

Notes: For the Valentine’s Week event. I had this whole fake dating-to-hospital event idea for the ficmas event, but I scrapped it because I didn’t have much time to write it then. I’m so glad I did, though, because I think the story turned out much better for Valentine’s Day than it would have for Christmas.

English is not my first language

Masterlist

Dr. Trafalgar Law was pacing back and forth in the small office of the hospital. His fingers drummed anxiously against the table as he read the charity event invitation for the fifth time, each glance making his pulse race a little faster.

The truth was, Law never liked events like this. Fundraisers, speeches, fake smiles—it all made him itch with discomfort. His introverted nature clashed with the expectations of being a ‘people person’ in the medical field, and the last thing he wanted was to attend an event where everyone would be looking at him.

A month ago, during yet another relentless round of coworkers begging him to attend an after-work gathering, Law had casually mentioned that he had plans. But instead of letting it go, they kept pressing, demanding to know why he was always declining invitations. Frustrated, he blurted out that he needed to spend time with his girlfriend. Before he could even think, the hospital buzzed with talk about his mysterious partner, one no one had ever met. Now, he was cornered into bringing his partner to the hospital's prestigious charity gala on Valentine’s Day. The irony wasn’t lost on him—his colleagues were all too eager to point out how fitting it was to host an event focused on heart issues on a day devoted to hearts.

As one of the hospital’s top cardiac surgeons, Law was expected to be a key speaker. Worse still, he was supposed to bring his girlfriend. But the problem? He didn’t have one.

There was only one person he could turn to—you.

“You want me to do what?!” you asked, your eyes wide with shock, your coffee cup momentarily forgotten in your hand.

He sighed, running a hand over his face in frustration. “I need you to go with me to that stupid gala as my girlfriend.”

Your brow furrowed as you set the cup down. “You're serious?”

“Why would I joke about something like this?”

“Why would you make up a girlfriend just to avoid gatherings?” you shot back, leaning back in your chair, arms crossed. “You could’ve just said you weren’t interested in going.”

He glanced down at the table, clearly agitated, his fingers tapping against the surface in a nervous rhythm. “It’s not that simple. I’ve already turned them down too many times. They won’t leave me alone. And now I’m expected to show up—with a date. It’s just… ridiculous.”

You leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, as you considered his words. “Why not just say you broke up recently?”

“Because it’s obvious. Then I lose that excuse for the future,” he said, picking up his cup and drinking from it.

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to wrap your head around the absurdity of it all. “So, you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend for one night, just so you can avoid more gatherings down the line?”

“Yes,” he said simply, as if it were the most logical solution in the world.

You shook your head, unable to help the small laugh that escaped you. “You’re ridiculous. When is this supposed to happen?”

“February 14th,” he replied, avoiding your gaze.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Valentine’s Day?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, they thought they were being so clever with that one.”

A grin tugged at the corners of your lips. You couldn’t resist teasing him. “So, is this your way of asking me to be your Valentine?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Who’s being ridiculous now?” But then, with a sly smirk, he added, “So... you’re in?”

A long pause hung in the air as you considered his request. The idea of pretending to be his girlfriend was insane, yes. Pretending to be someone’s girlfriend—for Valentine’s Day, no less—was the kind of thing you’d laugh about in a bad rom-com. But the look on his face was impossible to ignore. Desperation, tinged with just enough pride to keep him from outright begging.

Finally, you sighed, crossing your arms as if it might shield you from the insanity you were about to agree to. “Fine. But you owe me big time for this.”

“Don’t worry,” The smirk on his face widened into a grin, and you wondered what exactly you’d just gotten yourself into. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

And with that, you sealed your fate.

The day of the event had finally arrived. Law was at your door, punctual as always, ready to pick you up just as you'd arranged. He stood there, dressed impeccably—his sharp suit tailored to perfection, exuding confidence and elegance. You tried your hardest not to stare too much, but it was impossible not to notice how effortlessly he pulled it all off.

“Ready?” His voice broke through your thoughts.

“Just a moment,” you replied, your voice betraying your hesitation as you moved closer to the mirror. You needed to make sure everything was just right. You were dressed in the outfit that made you feel good about yourself and was fitting for such an event. Yet, despite all the preparation, a knot of nerves twisted in your stomach. The idea of pretending to be Law's girlfriend made you nervous, no matter how hard you tried to pretend it did not. 

He sighed when you took your sweet time. “Can you stop checking yourself out?”

You glanced at him, an eyebrow arched. “Sorry for making sure people won’t judge your taste too much...” you grumbled, half-amused, half-defensive.

He scoffed as he moved closer, looking at you in the mirror. “Like I care what people think.” Then, with a pause, he added, his voice quieter, almost… sincere, “Besides, you look… stunning.”

You froze for a moment, surprised by his words. “Really?”

“Yes,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His gaze softened, and you swore you saw a hint of admiration there.

“Um, thanks. And… you look amazing too.”

He cleared his throat, somewhat uncomfortable but trying to hide it. “Let’s just go, shall we?” 

“You're sure this will work, right?” Law muttered as he turned to face you. 

“Yes, it’ll work.” You flashed a confident grin, trying to reassure him, though you were just as uncertain as he was. “You’re the one who got us into this mess.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

“Well, I can’t believe you made up a girlfriend in the first place,” you shot back. “But here we are.”

He sighed, running a hand over his face again, not sure whether to laugh or groan. It was one thing to get himself into this mess, but dragging you in was entirely a different matter. The pressure was mounting on both of you. Could you really pull this off? 

Then you caught his eye. A flicker of humor, a spark of something you couldn’t quite place, passed between you, and at that moment, you knew you could. Maybe this absurd charade wasn’t as impossible as it seemed.

He let out a long breath and straightened his posture, his decision made. “Alright, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

“Lead the way, then,” you replied, your tone playful, despite the nerves you were still trying to suppress.

He gave a curt nod, opening the door and holding it for you. With that, you stepped into the venue. The Valentine’s Day theme was apparent everywhere— pink and red lighting bathed the space, heart-shaped centerpieces adorned every table, and a live jazz band played romantic melodies in the background. You looked over at him and snorted seeing his expression.

“I take it Valentine’s Day isn’t your favorite holiday?” you teased, leaning just close enough so he could hear without anyone else catching on.

Law’s gaze flickered to you, his brow arching slightly. “What gave it away?” he said dryly, expending his arm to you.

“Oh, just a hunch,” you said with a small smile, slipping your hands through his arm. “You’re doing great, though. Really selling the whole ‘romantic evening’ thing.”

Law’s expression didn’t shift much, but there was a faint twitch at the corner of his lips that told you he wasn’t entirely immune to your teasing. “I’m thrilled you think so,” he muttered as he led you through the crowd. You caught glimpses of the people who had been whispering about Law's relationship for weeks. Their eyes fell on you both with curiosity.

“Dr. Trafalgar!” one of the nurses called out, waving excitedly. She eyed you with a wide smile. “Is this your girlfriend?”

Law’s face remained neutral. “Yes,” he answered smoothly and introduced you.

The nurse let out a little squeal of delight. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!” she exclaimed. “We’ve all been dying to know more about Dr. Trafalgar’s mysterious girlfriend.”

You gave a polite smile, taking the opportunity to slip into the role. “It's a pleasure to meet you, too. He talks a lot about his team,” you said lightly, with a little twinkle in your eye as you glanced at Law. He rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything.

The nurse beamed. “Oh, I'm sure he does,” she said, her eyes still sparkling as she looked from you to Law. “It’s rare to see him... charming.” Her voice dropped to a playful whisper, though it was clear she wasn’t trying to keep it a secret. “We always wondered what kind of woman could put up with him.”

You gave a small, modest laugh, sensing the opportunity to keep the conversation flowing. “He’s not as difficult as he looks.” You turned to Law, flashing him a playful smile. “And I'm quite lucky he let me in.”

Law’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but he quickly masked it with his usual impassive expression. “Enough about me,” he said smoothly, redirecting the conversation. “Let’s get you something to drink.” He turned toward the drink table, eager to move on.

As the two of you moved through the gala, a sense of ease settled between you. The people who approached were friendly, curious, and all too eager to meet the mysterious woman who had somehow captured the heart of the elusive surgeon. Law, as always, seemed somewhat distant, but there was a subtle shift in his demeanor, as if the weight of the event was just a little lighter with you by his side.

“Well, well, if it isn't the lovely girlfriend!” Shachi grinned, giving you a dramatic bow before standing up straight again. “You look awesome.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Shachi. You certainly know how to flatter a girl.”

Penguin let out a low, amused chuckle from behind him. “Yeah, well, Law’s been talking about you for weeks,” he added. “He was so worried about you not showing up and ruining his perfect plan. I’m surprised you agreed to it, honestly.”

You gave Penguin a knowing smile. “What can I say? Someone had to save his ass.” You shot a quick glance at Law, who stood beside you, his expression neutral, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Shachi leaned casually against the table, clearly enjoying himself, and turned to Law with a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, how does it feel to finally have a real girlfriend? I mean, I’ve been hearing rumors about this for a while, but you’re actually pulling it off, huh?”

Law rolled his eyes but didn’t respond immediately, though you could tell he was trying to keep his cool. “This will be a long night,” he muttered under his breath, but his friends were far too eager to let him off the hook.

Shachi’s grin only grew wider. “I’m just curious—how’s the ‘relationship’ going so far?” He glanced at Law, whose jaw was tight, trying to suppress his frustration. “Any sparks flying between the two of you yet?”

“Shachi,” Law said in warning, but he wasn’t listening. Law rolled his eyes, though there was a slight curve to his lips, as if even he couldn’t help but be somewhat entertained by his friends' antics. “I told you I didn’t need this kind of commentary tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shachi continued, entirely ignoring Law’s attempts to rein him in. “But it’s so much more fun when we do comment.” He threw an arm around Penguin’s shoulder, giving him an exaggerated nudge. “So, Dr. Trafalgar, how’s it feel having your friends finally meet your ‘girlfriend’? You look so… happy.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at their behaviour. “I’m sure Law’s thrilled by all the attention,” you said, playing the part, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Law cast you a sideways glance, but there was something warmer in his eyes than before. “Let’s just get through tonight, shall we?” he said, attempting his best authoritative tone, though there was a clear undertone of amusement, as if he was enjoying it just a little more than he let on.

Just as the playful back-and-forth was beginning to die down, a loud, familiar voice cut through the chatter from across the room.

“YOOO! Look who it is!” 

Usopp’s boisterous voice rang out, and you barely had time to brace yourself before he was at your side, grinning like a mischievous cat. He was joined by Kaya, who was looking stunning in an elegant dress, her eyes sparkling as she waved.

Shit. How had you not considered the possibility that Usopp would be here? Kaya was a nurse at the same hospital as Law, and of course, she’d bring him as her plus-one.

“Usopp, Kaya,” you greeted with a smile, trying to remain composed despite the sudden attention being drawn your way. Usopp's loud voice had already caused a ripple of curiosity to spread through the crowd.

Usopp’s gaze darted between you and Law. “Wait a minute… what are you doing here?” he asked. His voice was just loud enough for the people around you to overhear, making you feel the weight of every set of eyes now shifting in your direction.

You glanced at Law, who was now wearing a mask of calm—though you could tell by the subtle shift in his posture that he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the situation. You quickly shot him an apologetic look, trying to keep things as casual as possible. “Isn't it obvious — I’m with Law,” you said with a playful shrug, hoping your tone would deflect any suspicion and begging to whatever higher power that Usopp won't blow your cover. 

Usopp blinked, his eyes widening in disbelief, as if you’d just dropped a bombshell. “With Law?!” His voice jumped an octave, loud enough to draw even more attention, and you felt the heat of a dozen curious stares. Your stomach churned as the pressure mounted.

“Well yeah, we’re dating,” you said quickly, trying to offer him a pointed look that screamed for him to lower his voice. You didn’t look forward to clearing that lie later, though.

“What?!” Usopp exclaimed again, louder this time, and you fought the urge to physically drag him into a quieter corner.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, don't be so loud,” you hissed, your smile strained as you resisted the urge to clamp a hand over his mouth. You just needed him to stop.

Your words earned a sharp glance from Law, who was now standing as still as a statue, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with irritation. Though his face remained unreadable to most, you could detect the flicker of unease behind his usually impenetrable demeanor.

Usopp sharp eye for detail and relentless curiosity meant he was undoubtedly piecing things together in real-time, and the last thing you needed was for him to say something he really shouldn't.

Kaya, sensing the tension, stepped in smoothly. “Usopp,” she said, with a small but knowing smile, “maybe we should let them enjoy the night.” She gently nudged his arm, giving you an apologetic look. “It’s good to see you both. I hope you’re having a good time tonight.”

You smiled, grateful for her presence. “We’re managing,” you replied before gesturing toward her. “And you? How’s the night treating you so far?”

She laughed. “Oh, it’s been lovely. Usopp keeps insisting he’s the best plus-one anyone could ask for.”

“Because I am!” Usopp interjected, puffing out his chest.

“Nah, I'm way better, right, darling?” you asked playfully, turning to your date. 

Law let out a quiet, measured sigh, his eyes narrowing at Usopp, who was still watching far too intently for comfort. Recognizing that all eyes were now firmly on the two of you, he shifted gears seamlessly. 

Without missing a beat, he slid an arm around your waist and pulled you a fraction closer. His hand rested lightly yet possessively against your side as he glanced down at you with a smirk.  “Obviously.” 

The gesture—and his confident tone—left Usopp momentarily speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Even Kaya seemed surprised, her eyes darting between the two of you before a knowing smile tugged at her lips.

You couldn’t help but smile, both at Law’s quick thinking and the way his response seemed to silence any further speculation from Usopp. “See?” you teased lightly, shooting Usopp a pointed look. “Told you.”

Usopp opened his mouth, ready to say something outrageous, but Kaya quickly stepped in, tugging on his arm with a bright laugh. “Come on, Usopp. Let’s grab some appetizers.” 

“This isn’t over,” he commented, but he allowed Kaya to steer him toward the other end of the room. You gave her a grateful smile.

“That was close,” you muttered, glancing up at Law. His hand was still resting lightly on your waist.

He tilted his head down toward you, “You call that close?”

“Oh, come on,” you whispered back with a grin. “You’ve got to admit, Usopp almost blew it.”

Law’s lips quirked upward in a barely-there smirk. “Almost,” he conceded. Then, lowering his voice  even more and murmuring into your ear, he added, “But I don’t mind setting the record straight when needed.”

The way his voice dipped sent a small shiver down your spine, but you quickly composed yourself, stepping slightly closer to him under the pretense of hearing him better.

“Well, you handled it like a pro, Dr. Trafalgar,” you teased softly, leaning just enough to let your words reach his ear.

“Hmm,” he hummed noncommittally.

Before you could respond, the event coordinator’s voice echoed through the hall, announcing the upcoming speeches. The room shifted as the crowd began to find their seats, murmurs of anticipation filling the air.

“You’re up soon,” you reminded him. Reaching out, you placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ve got this,” you said confidently.

He glanced at you, his eyes locking onto yours for a beat, searching for something—maybe reassurance, maybe just the comfort of familiarity—before he nodded, a small but grateful gesture. “Thanks.”

As he made his way toward the stage, you couldn’t help but watch him with a sense of pride, your heart swelling with admiration. Even surrounded by the polished elegance of the event and the watchful eyes of so many people, he carried himself with an unshakable determination.

When he reached the podium, the crowd fell silent. He cleared his throat, taking a moment before launching into the speech. He spoke about the advancements in medicine, the importance of community support, and the life-changing surgeries that the hospital’s team performed. But when he mentioned his team and thanked everyone for their hard work, his gaze subtly flickered toward you.

For a moment, he dropped the cold exterior. “None of this would be possible without the support of everyone here,” he said. “And a special thanks to my friends and…my better half, who has been my constant rock. It’s easy to get lost in the hospital. But she keeps me grounded.”

The sincerity in his words was unmistakable. His eyes lingered on you for a fraction of a second—long enough for you to feel the weight of his gratitude—before he looked away, the professional composure sliding back into place effortlessly.

The applause that followed was thunderous, but you barely heard it over the warmth blooming in your chest. As Law stepped down from the podium, his expression was back to its usual stoicism, but the slight flush to his cheeks and the quick glance he shot your way told you everything.

As the applause slowly died down, Law made his way back toward you, weaving through the clusters of guests who offered him brief nods and congratulatory remarks. His posture was relaxed, but you could see the faint tension in the set of his shoulders—a clear sign that he was bracing for your inevitable teasing.

When he finally reached you, you wasted no time, leaning in with a mischievous grin. “For someone who wanted to ‘get through the night,’ you sure know how to captivate an audience,” you teased. “And what was that about ‘the one who keeps me grounded’? Are you getting sentimental on me?”

He stopped in front of you, hands sliding casually into his pockets as his eyes met yours. “Don’t start,” he muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone. “I said what needed to be said.”

“Oh, I see,” you replied, crossing your arms and tilting your head. “So, I’m just ‘what needed to be said’ now?”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in a little, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “If you’d prefer, I can take it all back.”

“Not a chance,” you shot back, unable to keep the playful edge out of your voice. “It’s on record now. Everyone here knows I’m the one keeping you grounded.”

Before he could respond, Shachi and Penguin appeared, clearly having caught at least part of the exchange. Shachi was grinning ear to ear, while Penguin’s expression held a more subdued amusement.

“That speech was something else,” Shachi said, clapping Law on the back with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Especially that part about being grounded. You’re getting soft.”

Law’s glare shifted to Shachi, though it lacked any real venom. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?” he asked, his voice dry.

“Not when you’re providing this much entertainment,” Shachi shot back without missing a beat.

Law rolled his eyes but didn’t bother responding, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, he turned his attention back to you. “Are you enjoying yourself yet?” he asked

You pretended to consider his question, tapping a finger to your chin. “Hmm... between the impromptu Usopp interrogation, the surprise shout-out during your speech, and Shachi’s relentless commentary?” You grinned. “Yeah, I’d say I’m having a great time.”

Law’s exhale was sharp, but his lips twitched upward in a reluctant smile. “Good,” he sighed. “At least one of us is.”

Just as you were forming your response, the event coordinator approached the two of you with a bright smile. “Dr. Trafalgar, your presence is requested for some photos with the donors,” she said, her gaze flicking to you briefly. “And, of course, your lovely girlfriend is welcome to join.”

Law hesitated, his eyes narrowing. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he weighed the pros and cons of dragging you into yet another spotlight moment.

You decided to save him the trouble. “We’d be happy to,” you said smoothly, looping your arm through his. “Right, darling?”

The look he shot you was nothing short of murderous, but you only smiled sweetly, patting his arm as the coordinator led you both toward the photographer’s setup.

After the photos, you wandered back to the main room, weaving through the crowd. You spotted Usopp and Kaya near the dessert table, Usopp animatedly telling a story while Kaya giggled beside him. Heart-shaped chocolates and delicate pastries adorned the table, and you decided to grab a couple of treats before heading back to your corner of the room.

“Here,” you said, holding out a piece of chocolate to Law as you both settled near the bar.

He eyed it skeptically. “What’s this?”

“Chocolate,” you replied, popping one into your mouth. “It’s Valentine’s Day. You’re supposed to eat chocolate. It’s practically a rule.”

Law sighed, but he took the chocolate from your hand, his fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. He bit into it. “It’s good,” he admitted after a moment.

You smirked. “See? Valentine’s Day isn’t all bad.”

He gave you a sidelong glance. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

You just grinned wider and shrugged. Despite the occasional hiccup—like Usopp’s not-so-subtle attempts to sneak more information out of you—it was hard to deny that you and Law actually did have a great time. The whole evening felt surprisingly natural, even with the added touches and pet names that came with playing your part.

But as the night went on, the carefully constructed charade began to blur, leaving you to wonder if there was something genuine simmering beneath the surface. A fleeting warmth in the way he looked at you, a brush of his hand that lingered just a moment too long. You quickly shook the thought away before it could root itself further.

“You know,” you started, breaking the silence, “Usopp already texted everyone the news.”

Law’s brow furrowed as he glanced at you. “What news?”

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a pointed look.

“Oh. Right,” he said, the realization dawning on his face.

“Yeah,” you chuckled, crossing your arms. “I had to turn my sound off completely—the group chat went insane.”

Law let out a quiet groan and reached for his phone, pulling it from his pocket with a resigned air. He turned the phone toward you, revealing a string of increasingly enthusiastic messages from Luffy:

This is amaizing!!!!

I'M SO HAPPY!!!

GOOD FOR YOU!!!

WHEN DID THIS HAPEN??

Tell me evrything RIGHT NOW!!!

You burst out laughing, nearly doubling over as you read the flood of texts. Law pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about how ridiculous Luffy was, but the small, reluctant smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement.

“Looks like someone’s excited for us,” you teased, still laughing.

Law rolled his eyes, though the faintest trace of a blush colored his cheeks. “Luffy’s always excited about something. This’ll blow over. We will explain it later or something.”

You swallowed your disappointment and tried to focus on anything other than the fact that today was not as real as it seemed. Your eyes drifted forward just as the band started playing a slow, romantic tune, and couples began rushing toward the dance floor. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down, the atmosphere practically begging for you to make a move.

“Well, darling,” you said, extending your hand toward him with an exaggerated flourish. “Care to dance?”

Law stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between incredulous and amused. “You’re joking.”

“Not even a little,” you wiggled your fingers at him. “It’s Valentine’s Day. What’s a fake relationship without a dance under the romantic lighting?”

He let out a quiet groan but took your hand anyway, his grip firm and steady. As he led you to the dance floor, you couldn’t help but marvel at how natural it felt.

For a moment, you both moved hesitantly, as if testing the waters. Law wasn’t one to engage in things like this—public displays of affection, no matter how fake, didn’t exactly come naturally to him. Yet, as the rhythm of the music settled between you, his movements became smoother, more confident. You matched his pace, the two of you falling into an unspoken synchrony.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” you murmured, glancing up at him.

“Don’t get used to it,” he replied, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “This isn’t exactly my idea of a great time.”

You chuckled, your fingers instinctively tightening their grip on his shoulder. “Could’ve fooled me. You’re surprisingly good at this.”

He raised an eyebrow, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Surprisingly?”

“Well,” you said with a smirk, “you don’t exactly scream ‘slow-dance enthusiast.’

Law huffed, but there was no real irritation behind it. He was paying more attention to the way your body moved in sync with his, the way you shifted your weight with each step.

The scent of his cologne was subtle but intoxicating, and the way his eyes stayed locked on yours made it impossible to look away.

“This isn’t so bad,” you murmured, almost to yourself.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one,” you said, your thumb gently brushing the fabric of his suit jacket.  “I know this isn’t exactly your scene. Thanks for humoring me.”

For a moment, something shifted in his expression. The guardedness that usually defined him seemed to waver, replaced by something more vulnerable, something unspoken. His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, pulling you closer, and the distance between you narrowed until you could feel the faint brush of his chest against yours.

“You’re doing all of this for me, the least I can do is survive dancing for your sake,” he answered in his usual manner, and yet, it sounded somehow warmer. Then he added teasingly, “darling”

You tried to diminish how much you loved that nickname coming from his lips.

As the music faded, applause broke out around the room, snapping you back to reality. Law stepped back a little, his hand falling away from your waist, but the warmth of his touch stayed. He looked at you for a moment longer, his gaze searching, before he cleared his throat and glanced away, the mask of composure slipping back into place.

“Let’s get off the dance floor,” he said, his tone returning to its usual cool detachment. But there was a faint flush to his cheeks that you couldn’t ignore.

“Not bad for someone who doesn’t like Valentine’s Day,” you teased, keeping your tone light, even though your heartbeat had quickened as you followed him off the dancefloor.

Law smirked faintly, his amber eyes locking onto yours. “I never said I didn’t like it. Just that it’s… unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary?” You arched a brow, tilting your head. “Celebrating love and connection? That sounds pretty necessary to me.”

His grin grew. “If you need a commercial holiday to remind you of that, you’re doing something wrong.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his bluntness. “Touché,” you admitted, the moment feeling strangely intimate despite the dozens of other couples around you. He put his hand on your back and gently led you to sit down in the corner. You sat in silence for a moment before speaking again.

“So, are you enjoying the night yet? Or are you still counting down the minutes until it’s over?”

Law let out a quiet chuckle. “I’m surviving,” he replied dryly, though the corners of his lips twitched as though he couldn’t fully keep the amusement from showing. “If I’m being honest, it’s… not as bad as I thought it would be,” he looked sheepish as he added. “Your presence makes it more bearable.”

A warmth blossomed in your chest at his words, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned in slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder. You felt him stiffen for a split second, but then he relaxed, putting his head on yours.

“I didn’t think I’d be… enjoying it,” he continued, his fingers brushing through your hair as if absentmindedly. “But I think I might’ve been wrong.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him, finding his gaze already locked on yours. There was no mask of indifference now—just a rare moment of vulnerability, one that you hadn’t often seen. It was disarming. His hand gently cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers.

Your heart fluttered unexpectedly, and you were unsure of what to say, or even if you should say anything at all. The quiet, unspoken understanding between you was enough.

“Well, well, well! Look at you two, all cozy!”

It was Shachi, followed closely by Penguin, and some other colleagues of Law from the hospital.  You froze for a split second, pulling away from Law just as his hand dropped from your cheek. Both of you turned toward the intruder, finding a group of Law’s colleagues standing a few feet away.

One of the surgeons, a tall man with a broad grin, chuckled as he shook his head. “Honestly, Law, I didn’t think you were the type to be so… affectionate.” 

Law’s face immediately shifted to that calm, composed mask he wore so well, but you could see the hint of a blush creeping up his neck. He scoffed. “What did you expect? For me to keep five feet away from someone I care about?”

“We’re just surprised,” the nurse you spoke with first today, smiled softly at the two of you. “But it’s nice to see you so… relaxed. We don’t usually get to see this side of you.” Her tone wasn’t mocking; instead, it held a kind, almost approving quality.

It was clear that they all weren’t just teasing for the sake of teasing—they were happy to see him like this. This side of Law, the one who didn’t always hide behind his usual walls, was a rare sight for most people.

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” Law muttered, trying to keep the situation under control while simultaneously not looking entirely displeased.

As if they couldn’t resist, one of the younger doctors, a woman with long hair and a sly smile, smirked at you and asked, “So, come on, how did you two get together? Law didn’t want to say a word about it.” His grin widened as he leaned in, waiting for some kind of juicy story.

You chuckled, glancing at Law, who raised an eyebrow at you as if daring you to come up with an appropriate response.

“Of course he didn’t.” You nudged him playfully. “He’s never been the type to spill the details, has he?”

Shachi smirked knowingly. “Come on, Law,” he prodded. “We’re dying to know the real story.”

“Well,” you interjected, grinning as you looked at the group. “If you're looking for something juicy, I’m afraid I have to disappoint. We were just good friends for quite a while before it just clicked that there’s more and there’s no running from it. So, with a kiss, we sealed the deal, and are together just like that.” It seemed like a story that could be real, that would suit you both, and what kind of people you are together.

“That’s actually a pretty decent story, considering how tight-lipped you’ve been, Law,” he remarked.

Law shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not in the habit of sharing my private life with everyone.”

The woman with long hair, delighted by the revelation, nudged Shachi playfully. “Well, it’s good to know Law isn’t entirely immune to matters of the heart. Who knew?” she said with a wink, enjoying the rare opportunity to see her usually composed colleague looking so flustered.

“I never said I was,” Law replied, though there was a faint hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth now.

You smiled at him, savoring the fact that, despite his usual reticence, he hadn’t shut down the conversation.

“Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way,” you turned to the group, “any more questions?

“Not if you want to keep your secrets,” Shachi teased. “I think we’ve learned enough for tonight.”

“Although…” Penguin started to say with a mischievous grin

“Alright, alright,” Law interjected, probably scared that more question may blow your cover. “You’ve had your fun.”

The playful banter continued for a few more moments, with the group lightheartedly poking fun at Law, but without pushing too far. It was clear they were genuinely enjoying seeing him in a different light. Even you couldn't help but smile at how the evening had turned out.

“Alright,” you said, nudging Law lightly with your elbow, “I think we’ve officially survived the interrogation. How about we grab some drinks and escape before they start asking for our love story in full detail?” you whispered.

“Fine by me,” he stated, standing up and offering you a hand. “Excuse us for a moment.”

You took his hand, your fingers curling around his with ease. He led you both to the bar and ordered your drinks. When you took them, you found seats nearby.

“They have a point, you know,” you commented, leaning back in your seat, sipping your drink as you shot him a teasing glance. “You’re surprisingly sweet with me.”

Law shot you a look, but his lips twitched upward in the barest hint of a smile. “Don’t start,” he warned, though there was no bite to his words.

“I’m just saying, the way you act tonight—” you paused, letting the words linger in the air, “it’s… kind of adorable.”

“You’re walking a fine line,” he murmured, his tone just low enough that only you could hear, and there was that familiar spark of challenge in it.

You grinned. “I think the real question is, why do you make it so easy for me to tease you?” You leaned back again, propping your elbow on the armrest, your eyes glinting with playful mischief. “Maybe I’m onto something.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have a stronger reaction to you, or I’d make sure you regret that.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the hint of seriousness in his voice. “Oh? Is that a threat, Law?” you asked, half-challenging, half-curious.

He leaned in just slightly, his gaze softening but still intense. “Only if you push your luck too far,” he replied. It was supposed to be a warning, and yet it sounded way…warmer. You felt the air shift between you, the playful tone fading into something more subtle.

Before you could respond, the sound of laughter from across the room caught your attention, and you noticed some of Law’s colleagues still milling about, their eyes frequently darting toward the two of you. They probably thought their glances were subtle, but they really weren’t.

“Wanna bet they’re talking about us?”

Law smirked, his gaze flicking toward the group before returning to you. “I’m not betting against something that is 100% true.”

You chuckled, lifting your drink to your lips as you watched them huddle together in hushed conversation, clearly intrigued by the dynamic between the two of you. The whole thing was both amusing and oddly satisfying, considering how little effort you'd actually put into keeping this charade together.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence with a light tone, “what now? Do we stick around and continue surviving this ‘unnecessary’ holiday, or do we make our grand exit?”

“I think we’ve done enough, surviving for one night,” he declared, standing and offering his hand to you with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

You took his hand, your fingers wrapping around his with the familiar ease. “I like the sound of that.” 

As you made your way toward the exit, you said your goodbyes to everyone, your eyes catching a few lingering, amused glances from Law's colleagues.

“Well, I think we’ve both survived tonight, haven’t we?” you asked, glancing up at him with a teasing look, trying to gauge his mood as you stepped outside.

His gaze softened, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “I suppose we have,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Though, I’m not sure what’s worse—the questions or your teasing.”

You laughed lightly, squeezing his hand gently. “I think you can handle both.”

“Apparently,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a gesture that was almost imperceptible but undeniably intimate.

Instead of calling for a taxi, Law started leading you toward the nearby park. You certainly didn’t mind the extra time with him—after the whirlwind of the evening, the peaceful solitude of the park felt like a perfect escape.

When you reached a bench by a small pond, Law sat down, and you followed suit, the two of you settling next to each other. For a few moments, neither of you said anything. It felt like the perfect continuation of the night—no more questions, no more performances, just the two of you.

“Thank you.”

You glanced at him, surprised by the unexpected gratitude in his tone. “You're welcome,” you replied easily, your lips curving into a small smile. “I had fun.”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” you answered, your smile widening a little. “Did you?”

“I did actually.”

“Good” you said simply. “You know now that they’ll just bother and tease you about me, right?” you added teasingly after a moment.

He gave you a side-glance, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but his gaze softened as it lingered on you. “I can survive that.”

You sat in silence, the quiet comfortable, with your hand still intertwined with his, even though there was no one around that you had to pretend for.

After a while, Law spoke quietly, “That story…

“Huh?” You blinked, trying to recall what he might be referring to.

“About how we apparently came to be… you made it quite believable.” You suddenly remembered your words from earlier: We were just good friends for quite a while before it just clicked that there’s more and there’s no running from it. So, with a kiss, we sealed the deal, and are together just like that.

“Well…um, it sounded plausible, did it not?” you said, as you tried to brush off the nerves creeping up.

“It did.” Silence fell again, but this time, it felt different. You wrecked your head as to what to say. You looked at him, hoping for something to break the tension, and found his gaze already focused on you. The intensity of it made it harder to find the right words.

But you didn’t have to say anything—his lips found yours in a tender kiss, slow and gentle, as if testing the waters for something deeper. The world around you seemed to fade away as you leaned into the kiss, your fingers threading through his hair. The moment felt suspended in time, perfect in its simplicity.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still resting against your cheek, you noticed a subtle smile playing at the corners of his lips. It was the kind of smile that made your chest tighten, the kind that carried a quiet promise, and the warmth that spread through you was more than just the remnants of the kiss.

“Well, that solidifies that it was all true.”

You heard the familiar voice of Usopp. The sudden intrusion snapped you out of the trance the moment had put you in.

You rolled your eyes, not even glancing in his direction, your focus remaining entirely on Law. “Get lost, Nose-ya. Now,” Law muttered, his voice stern, his gaze unwavering from yours.

“Alright, alright, I’m going!” Usopp chuckled, but you weren’t about to let him ruin your moment, not when it felt so real, so raw. You kept your focus on Law, and for a few seconds, there was just the two of you again, the world falling away once more.

“So, is my story true then?” you asked, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Yeah, it is,” he replied, his voice steady but carrying that quiet confidence you’d grown accustomed to.

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “Can’t believe it happened on Valentine’s Day, after pretending to date for an event.”

“Maybe Valentine's Day isn't so bad after all,” he said, the words almost an afterthought. And you couldn’t help but agree as you tugged him closer, your lips finding his in a kiss that was even more intense than the first.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, you looked into his eyes, and something settled in your chest—this was just the beginning of something, something you both weren’t willing to let go of. It was there in the way he looked at you, the way he held you close. You could feel it in your bones that whatever this was, it was real. And it was only just starting.

“Maybe you’re right,” you whispered, your thumb gently brushing over his hand. “Valentine’s Day might not be so bad… when it ends like this.”

He smirked at you. “We’ll see if you still feel that way next year,” he said, the challenge in his voice playful, but there was no mistaking the certainty in his words.

“You wanna fake-date me for Valentine’s Day next year too?”

His expression softened, the usual sharpness in his gaze replaced by something more tender as his hand brushed gently across your cheek. “No,” he responded quietly, his voice warm and sincere. “I want to be with you—for real.”

[v6quewrlds]

need joe comforting doctor wifey after a rough day at the clinic ❤️

Her eyes were dry, squinting behind her blue light glasses as she typed away at her laptop, trying her best to wrap up her notes. The pink sticky note stuck to her laptop was an eyesore, an unwelcome reminder she needed to respond to a handful of patient messages. The sterile smell of her office seemed to cling to her skin despite her shower, a scent she'd become too familiar with. Her fingers danced over the keyboard, finishing off the last of the messages with a click. She looked up at the clock hanging over the sink, noticing it was later than she had anticipated.

The sound of the garage door echoed through the quiet house as Joe's car pulled in. She felt a flutter of relief in her chest, releasing an exhale through her parted lips. Her thoughts were interrupted by the thump of the door as Joe entered the kitchen, his eyes scanning the room before settling on her. His shoulders visibly relaxed upon seeing her, a small smile dancing in his eyes at the sight of her, cozy and home.

He approached the kitchen island with a soft step, placing his bag down before crossing the room. Her fingers paused mid-type as Joe leaned over, kissing her forehead lightly before lightly pecking her lips. "Hey, baby," he said, his voice a gentle rumble as he retreated towards the fridge. He pulled out a bottle of BodyArmor, cracked it open, and took a sip before walking over to her.

Joe studied her profile, noticing the tension in her jaw and the dark circles beneath her eyes. "You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern. She nodded, her eyes still on the screen. "You looked drained when you left this morning."

She took a deep breath, turning her attention towards him with a sigh. "It was a tough day. Had to break some bad news," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "Two patients with melanoma. They're both young too… it's so unfair."

Joe's heart sank. He knew how much her work meant to her, how much she bonded with her patients. He stepped closer, passing her the bottle of the sports drink. "That sucks. I'm sorry, babe."

She took it, sipping the sweet liquid before handing it back to him with a soft 'thanks'. He capped the bottle and set it aside, moving to stand behind her as she resumed her typing. His hands settled on her shoulders, giving them a firm but gentle squeeze before beginning to massage them. His thumbs worked into the knots that had formed, and she couldn't help but let out a small moan of relief.

"With the private equity buyout, the clinic's been pushing us to see more patients, and it's just… it's not right," she said, her voice carrying the weight of her frustration. Joe hummed in response, his thumbs moving in slow circles as he listened. "I feel like I can't give them the care they deserve. It's all about the numbers now. Might have to extend my work hours from four days to five just so I can spend more time with each one."

Joe suppressed a frown, his thumbs pausing for a brief moment before resuming their soothing dance. He knew how much she cared about her work, how much it meant to her to not just show up but to truly help people. "You're doing your best," he said, his voice steady. "You're one person, sweetheart. You can't save the whole world."

She leaned back into his touch, the tension in her shoulders gradually loosening. "I know," she murmured. "But it's just hard not to feel like I should be doing more."

Joe leaned over her, his hands coming to rest on the island on either side of her. His face gently nuzzled into her neck, his breath warm against her skin. "If you have to work five days, then we'll make it work," he murmured. They remained still for a moment as Joe's hand moved to shift her hair to allow him access to the curve of her neck, pressing soft kisses along the line of her jaw.

Her eyes fluttered shut, her shoulders dropping slightly as she leaned into his presence. The warmth of his body was comforting, a solid wall grounding her for just a minute. "I hate that I'm bringing this home with me," she whispered, her voice tight. "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Joe said, his voice firm. "You care and that's what makes you so good at what you do." He kissed her again, his lips lingering longer this time. "Did you eat anything today?"

She thought back to the sliced apple, unpleasant protein bar, and the handful of almonds she'd scarfed down in between patients. "Barely," she admitted, her stomach giving a little grumble of protest.

Joe's eyes narrowed slightly. "Come on, let's get you fed," he said, his voice gentle but firm as he pulled away from her neck. He took her hand, tugging her out of the chair. She protested weakly, but the feeling of his strong hand in hers, the sight of him looking at her with such care, made it difficult to argue.

She feebly laughed when he bent to lift her by her thighs, carrying her to the couch without a second thought. "Is this what we're doing?" she teased, her smile betraying the weariness in her voice.

"Yeah," Joe said with a grin, settling her comfortably on the couch. "Chef's day off, so it's either me cooking, which would be a disaster, or we order in." He set her down, falling back against the couch before motioning to join him. She took her place, resting her head on his chest as he began to scroll through the delivery options on his phone.

The quiet in the room was comfortable, the low murmur of Joe's voice as he read out various menu items soothing her halfway to sleep. She listened to his suggestions, feeling the gentle throb of his heart against her cheek, a steady rhythm that she found incredibly calming. Her eyes felt heavy, and she could feel the tension in her lower back slowly dissipate under his slow touch.

author's note⠀⁎⠀i have a bunch of free time this weekend so i'll have two more blurbs, plus the superbowl fic <3

[wattpadbxtch]

Do you reckon you can do Pazzi!moms, but like their birth story?

LMFAOOO RECKON. Yes chat I do reckon.😘

pairing: moms!Pazzi

warnings: none

The Best Team

“Aight, Az, deep breaths, ma. You got this,” Paige whispered, gripping Azzi’s hand like her life depended on it.

Azzi ain’t never felt pain like this before. Not after all them grueling-ass WNBA workouts, not even after both times she tore her acl. This? This was different. This was a whole new level of pain, and it had her gripping Paige’s hand so hard, she might’ve been cutting off her circulation.

“Paige, I swear to God,” Azzi gritted out, her voice tight as another contraction hit. “If you ever—EVERRR—talk me into doin’ this shit again…”

Paige let out a breathless chuckle, but her eyes were damn near glassy, like she was feeling everything right along with her. “Okay, okay, we ain’t even gotta talk about that right now. Just focus, baby. You so close.”

Azzi let out a shaky breath, her head falling back for a second before the doctor’s voice cut through the fog.

“Alright, Azzi, it’s time. Give me a big push.”

She looked over at Paige, and the second their eyes locked, it was like she found that last bit of strength she needed. Paige nodded at her, squeezing her hand. “C’mon, mama. You got it.”

So she pushed. And then—

A tiny cry broke through the room.

Azzi damn near collapsed back onto the bed, chest rising and falling like she just ran a full-court press for 40 straight minutes. Paige let out this shaky laugh, her free hand covering her mouth as they both looked toward the doctor.

“Congratulations, moms. You have a beautiful baby girl.”

Tears burned in Azzi’s eyes before she even realized she was crying. Paige was already gone, straight-up sobbing as they watched their daughter get wrapped up in a soft lil’ hospital blanket.

When the nurse placed Amara into Azzi’s arms, everything else faded away. The pain, the exhaustion, the world—it ain’t even matter no more. All that mattered was this tiny, perfect little girl looking up at her. Paige wrapped her arms around them both, kissing Azzi’s forehead, then Amara’s.

“She’s so perfect, baby,” Paige whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Azzi just stared, her finger tracing Amara’s tiny nose, her heart about to burst out her damn chest. “We really made her,” she mumbled, lowkey in disbelief.

Paige sniffled, laughing a little. “Hell yeah, we did.”

Azzi turned her head, meeting her wife’s eyes, and what she saw there almost had her crying all over again. Love. The kind that ain’t even gotta be spoken—it was just there, filling up every inch of the room.

“We locked in now, huh?” Azzi whispered, smirking through the tears.

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Ma, we BEEN locked in. Been had you since 2017.”

Azzi scoffed playfully.

They both looked down as Amara let out the tiniest yawn, her lil’ hand curling against Azzi’s chest. Paige leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Azzi’s lips, like a promise. Like forever.

And in that moment, Azzi knew—this was the best team she’d ever been a part of.

Guys btw i'm not a complete horndog. i love sweet things too and will most def write some😭 Also be hyper specific abt what u want bc i will do my best to comply frr

[amynchan]

"Another one."

The file is slapped on my desk, courtesy of Jack's hand. I do my best not to sigh, but some endeavors are honestly just doomed to fail.

"New recruit or job transfer?" I know I'll see the answer in the file, but if Jack's gonna be like that, then I can be like this. I don't even open the file.

"New recruit, asshole." Wow. Someone's in a bad mood. Wonder what crawled up his ass. Okay, fine, I open up the file this time.

Oh.

Oh...

You know, years and years ago, this might have been considered a conflict of interest. When there were enough people around, working jobs, that the work could be moved from an involved or easily affected party to an uninvolved one.

Maybe there was a reason for that.

"Hey, if you need to take a lunch break—"

"Don't. Just— just don't."

Well... what else can I do? I swallow up my words, nod, and look at the beaming face of Jack's niece again. Seventeen. Sweet girl. Her grades, like everyone else's, meet standards that might have been actually necessary so many years ago. Technology's moved forward. Life has moved forward. Humanity, as a whole, has evolved out of needing so many jobs that most of today's problems are manufactured. Enough to make people think about them but not enough to cause lasting damage to... well, anything if they aren't taken care of. And the people who skim the jobs we've given them? Nothing really happens. We make the fake problems go away one way or another, and nobody and nothing gets hurt in the process. No real loss.

It's busywork is all I'm saying. People like Sarah get to do busywork. The really exceptional people get hired here. Doing this. Keeping the world running on one side and keeping the population controlled on the other.

"All she wants to do is make a difference in the world." Jack doesn't have anyone else who can do this job for him. I don't think he'd want to, either. Once you know about how the world works, there's not really a way to unknow.

Well...

No need to tempt fate with thoughts like those. I go through Sarah's file.

"There's gotta be something else she likes." And there's lots in here. She's got friends. A robust social life. There are a few ambitions, but we can make some scenarios to fit and satisfy those.

But that's not the problem, and Jack knows it. I know it.

"How am I supposed to face her?" he asks. "She's going to come to family dinners, all smiles, talking about how much better the world is because of her and her coworkers and her friends. How much good she's doing for the world. How she's going to make it better for the rest of us, just wait and see. She's going to barrel headfirst into making humanity a utopia again!"

I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Jack and I both know what utopia can do to people.

When Jack yells, I'm not surprised. His brother was never like Sarah. His sister in law was never like Sarah. As far as I know, nobody in his family has been like Sarah. Sweet. Determined. Good-hearted.

All determination and heart. None of the skill sets or natural talents we need in order to make her fantasy come true.

It would make a lot of sense to make Sarah a politician. Protected. Safe. Somewhere her ambitions can at least feel fed and her dreams feel real, at least.

Enough to make her feel proud. Worthy. Dignified. In this world where corruption is nipped in the bud and no one ever gets shot or goes hungry, a politician's job is easy, and the problems they deal with are minor.

But I know it would also be also enough to drive Jack insane. Meeting with his niece throughout the years, watching her be so proud of achievements that are real to her and hollow to everyone who knows. Hollow to him. It's a special kind of hell we live in.

One hell of a utopia.

In the end, Sarah will become a small business owner. We'll lay down the trail for her to run something that runs along the lines of 20th century ethical practices. She'll have her pick of products, and she'll run the operation in the best way she knows how. We can lay down breadcrumbs of opportunities and support the infrastructure and the product line from where we sit. She'll live a perfectly respectable life in her ethical and lovely shop for as long as she wants until she wants a transfer.

Maybe she'll be a politician then. Who the hell knows.

Not me, and not Jack, by the look of it. I look at him, and he glares back.

Yeah. Okay.

Jack slaps another file on my desk. This time, I just take it. There are some days where turnabout just isn't fair play.

In the near future, 85% of all jobs have been automated, and everyone's basic needs are met for free. You work for a secret organization that creates fake busywork jobs for the majority who aren't qualified for the few real jobs left, but need perceived meaningful labor to stay sane.

[lvnleah]

omg foxy fic for u! team night out where y/n let’s foxy drink so y/n can drive her back to their house later on and stuff since y/n prefers not to drink, when foxy is drunk she’s all over y/n and practically pulls her into her lap in the booth with teases from the team. just a funny cute fic, maybe foxy gets on karaoke and sings a love song and declares her love for y/n infront of the whole club. y/n takes her home and does her skin care routine since she’s too drunk to do it and looks after her .. feel like because she’s quite quiet she’d be a chaotic drunk

drunken love | emily fox

emily fic after the absolute banger she scored today!

A team night out always promised chaos. You weren’t much of a drinker, which meant you got the all-important job of being the responsible one. And given Emily’s growing tendency to cling to you like a magnet when drunk, it was a good thing, too.

She was three drinks in, giggling at absolutely nothing and staring at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky.

“Babe,” she slurred, resting her chin on your shoulder. “You are too beautiful for me.”

Before you could respond, her bottom lip wobbled.

Oh, no.

“Babe, don’t cry,” you whispered, cupping her face before it turned into a full-blown scene.

“I just love you so much,” she sniffled, her arms locking around your waist in a death grip.

Across the table, Leah and Katie burst out laughing.

“She’s a mess,” Lotte said, shaking her head.

“She’s your mess,” Alessia added, giving you a knowing grin. 

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

Emily gasped like you’d just broken her heart.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered.

“I don’t,” you reassured her, rubbing her back.

Seemingly satisfied, she nuzzled into your neck. “Good ‘cause I’d die without you.”

That earned another round of laughter from the table. Emily was normally a quiet, steady presence, quick-witted but never one to be the loudest in the room. But drunk Emily? Oh, drunk Emily was a romantic, dramatic, clingy mess.

And the team loved every second of it.

A server passed by, placing another round of drinks on the table, and Emily perked up immediately.

“Shots?” she asked hopefully. “Let’s do some shots!”

“No shots,” you said, pulling her back down before she could make a break for it.

“But I love shots,” she pouted.

“I know, babe. But you love me more, right?”

Her expression turned serious as she considered that. Then, with all the conviction in the world, she nodded.

“Yeah,” she said, snuggling into you again. “Love you wayyy more.”

Katie pretended to wipe a tear, just as drunk as Emily, “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful Foxy.”

You rolled your eyes.

Emily hummed, seemingly lost in her world. “Can you be my girlfriend?” she mumbled suddenly.

You blinked. “I already am.”

“Oh,” she said, as if this was brand-new information. Then, she grinned. “Lucky me! Did you guys know she was my girlfriend?” She said, turning to her teammates.  

Lotte choked on her drink.

Before you could even process that, Beth clapped her hands.

“Alright, time for karaoke.”

You immediately tensed, and Emily immediately lit up.

“Me! I wanna go!” she cheered, raising her hand like a kid in class.

“Oh no,” you muttered. “Babe, maybe we just sit this one out—”

“Absolutely not,” Leah interrupted. “She’s gotta do it now.”

With the entire table cheering her on, Emily stumbled up to the tiny stage, grabbing the mic with the confidence of a woman who had absolutely no business being that drunk in public.

“This one’s for my girlfriend,” she announced dramatically, pointing directly at you.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh, God.”

The team erupted into cheers. Emily squinted at the screen, clearly struggling to focus, before grinning.

The intro music started.

You recognized it immediately.

It was “I Will Always Love You” by Whitney Houston.

Before you could even attempt to stop this disaster, Emily launched into it with the passion of someone performing for thousands, completely off-key, swaying like she might fall over at any second.

The team was losing their minds.

Katie was doubled over, Leah had tears in her eyes, and Alessia was recording every second of it. Meanwhile, you were sinking lower and lower into your seat, face buried in your hands.

When Emily hit the chorus, she dramatically reached out toward you like this was a tragic movie scene.

“I WILL ALWAYS LOVE YOUUUUUUUUU!”

You were going to die. You could feel your soul physically leaving your body.

“She is SO gone,” Leah wheezed, wiping tears from her face.

“She’s in love,” Lotte corrected, shaking her head in awe. “That’s pure, unfiltered love.”

Somehow, Emily made it through the entire song, taking a deep bow at the end. As the whole bar cheered, you wanted to crawl into a hole.

Emily stumbled back toward you, flopping into the booth with the biggest grin.

“Did you like it?” she asked sweetly, beaming at you like a proud puppy.

“I—yeah, babe. It was… something.”

She sighed dreamily, tucking her head into your shoulder. “You’re my muse.”

Lotte snorted so hard she almost choked. You had to get her home. 

“I think we’re calling it a night,” you announced, standing up and helping Emily to her feet. “Let’s get you home.”

“Oh, mine or yours?” she asked innocently.

“Ours,” you corrected, throwing an arm around her waist to steady her.

Emily gasped like you’d just proposed. “Oh, wow.”

The car ride was an adventure in itself. Emily had insisted on DJing, which mostly meant playing love songs at full volume and dramatically serenading you, often reaching across to grab your hand or trace hearts on your arm.

At a red light, she turned to you with the softest expression.

“You’re perfect,” she whispered, like it was the biggest secret in the world.

You glanced at her, shaking your head fondly. “Thank you, baby but you’re drunk.”

“I’m drunk and in love,” she corrected, squeezing your hand.

You laughed. “I know.”

When you finally pulled into your driveway, Emily stretched her arms above her head, a lazy smile on her face.

“We made it,” she said proudly. “You’re such a good driver!”

“Yep. Let’s get you inside before you fall asleep in the car.”

She huffed but let you help her out. Once inside, she flopped onto the couch with zero grace, arms spread like a starfish.

“Babe, bed,” you reminded her. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

“But the couch is nice,” she murmured, already half-asleep.

You crouched beside her, brushing hair from her face. “Come on, I’ll even do your skincare for you.”

That got her attention. Her eyes fluttered open, sparkling with mischief.

“You’d do that for me?”

You smiled. “Always.”

Emily reached out, poking your cheek. “You’re the best.”

With some effort, you got her to the bathroom, where she sat on the closed toilet lid, watching you with the softest look as you carefully wiped off her makeup.

“Nobody’s ever done this for me before,” she mumbled.

You kissed her forehead. “Get used to it.”

She sighed happily, closing her eyes as you applied her moisturizer. Once she was all set, you helped her change into one of your oversized hoodies and led her to bed. As soon as she hit the mattress, she pulled you down with her, snuggling into your chest.

“I’m gonna marry you,” she murmured sleepily.

Your heart squeezed. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

You smiled into her hair. “Ask me again when you’re sober.”

Emily hummed, already halfway asleep, “I’m planning on doing it soon, just need a ring!”

[bookwormjust]

Auntie’s heart- Part 2

(Azriel x mate reader)

The dinner table was lively, filled with the warm hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter as the Inner Circle shared stories and updates from their respective lives. Nyx was seated between Feyre and Rhysand, his tiny wings twitching with excitement as he tried to keep up with the adults. You were seated next to Azriel, his hand resting on your knee beneath the table, a quiet but constant reminder of his presence. The evening was cozy and lighthearted, until Nyx, with all the innocence and bluntness of a four-year-old, decided to recount a very specific event. “Mommy,” he piped up, his little voice cutting through the chatter, “did you know Auntie saved me from the *most disgusting* thing ever?” The table went silent for a moment as everyone turned their attention to him. Feyre’s brow lifted in amusement, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Oh? And what did she save you from, little star?” Nyx, ever dramatic, leaned forward with wide eyes. “At the ball! I ate something yucky—*so* yucky—and I couldn’t spit it out ‘cause there was no napkin, and everyone was looking. But Auntie told me to spit it in her *hand*! She saved me!” Cassian choked on his drink, sputtering as he laughed. “In her *hand*? Gods, that’s love right there.” Nesta rolled her eyes but smirked, while Mor was grinning, clearly entertained. Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. “You really do go above and beyond, don’t you?” he said, glancing at you with a mix of amusement and gratitude. Feyre, however, reached across the table, her eyes soft with affection. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I knew I could trust you with him, but this… well, that’s a whole new level of devotion.” Before you could respond, Azriel’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his side. His shadows curled around you both, and when you glanced up at him, his golden eyes were filled with pride and something deeper, something that made your heart squeeze. “She’s incredible,” Azriel said quietly, his voice firm and certain as he hugged you tighter. “And clearly the best aunt in the Night Court.” Nyx beamed at Azriel’s words before turning back to you. “You *are* the best auntie,” he agreed, reaching out his little arms toward you. You smiled, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “Well, how could I not save you, Nyx? You’re my favorite little star.” Cassian, ever the joker, leaned back in his chair with a grin. “Az, you’d better hold onto her. If she can handle *that* without flinching, she’s a keeper.” Azriel shot Cassian a look, but there was no mistaking the faint smirk on his lips. “I already know that,” he said, his voice low and sure, sending a wave of warmth through you. The table erupted into laughter, the conversation moving on to other topics, but Azriel didn’t let go of you for the rest of the evening, his quiet pride in you a constant, comforting presence. And Nyx, as always, looked at you like you were the true hero of his little world.

[princesseilish]

Heyyyy been missing your writing had an idea of Rosie going to billies show for the first time? Please? If not that's fine

FIRST SHOW

Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, that’s like all

Synopsis: it’s Ro’s first time going to one of billie’s concerts, and she can’t contain her excitement

Rosie had always known her mommy was Billie Eilish, but to her, that was just a name. Just something other people called her. Because at home, Billie wasn’t some worldwide superstar—she was just Mommy. The one who made her pancakes shaped like bears, the one who let her sit on her lap during movie nights, and the one who sang her to sleep every night.

So when y/n finally told Rosie that she’d be going to Billie’s show for the first time, the little girl screamed.

“I get to see Mommy sing? Like, for real?”

Y/n laughed as she helped her daughter pick out her outfit for the night. “Like, for real.”

Rosie gasped, dramatically placing a hand on her chest. “I need to look so cool.”

Y/n bit back a smile. “You always look cool, baby.”

—

The moment they arrived at the venue, Rosie’s excitement reached an entirely new level. Dressed in an oversized Billie Eilish hoodie (courtesy of her mommy, of course), her tiny noise-canceling headphones hanging around her neck, she held y/n’s hand tightly as they were escorted backstage.

Rosie’s big brown eyes widened as she took in the busy energy around her—crew members running around, instruments being tuned, cameras flashing. It was a whole new world.

And then—

“BUG!”

Before Rosie could even react, Billie sprinted towards her, scooping her up into her arms.

“Mommy!!!” Rosie giggled, throwing her arms around Billie’s neck. “I’m at your show!”

Billie kissed her cheeks repeatedly, making Rosie squeal. “You are at my show! And you look so cute, bug, oh my god.”

Rosie pulled back just enough to give Billie an intense look. “Mommy, I’m so excited.”

Billie let out a soft laugh, rocking Rosie side to side. “Are you ready to watch me sing?”

Rosie nodded aggressively. “Yes! But—” she held up a finger, “—can you sing Mommy Song first?”

Y/n covered her mouth, trying not to laugh.

Billie raised an amused brow. “What song, baby?”

Rosie blinked up at her. “I Love You,” she said, as if it were obvious.

Billie’s heart melted. “Bug… I love you so much.”

“I know,” Rosie grinned, poking Billie’s cheek. “That’s why you gotta sing it first!”

—

When the show finally started, Rosie was mesmerized.

She had seen Billie sing before, of course—but never like this. Never with flashing lights and thousands of people screaming her mommy’s name.

Rosie stood on y/n’s lap in the VIP section, wearing her little headphones, her eyes huge as she watched Billie move across the stage.

“She’s so cool,” Rosie whispered, completely in awe.

Y/n kissed the top of her head. “She really is, baby.”

And then, during a quieter moment in the show, Billie looked towards their section.

“This is a really special night for me,” she said into the mic, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Because my baby—my little bug—is here at my show for the very first time tonight.”

Rosie’s eyes lit up as the crowd cheered.

Billie looked directly at her and said, “Hi, bug.”

Rosie gasped. “SHE SAID HI TO ME.”

The crowd lost it.

Billie grinned. “This one’s for you, baby.”

And when the first chords of I Love You started playing, Rosie immediately turned to y/n, whispering very seriously, “I told you she would sing it first.”

Y/n laughed, hugging her daughter tight. “Yeah, baby. You were right.”

And for the rest of the night, Rosie didn’t take her eyes off her mommy—not even once.

[lizes-posts]

Backstage at WWE - part 2

Warnings none

Jey had a match later, so I told him I’d watch the baby since I didn’t have anything big tonight. At first, he wasn’t so sure about leaving me alone with her. "You sure you can handle her by yourself?" he had asked, arms crossed, giving me a skeptical look.

I rolled my eyes. "Jey, she’s a baby, not a WWE opponent. I got this."

He still hesitated, glancing between me and his daughter, who was happily babbling in his arms. "She can be a handful," he warned.

I reached over, taking her from him, and immediately, she let out the sweetest giggle, grabbing onto my hoodie like she had no plans of letting go. "See?" I grinned. "She already loves me."

Jey exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk. "Aight, aight. If she gives you trouble, call me."

"Go wrestle," I teased, shooing him toward the door. "We’ll be fine."

After a final glance, he sighed. "You better still be in one piece when I get back."

And with that, he left.

The locker room had turned into a little sanctuary of laughter and warmth. His baby girl, dressed in the most adorable little bear onesie—complete with tiny ears on the hood—was lying on her back in my lap, kicking her chubby little legs as we played together.

"Who’s the cutest lil’ bear?" I cooed, gently booping her tiny nose.

She let out a sweet, high-pitched giggle, her dark eyes shining with joy. Her tiny fingers grasped at mine, squeezing tight as if she never wanted to let go.

"Oh, so you strong-strong, huh?" I teased, wiggling her little hands. "You tryna show me up?"

More giggles. Her laughter filled the room like the sweetest melody, making my heart swell. Every time I made a silly face or wiggled my fingers near her tummy, she shrieked in delight, kicking even harder.

"Okay, okay, you win!" I laughed, pretending to admit defeat as I held her close, rubbing my nose gently against hers. She let out a soft babble, as if she had just won the most important battle in the world.

I hadn’t even realized how much time had passed. The little bear in my arms had gone from energetic wiggles to soft, sleepy blinks, her tiny fist curling into the fabric of my hoodie. Her warmth, her sweet baby scent, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing—it was enough to lull me into sleep, too.

By the time Jey returned from his match, the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

There I was, curled up on his locker room couch, his daughter snuggled on top of me, both of us fast asleep. The little bear hood had slipped slightly off her head, revealing soft curls that matched his own, her tiny cheek pressed against my chest. One of my arms was wrapped protectively around her back, the other resting on her little legs.

Jey felt something in his chest tighten. A warmth. A fullness.

"Damn," he murmured under his breath, a slow smile spreading across his face.

He set his gear bag down quietly, not wanting to disturb the perfect moment. Walking over, he crouched beside the couch, just watching.

His baby girl, always a ball of energy, looked so peaceful, so safe in my arms. And me… I looked like I belonged there. Like this wasn’t just a moment but a glimpse into something bigger.

Jey reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from my face before his fingers gently ran over his daughter’s tiny back. She let out a sleepy sigh, nuzzling closer. His heart clenched.

He sat there for a moment, just soaking it all in.

Then, unable to help himself, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before whispering, "Y’all my whole world, man."

I stirred slightly, a sleepy hum escaping my lips, but I didn’t wake. Instead, my grip on his daughter tightened just a little, like I already knew I was holding something precious.

Jey exhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his beard as he leaned back against the couch, one arm draped over the backrest.

Yeah.

This? This felt like home.

Tags : @4milly

[sturn777]

readers reaction to rapper!chris new song "now we're strangers" (central cee) about them and their messy break up :(

now we're strangers ,, rapper!chris x reader

you don’t even have to press play. you already know.

but you do anyway.

the beat rolls in smooth, heavy, the kind that creeps under your skin and settles deep in your bones. his voice follows a second later, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"i can still recite your number off by heart..."

your breath catches.

you hate how true it is.

he could dial your number in his sleep, same way you could recognize his voice in a crowded room, even now. but what does that matter when he never calls anymore?

"you can leave, but we can't erase the memories..."

like hell you can.

they stick, no matter how hard you scrub them away. the late night drives, the stolen kisses between studio sessions, the way his hoodie still sits at the bottom of your closet because you can’t bring yourself to throw it out.

your grip on your phone tightens as the verse continues.

"broke my baby's heart, and now she partyin' and hoein'..."

your eyes narrow. hoe? is that what he thinks?

your lips curl in irritation. typical. he messes up, and suddenly you're the villain for moving on. you knew he’d find a way to spin the story, lace his guilt into a beat and let the world sympathize with him.

but it still doesn’t stop the way your heart clenches when he says,

"say your skin's breakin' out because i cause you stress

then you left, you're lookin' sexier than ever and you're glowin’..."

you swallow hard.

so he noticed.

he always noticed.

but it doesn’t change anything, does it?

your phone buzzes in your lap.

you blink, staring at the screen.

he’s waiting. waiting for you to react, to call, to tell him he’s wrong—or worse, to tell him he’s right.

your fingers hover over the keyboard. type. delete. type again.

what do you even say?

that the song made your chest ache? that hearing his voice still does something to you, even when you wish it wouldn’t? that you still think about him when you're alone at night, even though you’d rather die than admit it?

your hands shake, frustration bubbling up.

he doesn’t deserve a response.

not this time.

he’ll have to sit with this one.

you don’t even check the messages ; just see his name light up your phone, over and over again, until it’s nothing but an annoying reminder that he still gets to you.

that one makes you pause. bet? bet what?

but you don’t have to wonder long.

a sharp knock at your door sends a jolt through your chest.

you already know who it is.

you make him knock again before you finally push yourself off the couch, fingers curling around the doorknob. you take a deep breath, school your face into something indifferent, and pull it open.

there he is.

same chain. same low eyes, scanning your face like he’s tryna figure out just how mad you are. he’s got a bouquet in one hand, white roses, your favorite, like he ain’t just rapped about breaking your heart in front of millions of people.

“hey, baby.” his voice is smooth, almost lazy, but you know him too well. his jaw flexes like he’s holding back something, like he doesn’t really wanna be here, but has to be.

you cross your arms, unimpressed. “what do you want?”

he huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “knew you’d be on some shit.” he pushes the flowers toward you, tilting his head. “take ‘em.”

you hesitate, eyeing him for a second before snatching them from his hand. they smell good. annoyingly good.

“so what? you think you can just pull up with flowers and i’ll forget you dropped a whole song about me?”

he exhales through his nose, shoving his hands in his pockets. “never said that.”

“but you're here.”

he tilts his head, watching you, and you hate how easy it is to fall back into this. the quiet stares, the unspoken shit that lingers between you both.

you shift your weight, glancing down at the flowers. “why’d you really come, chris?”

he steps forward. “wanted to see you.”

your breath catches.

his fingers brush against your arm, slow, deliberate, like he’s testing the waters.

“wanted to see if you was really done with me,” he mutters, voice lower now. “or if you just tryna act like it.”

your throat tightens. “i am.”

his lips twitch. “yeah?”

you don’t say anything. you don’t pull away when he reaches up, thumb brushing against your jaw.

his eyes flick to your lips. “you still mad at me?”

you should be. you were.

but he leans in, and you don’t move.

he smirks, just a little, before pressing his lips to yours.

and just like that, you lose.

──────────────────────────────

© STURN777

[fumifooms]

Marcille and Chilchuck’s interwoven character arcs: the fantasy of prince charming, idealization vs pessimism and loss

I’ve alluded to Marcille and Chilchuck being central to each other’s arcs so many times but the proper full analysis has been long overdue. I’ve made a post going into their differences and similarities and the many ways they’re foils for each other, but this is going to give more focus to a narrative rather than character angle this time around. We talk a lot about the importance of Marcille in Chilchuck’s arc, it's more obvious overall, but less so about Chilchuck’s importance in her own, so this is going to emphase on the latter. They have a lot of ridiculously unique conflict specific to their situation and world, and an intriguing dynamic. Relationships can be layered and subtext can imply quite a lot, the reality of things can be more complex than we'd like or hard to reconcile, and that's exactly what we're talking about today and how that is a lesson Marcille needed to learn. Give this a shot and look at the manga pages alongside my reading and decide for yourself whether I’ve got a point or I’m going overboard~!

So, Marcille and Chilchuck are character foils in many many ways, and I think a particularly brilliant part of their arc is how they balanced each other out on idealization. On one hand, idealizing things means only seeing what you want to see through rose-colored glasses, on the other, being completely opposed to it usually means denouncing any optimism at all, refusing to hold any good faith or hope. These stances reflect both their backgrounds, as Chilchuck has lived through being discriminated against and taken advantage of consistently, betrayed by employers and eventually the person supposed to be closest to him, his wife, meanwhile Marcille grew up more sheltered and lonely, and books were a big way through which she experienced social situations & the ways of the world in her rural home before going to the magic academy as a researcher and getting more actual life experience herself.

I think it’s especially interesting to analyze the trope of— the idealization of— the perfect chivalrous prince on a white horse who is pure hearted and will make you swoon, in the context of their relationship and their arcs! It’s a recurring motif- you’ll just have to trust me and read further~ Obviously this contains spoilers for the whole manga, so beware! It's very long because I'm trying to cover the topic fully from the ground up, my apologies.

Table of contents:

How they start out

The Daltian Clan and its importance

Prince Charming vs Chilchuck Tims

Ideals vs desires vs wants

Deconstructing realistic romance & compromising between romanticism and reality

Princess imagery in Marcille

Conclusion

Let’s start with the beginning:

How the characters start off:

Their relationship is both familiar and strained (extra reading: analysis of their relationship pre-canon and early canon), they bounce off each other with the ease of coworkers who’ve been working together for two years and who share similar common sense. Because yes they’re both generally grounded and rational, and generally they respect each other’s input and perspective, but, they both have blind spots…

The biggest hurdle is the way Chilchuck refuses to open up. Marcille has made efforts to befriend him, and though he was open to developing a better workplace dynamic and, say, helping her out with shopping for a pouch outside of work, even if it ended up being counterproductive he’d refuse to even just say his age, let alone share anything about his family situation. Knowing he had kids and a wife would have pretty efficiently fully shut down that he was a kid, and yet he valued being closed off more. Chilchuck is often shown being pessimistic, assuming the worst intentions out of people and being wary of anything good happening, being the last person to trust something or someone, etc. (Quick summary analysis of him I made if you want here, beyond the character foil analysis I linked at the beginning.) He prefers assuming that opening up will only bring him problems to assuming that it'd bring about positive things.

Meanwhile Marcille is very… Honestly she’s hard to classify strongly. Because I could say she’s very open to people, but honestly it’s conditional? She emotes intensely but she’s not quite a befriending machine either, especially when we recall the magic academy days as well, she’s not unused to keeping people at some level of distance, herself keeping a lot of secrets too. She was very wary of Laios at first because she had misconceptions, she holds grudges and isn’t personable with everyone like Namari or Toshiro, when she’s introduced to the party she seems serious and doesn’t smile. While I don’t fully agree, there’s a good analysis not by me here showcasing what I’m talking about. Marcille’s more serious academic side often gets undermined and I think it’s an important part of her, but then the difference between her and Chilchuck comes down to theory vs practice: knowledge vs experience. I think something more fitting to say would be that she’s idealistic and easily swayed, for example the way she lights up whenever she can put a story-like twist on things, her mood can go from dread to hype and reverse in one second, like with riding a kelpie or with the conflict between Chilchuck and his wife, or again with Namari, where it becomes a sort of hero vs antagonist dynamic for her where justice and righteous thoughts should override everything else like needing money to live. She's very stubborn, like he is, but it's easier for her to come around in dramatic ways, on things big and small, mentioning for another example thinking better of orcs suddenly because they can cook well.

So sure on first meeting she isn’t exactly eager, but then we do see her enthusiastically trying to befriend everyone! Becoming very friendly once she’s done assessing them. She is social, and fittingly she’s very curious about people. And that said, aesthetics do matter a lot to her, and I mean this beyond just enjoying vibes, for example- and follow along the lingo I'm setting up here- if something ‘breaks’ an aesthetic like Chilchuck or Falin not being a child she’ll willfully dismiss and ignore it, if she can spin something into a story like Chilchuck’s breakup she’ll get carried away, she can get the wrong impression, be gullible for the sake of believing a narrative, such and such. I’d say she’s guarded around people at first, but then with time becomes an open book emotions wise, how she’s always loudly and unapologetically talking about her feelings and emoting. She’s not reckless, rather she’s bold and often has to make decisions quickly, like when the plan unexpectedly changed during the red dragon fight, but things like using dark magic can feel like thoughtless decisions looking from the outside, like to Chilchuck, who as per his pessimism dictates he sees all of this in a negative light, assumes the worst: that she’s just ignorant, naive and reckless. She’s easily worried and discouraged but still always perseveres.

He's biased against mages and elves because of past experiences and he projects that onto Marcille. And it makes sense because good faith is dangerous to Chilchuck- for his feelings in relationships yes, but more concretely and important for his life at work, the way an old party of his was going to sacrifice him to succubi for easy money. Like the way he constantly puts his non-work values down to the group so they don’t have high expectations of him, having high expectations for someone else is vulnerability he doesn’t want to or cannot afford. The result however is that he, too, put people into boxes to avoid having his preconceived notions challenged. He's very judgemental, which we see with Laios as well, and even with Izutsumi in the ice golem chapter, but by then he's learned to self-reflect more and be honest with his feelings due to Leed, meaning his social conflicts get resolved more often and more quickly, again like with Izutsumi in the ice golem chapter.

So in the end, there are things that stand in the way of them having true, equal respect for one another. She sees him as a kid despite everything else (being capable and mature, etc etc), and he sees her as a ticking bomb of a naive elf mage who’s gonna get herself into legal trouble if she doesn’t get them killed first.

And it takes an arc spanning the whole manga for them to get there, to truly see each other on equal footing, culminating with the bicorn chapter.

I'm going to be mentioning them a lot so in my mind, the most important Marcille & Chilchuck arc defining scenes happen in: mandrake chapter, mimic chapter, shapeshifter chapter, hypogriff soup chapter, changelings, bicorn, succubus, and Marcille dungeon lord. We're talking mostly about Marcille's discrimination and their narrative about loss here, but on the end of Chilchuck's discrimination the dark magic plot is very central so honorable mention to the red dragon chapters, the harpies chapter and the cockatrice chapter, the latter where Chilchuck airs out his beef particularly directly.

Interestingly enough, the mandrake chapter which is in VERY early manga, where characters and dynamics are still being set up, Marcille gets Chilchuck to say that she isn't a burden and that he's glad they have her and her skillset with them, so the question of "does he respect her at all" was answered before the audience could even think to ask it, and Marcille also makes statements shortly after showing she respects him in turn- more on that later. This has for a result that we do know there's a foundation of respect here, even when as said it's not complete... yet.

So let’s get into it! Early on we already get a lot instances hinting at their opposed core values of optimism vs pessimism. It’s perfectly summarized in the two panel excerpts opening this post: "Sounds romantic!" "Sounds fishy.", hope vs wariness. "Meeting you was fate!" "… Which means it’s fate for you to eat these monsters, too!", if good things happening to you is fate then you must accept that all the bad things that happen to you are fate as well. It’s "Things will work out!" vs "Things will not work out".

The issue here seems rather evident, it’s a balancing game. Compromising, adapting your judgement to the situation. Yes Marcille romanticizes things too much and it can cause her trouble, and yes Chilchuck being so closed off on himself gets him into trouble as well.

(Not telling there was a mimic nearby being maybe the most straightforward example.)

His refusal to hope for anything good happening to him ever is at the core of him not having even tried reconciling with his wife (more on that later with the bicorn chapter). Through the manga, Chilchuck influences her to be more savvy and to respect boundaries more (with himself and Namari for example), while she influences him to become more open and give things a go. It’s no coincidence that it’s Marcille that pushes him to try reconciling with his wife and gives him hope that it just might work out- that that chance even on its own means it's worth giving it a shot.

The Daltian Clan & its importance

The importance of fiction in some people's lives and their specific psychological relationship to it is a very complex human brain topic with many many studies and an infinite amount of subtleties, I can't possibly do justice to this section at its full potential but I'll go over my major points. But the complex and layered nature of this relationship is why, for example, the interpretation that Marcille is a lesbian despite her likely attraction/love for male fictional characters (if not even just simping or stanning separate from those), has legs to stand on and is a compelling angle!

The Daltian Clan, often shortened as Dalclan, is Marcille's favorite book series and is very very personally important to her. In an extra we learn that part of it is that seeing a half-elf character personally reached out to her and meant a lot. She feels seen through it. Even if it's notable that the half-elf haracter isn't her favorite, general Hagreus, but the one with black hair. It's a Cinderella type of romance & convoluted political intrigue series full with a lot of drama, reminiscent of stuff like Romeo & Juliette or Richard III.

I believe that books were developmentally very important for her, similarly as to how cartoons are important to the education and development of toddlers and kids nowadays, or how oral stories like fairytales have always been important to teach lessons. Fiction engages readers and provides emotional stimulation, which can often be a flawed substitute for actual human contact- but nonetheless a big factor in socialization. For Marcille who lived in a rather rural region surrounded by books and chickens, who couldn't fit in with kids of any age around, books were a major part of teaching her how to socialize, how people and social groups worked. This is also part of why the autistic Marcille angle can be very compelling and plausible, though personally I don't see it that way.

So yes I think that sort of upbringing shaped her a lot, and I think it's part of why Marcille has trouble not putting people into boxes... Why even though Falin assured her it wasn't like that, Marcille had made this whole narrative in her mind painting Laios as a villain that stole Falin away against her will/for nefarious purposes. Why she has trouble not thinking of/treating Falin as a kid, unwilling to process how she has grown up. Why Chilchuck has to be very young in her mind, and it was very very hard for her to reconcile the fact that he wasn't. (It's actually interesting to note that Marcille treats Falin and Chilchuck similarly in a lot of ways, overstepping boundaries, being dimissive and touchy- There's a lot to say about how the party dynamic changed a lot with during canon it becoming just Laios, Marcille and Chilchuck at first and Laios' monster interest reveal, notably that in Falin's absence that she may have latched onto Chilchuck and treats him similarly to Falin may be her finding it omforting to fall into habits or filling a hole.) I think complexity in fictional characters gets her gears turning, but there's always a film of impersonality to it right, where it's not real, there's a safe distance, if you want to form romantic narratives about how things went down and a character's angst, you can, but someone who’s real… Things are often uglier or harder to grapple with. And she doesn’t want Falin to have grown up, for her to so quickly have aged. I think applying this sort of storybook veneer onto her real life connections, pushing people into boxes, is a way for her to make social relationships more digestible. And she's a big gossip enjoyer too! Engaging in shallow retellings of people's interpersonal drama, eating it up with enthusiasm and curiosity. Part of it, like with novels, is vicariously living through others I think, experiencing making connections where she hasn't or couldn't, the way her relationship with the other girls at the academy besides Falin stayed distant and shallow despite being friendly. Gossip, like stories, are safe, distant from your own life, they're easy to judge, not unlike the irl popular interest in following others’ online drama. You’re not involved yourself, so you don’t have as much chance of getting hurt. So yes, easier to digest. Less complex, less unpleasant things and less contradictions that are hard to process. Sort of like a defense mechanism to not have your worldview challenged, dodging having to recognize these things by assigning them tropes. And I think part of it too like I implied is: she can’t experience actual loss through books and gossip. They give her emotional social stimulation she doesn’t fully allow herself to have with actual humans for fear of getting invested in a way that’s very raw and personal. Again, like how she pushes Falin away to ignore the more nuanced facets to their relationship! The intensity of what I’m speculating on here in her character is debatable but I do think it’s present at least in some amount.

In a similar way to dogs being important to Laios’ social life (I made something of an analysis on that if you're interested, but this one's not relevant to what I'm talking about in this post) books are her comfort zone. If she can compare a real situation to a story it brightens everything and, well, it does make her assume things wrongly often but it also makes her able to analyze people deeply, like the roleplay-theory-speculation about Chilchuck's wife and the way she hit bullseye on how Chilchuck felt in the aftermath. But like how Marcille only agreed to wear the frog suit when the party told her it'd look cute on her, or how thinking about riding on kelpies made her excited for what previously she saw as a tedious and dreadful journey. Special interest power blast.

And this is where comes in her coworker, a disillusioned embittered man.

A guy who knows all about how messed up the world & people can be and isn't afraid to say it how it is, who in every sphere of life has field experience rather than fictional one- with romance, work, and having dreams & ambitions. Someone flawed and real, someone who won't let her interpret him however she wants without confronting her about it & challenging her to change her perspective.

It took a looot for Marcille to fully stop seeing him as a kid, and in a way I think it was necessary for the dissonance to be both this hard to reconcile and this impossible to ignore: that he truly is a middle-aged man down to his demeanor and family background but that he looks like a teen at most to her. That she literally has to look beyond aesthetics to be able to first fathom then accept and internalize that he's an adult despite his looks. That it was so ingrained and took so long, so much that even while she recognized and said "He's usually the most mature one of us", so much that even as it's implied that she knew logically he's an adult before the changelings, as pictured earlier she still couldn't conceive it. It's like with her calling Laios and Falin's parents kids in a post-canon extra, it's not that she doesn't know it's that it's hard to wrap her head around. Necessary and important because, if Chilchuck was any less loud about being a man she could have gone on unchallenged in her assumptions. If it was an easier to dismantle misconception, something easier to digest, then her arc of coming to see him as he is would have had less impact on her character, afterwards she could continue to run with her own interpretations of people like Falin and Namari without her confidence in being able to pin down people into simple roles being so fundamentally shaken. And it's notable too, that Namari's choice to leave the party to look out for herself situation was decidedly unheroic, but it was Chilchuck who spoke to Marcille about why her decision was both reasonable and had a lot of thought behind it, making her accept that it doesn't make Namari a bad person or even a bad coworker or friend.

Chilchuck is someone who knows that sometimes, bad things happen for no reason, and it's not meaningful or part of a grand narrative, it just sucks and you have to deal with it.

As the foil to her very emotional black and white interpretations of things, Chilchuck represents nuance, and he's impossible for her to ignore.

Prince Charming vs Chilchuck Tims

Chilchuck is so obviously not a prince charming. He doesn't have the looks, the attitude nor the lifestyle. Does he have the virtues for it? Well, no... But also, yes. More on that in a bit. It's also interesting to think of the status aspect to it, because being from an impoverished oppressed class/community is so central to Chilchuck's character, something usually far removed from prince charmings and white knights, and not only status wise but on the topic of virtues... It’s an interesting thread to explore, the way one may have the means to remain chivalrous rather than becoming distrustful and embittered: sometimes optimism is a sign of privilege, being able to be or remain optimistic through life. I'm sure Marcille would be the first to jump onto the aesthetic and narrative allure of a pauper in love with a princess, of a hero of the people à la Robin Hood, but it's still interesting to think of that as another facet of the contrast Chilchuck makes. Alright, tangent done.

But obviously, despite this all they have a great work dynamic and respect for each other's capabilities. It's not like Marcille is mean to people who don't fit these fairytale high standards, no that’s only when she feels wronged or if there's injustice, rather she becomes dismissive of people’s complexity, wether they become an angel like Falin or Marcille’s shapeshifter of Chilchuck or a villain like Namari and Toshiro or Laios when they met. But my point, my point: she actually thinks very highly of him!

"He’s usually the most mature one of us" "He’s dependable, we’re counting on him" "No, chilchuck is definitely virtuous."

And I think the ways in which that shows are very interesting.

^ Ok so this happens, in the Namari chapter I keep talking about. Look at his expression in this last panel. He's always teasing her, but doesn't this here feels a bit... Suggestive? Like he's implying things, not just talking about it in a work setting but also giving her general life advice. Maybe even making an innuendo for womanizers, gentlemen who flirt without meaning a thing and have some hidden agenda. Warning her about smooth talkers that seem too good to be true. It’s honestly a very easy to overlook but defining interaction for them. It’s a quote that’s on his Adventurer’s Bible plus his anime quote keychain merch!

I love his implication that "I say what I’m about straight up, money, so you can trust me"- and isn’t that just the exact thing… Because that is what this is, he’s pitting himself against these people who help without asking for anything and he's saying he’s more trustworthy and reliable than them, driving a wedge between him and those people to prop himself up by comparison. His words tie a lot here into his general worldview too, of course here he's ✨Imparting His Wisdom✨, but it also ties into his self-image issues I'd say, where he’s hard on himself and calls himself a coward etc: if no one has positive expectations for you on an interpersonal level, then you can’t disappoint them. It only goes up from here if you start at rock bottom, can't have unpleasant surprises.

But the meaningfulness of this moment doesn't start and end there: That moment happened in chapter 20, but then this happens in chapters 36-37...

I was always puzzled by the split second interaction between Marcille and Kabru. Marcille blushing is the point, it’s in the anime too and it’s the focus of the panel. That moment of hesitation before she goes back into business mode where she looks at him back, and blushes. And idk I always felt like it was weird timing, like it was a weird beat Kui chose to put emphasis on, why the story even had them make eye contact in the first place, what point it could be making besides "Kabru is handsome and charismatic" which was already made with Hien and Benichidori below, otherwise it's not even like Marcille and Kabru ever interact. Like, maybe it's for it to be a callback when she glances at him while the canaries interrogate her at Thistle's house? Regardless, she blushes, but her expression is more akin to a "Uuhh he smiled at me why’d he smile at me like that. Oh he’s kinda pretty. Well anyways-" rather than swooning or truly checking him out. She’s frowning, even. And like I said, being very naturally charming was a point already made previously.

But then… This repeated reminder that Kabru is a lady killer IS the point, Marcille reacting to him in that way IS the point. Kabru is the epitome of ‘will say they help you but has hidden motives and might betray your trust if it serves their interest’ (not a diss on him tbf he has understandable goals), he is the epitome of looking noble, welcoming and chivalrous but actually being dishonest and manipulative, and what’s important here is… Marcille turns away and sticks by Chilchuck. Of course this is logical, no one would expect her to go running to Kabru lol, but I implore you to think of the thematics of it all, a princely guy, the closest character of the cast in the flesh embodying the prince charming persona, is giving her some positive attention, and it does affect her a bit but nonetheless she turns away, and strategizes with Chilchuck instead of trusting or giving good faith or getting carried away. She chooses Chilchuck. Unlike so often, she doesn’t let aesthetics sway her here, get in the way of her better judgement, distract her from the point. She chooses not to give good faith, even if he seems charming and friendly and smiles. Marcille is serious when the situation requires it that's now new, but this is in line with the lesson he instilled earlier above. And if nothing else, Marcille has a good memory, exhibit B to come later. Here we see part of why Chilchuck was afraid of Laios or Senshi but not Marcille blurting out the wrong things with Toshiro and is party, when push comes to shove they're often on the same wavelength. Marcille and Chikchuck do strategize with specifically each other regularly, they do tend to pair up a lot after all, so this isn’t especially new, but it’s the first time there’s this sense of us vs them imo. Like how earlier Chilchuck was saying that he’s better than the smooth talker type, here we see Marcille implicitly agree.

She just has a passing glance & thought for Kabru but she knows her true allies and true values, and she wants to strategize with Chilchuck. What I am saying is that if she was given the choice to think through going with a guy that seems perfect and chivalrous like her succubus, if she was logical about it she’d pick Chilchuck over that guy actually, yeah. At the end of the day, no matter the pretty smiles, she knows who her actual friends are. Whiiich on that topic, next section!

Ideals vs desires vs wants

It's succubus analysis time

Her succubus is quite direcly a prince figure, a knight on a white horse who's come to whisk her away. He calls her princess, even! She's taken the role of Daltian Clan's protagonist, essentially. He kisses her hand, nothing short of the most classic courtly romance tropes. He's even drawn in a noticeably more shoujo style, not unlike the characters' faces in the aftermath of getting their energy sucked by succubi.

I made a whole analysis on specifically Laios’ succubus but it covers some stuff that could be interesting for this analysis as well, I’ll repeat the essential stuff tho: Their succubus all show what type of social connection they desire. Izutsumi’s is familial, Marcille wants someone she can emotionally connect with, seemingly romantic, Chilchuck wants something physical and sexual so he doesn’t have to think and worry about anything deeper (betrayal, insecurities, etc, the difficulting that come with a committed romantic relationship- also likely related to his senses & stress), and Laios wants people and friends who’ll accept him and his monster interest- platonic.

But more interesting for this analysis is how succubi work. The goal isn’t to beckon, but to incapacitate. The succubus doesn't work on the basis of rationality, it’s not a factor they go for and it’s not one they need to appeal to either, as we see. (Laios is a special case -gestures to the linked analysis- but the succubus doesn’t appeal to his rationality as much as it soothes his worries, his friends judging him etc etc, and the reason Izutsumi could remain unaffected is that there is always a half of her not enthralled by the succubus because she essentially has two souls.) Neither Marcille, Chilchuck or Izutsumi could realistically expect any of the people they saw to be real and not fake succubis. They KNOW that, they were actively preparing for the succubi to jump on them and fight back, rationally they know they're monsters! But how this monster works is that it targets deep desires within you that when face to face with it'll make you hesitate, make something in you unable to fight or flight and instead do the third instinctive option: freeze. Or especially in Laios’ case, the form gives the victim just enough confliction on the matter for them to want to believe it’s real. All they have to do is just not move, stay passive and accept the attention, so it’s not an issue of wether they reciprocate an action or run away. It's so that it shortcircuits you and leaves you open to pick like a fruit.

If this wasn’t the "reads your heart so deeply that it freezes you to the spot" monster, Chilchuck WOULDN’T be doing anything with these women. He’s been devoted to his wife even 4 years after separation on bad terms, you think he’d ever cheat on her? If this was a decision he were to make, instead of just freezing, he would reject it. In that similar way, Marcille’s succubus might not be what she’d rationally go for. You think if this was what Marcille had to choose, the person she wants most to see and at her side, her most alluring form wouldn't be Falin, alive and well? You think that wouldn't be the thing Laios truly wants most as well? And before people say that canon proved that the latter wasn't with the curse the winged lion put on him, THAT'S THE POINT!!!! You can irrationally desire things, you can desire things to degrees so deep you can’t change it even if you wish you could, but if it was truly a choice up to you, you'd choose otherwise. Laios decided to become king, even if that's a lifestyle so far from what he truly wanted, even if it is duty more than fun for him. Like how Chilchuck would choose faithfulness despite for sure having come into contact with many beauties through his four years of separation.

Ideals vs reality are a big Dunmeshi theme in general, same as wants vs needs, and you can see Marcille’s daydreams and novel themes make it an especially relevant throughline and theme for her. Not unlike how in my opinion General Hareus and Mithrun intentionally look very alike to contrast reality vs fantasy!

Marcille never reacts any particular way to Mithrun’s appearance despite the blatant resemblance, so that makes me think the point/joke is meta rather than character focused. The romanticization of elves and their societal drama in their fiction contrasting heavily with a very real and imperfect product of their military system. The canaries certainly aren’t glamorous next to whatever military Hareus is the general of. There’s even the fun little details like Hagreus’ lips being drawn with extra details because they’re full and pretty while Mithrun’s lips are drawn with extra details because they’re chapped and dehydrated.

So yes, themes of what you actually want vs irrational cravings. Base desires vs actual wants. Needs are also separate, but not relevant for this discussion. To get to the specific definitions I’m using for the words in this section’s header, ideals vs wants vs desires: ideals are your ideal of something, the best degree to which a thing could be tailored to you, and it can be derived from both wants and desires, usually a mix of the two, but for example: I’d say the succubus is a type of ideal (the platonic ideal of allure to the victim) derived solely from desires, because a want is active rather than passive, acted upon rather than suffered, because a want unlike a desire involves thinking things through. So a want: something you want, you take actions towards getting or achieving it, it can be a very strong feeling but it’s something you pursue or wish to pursue. Finding a cure to death is a want, not wanting to be alone is a desire, see, I’m assigning desire this more primal or unchanging subconscious nature to it. On the flipside with Chilchuck, sex without ties, easy pleasure, is a desire, but the want is not having to think about his marriage situation because it’s painful, not wanting an emorional connection because it’s all the easier to be hurt with, just wanting to take his mind off of everything for a while.

Thus the succubus targets Marcille’s wish for a perfect knight who could cherish her forevermore, someone safe and known and fantastical, just hers in a way, free to see and construct however she wants because he’s a character to interpret, and it targets Chilchuck’s wish for pleasure that’ll whisk him away from the stress and pressure and reality of his life, something that’ll make him feel both good and desirable and emotionally uncompromised, not unlike what alcohol does, as he says he likes having his fine senses dulled in the changeling chapter. Idealization is twisting the image of something in your mind to be closer to what you want, but usually mostly desire on a more subconscious level, to be true, almost a wish, sometimes but not always hand in hand with idolization which is to put something on a pedestral. Idealizing things that are easier to reconcile with mostly, in Marcille’s case: it’s easier to believe that Chilchuck is very young and it’s easier to stomach that Falin hasn’t aged much, it's easier to believe Falin is an angel who can do no wrong and if she left with Laios it's not that she chose to leave Marcille, and it's easier to believe Chilchuck is just a moody closed off youngster than an embittered old man. It can be done to people as much as concepts, like the idea/plan to give everyone a 1000 years lifespan, surely that'd do really well and everyone would love it. Wants and desires are both very often about changing reality after all, wether it be your situation or an event in your past or a law of the world like death, but wants are mostly through actions and since desires are more subconscious it can lead to self-delusion easily. Like with succubi, wants engage with your rationality so they target desires instead. The demon's strategy isn't too ar off, either, feeding into both and using underlying desires to manipulate its victims. Dungeon Meshi is in part yes about resisting desires, the irrational cravings, mostly through the character of the demon. I mentioned needs earlier, and to ideals vs wants we also add vs needs, both emotional and physical, and needs alongside wants are what Dungeon Meshi wishes to promote for a healthier person, Dungeon Meshi which illustrates very well with the dungeon lords that you can be a slave to your desires.

The parallel between succubi and demons is intentional. The demon is in fact the origin of the succubus myth in-world. No wonder they operate similarly in many ways- the succubi are in a way a more simple straightforward version of the demon, with less convoluted strategies and less intricate manipulation.

Of course the succubus each character sees does say something about their characters, but what I’m saying is we shouldn’t assign choice or morality to it as if it wasn’t an ethereal monster whose whole biology is focused on being able to freeze people through appealing to desires, much like how we can’t fault people for falling for demons’ manipulations. Like that’s their WHOLE thing and they use mind control through enticement shenanigans. I know people sometimes fault Chil for his succubi and if you want here’s my stance.

Point of this whole thing is, people can rationally choose things that are different from their deeper desires, like in truth Falin’s safety being more important to Laios than becoming a monster. Like how Marcille stayed with Chilchuck to strategize instead of wanting to give good faith to Kabru. Yes, this is the main point I'm coming at with this section lol. Marcille idealizes and idolizes the figure of a perfect prince charming, undoubtedly! But when it comes to what she actually wants, not in some ideal fantay world but in reality, she knows Chilchuck and her imperfect friends are some of the best she could ask for. She's content with them as they are. She would choose a flawed reality over a perfect fantasy.

That's a big part of what her dungeon lord arc is about too, all her tendencies to ignore what others want for what she thinks is best for them or thinks is a perfect course of action: accepting that people are complex with different wants, and that something that's a no-brainer to her like wanting to live for a long long time is a solid no for many. And Laios and the party confront her about it, and Marcille, even under the influence of a demon, chooses to accept reality. Chooses to accept that there are some things that, even were she to be able to, she shouldn’t change after all (even for stuff that’s not forcing everyone to live for a millenium, like bringing Falin back from the dead is something that the party and Marcille had to come to terms with maybe not working and the way they went about it was self-centered). She chooses to come back to herself and the party, to accept the world as it is even if flawed and sometimes hurtful.

And hm, I wonder if Chilchuck had any role in the lead up to that particular decision... I wonder if Chilchuck was a major influence in teaching Marcille that the world isn't perfect and her internalizing things that were outside of her bubble!! I wonder if Chilchuck was directly what made Macille turn towards her party and thus start thinking of giving up on being dungeon lord!! Joking, joking, of course it does. To be continued, see you in the princess imagery section at the end of this essay.

Essentially, this section is to show that: 1) despite what her succubus may suggest, she has indeed grown by that point in the manga compared to pre-canon and her overly idealistic simple black and white vision of things, and it doesn't prove the ‘choosing her friends over a prince thing’ wrong, and 2) despite how deeply ingrained romanticism is in her and how it calls out to her, she still has chosen and continues to choose reality and her friends over it. How fantasy is important to her and how much she loves it, and her having the will not to mindlessly succumb to it coexist and it's that resistance against fantastical ideals that speaks of her as a character so much.

And what does that mean, for Chilchuck? For him and Marcille?

Deconstructing realistic romance AKA compromising between romanticism and reality AKA Chilchuck Tims vs Prince Charming part 2

So what we’ve covered so far is that 1: idealization is something that Marcille does a lot, including concerning Chilchuck, 2: the prince/knight figure is meaningful & important to her, 3: Marcille isn’t a lost cause on it, and for instance, much like how she stops harping on Namari after Chilchuck explains to her how professional reputations and networking work, he can change her mind on things.

Let’s get back to their prejudices of each other for a bit. You might have to zoom in for this one.

Her shapeshifters of both Chil and Laios are influenced a lot by looks and impressions. She’s very adamant about Laios and Falin not looking alike at all, for one. Marcille’s view of Chilchuck’s lockpicks are surprisingly accurate. Meanwhile, despite their first big relationship moment during canon being about how he’s glad to have her and her skills for the dungeon dive, he still ridiculizes her magic somewhat with the crude spellbook. She’s still silly and tease-worthy to him, even while he praises her like in the good medicine chapter with Leed he says it himself in the same breath. Silly, or "ridiculous" depending on the translation, is somewhat ambiguous, but I assign it the meaning of 'thoughtlessly reckless', like how again in the good medicine chapter when he's saying this he's referring to Marcille's future job prospects, because law and career are important to conform to for him. Despite this, their shapeshifters’ behaviors are accurate, although Marcille’s Chilchuck is nicer and less bitterly reclusive. Note how it's Marcille's chilchuck that makes it furthest and how why she thinks hers is the true one is that her Chilchuck "looks less mean"- this is what I mean when I say she idealizes him and sees him as a little angel, along with his fluffier hair it gives us the perspective of why she'd find him so hair-ruffable and why she likes sticking to him so much, I suppose.

Marcille's arc of not seeing Chilchuck for what he is has steps, it's not like Senshi who does an 180 seeing his changeling. There are a couple of important moments for it that tell us her progress and changes her perspective: Him telling his age -> the shapeshifters (our best look into an objective assessment of her perspective) -> reveal that he has a wife and kid(s) (fully shattering her denial) -> seeing him as a changeling (true reckoning. Putting the nail in the coffin of what reality is) -> bicorn chapter (acceptance. Internalization)

You might notice that the explanation for Marcille’s Chilchuck is "Even though she’s been told he’s an adult, deep in her heart she still doesn’t get it", and a fantranslation translates it as "Understands he’s supposed to be an adult, but hasn’t quite come to grips with the fact internally". This definitely implies her arc of growing to see him as an adult had already started by then. Especially if we compare it to Senshi’s more intense babyfied Chilchuck. This goes back to what I was saying about Marcille watering down people for the sake of aesthetics, some rational part of her knows he’s an adult, but it’s emotionally that she struggles to reconcile the fact with her perspective. It’s actually pretty ambiguous when she first starts considering he might be an adult. If by this point she was already digesting it, then I think it must’ve been when he told the party his age. It’s not unsimilar to rationally knowing Falin is an adult at 23 even if it doesn’t feel like it to her, or post-canon calling the Touden parents kids even though obviously she’d know they aren’t actually, it’s classic longlived race patronization. He’s older than Falin, by 6 whole years, and even Marcille isn’t that blind to what that'd mean. Wouldn't marcille also have a problem with child labor otherwise? There's also how Marcille pre-canon shortly speculated Chilchuck was in love with Namari in her Adventurer's Bible extra. She for sure has witnessed a lot of half-foots walking around, probably even drinking at taverns. She knows, on some level. Chilchuck even does a whole rant after they react going on "this is why long lived races are condescending assholes". So that’s my bet, "Is he an adult?" "Well yes but actually no" (Chilchuck), "I’m an adult now I’ve grown" "Awww you’ll always be like a kid to me!" (Falin) Depending on the dub and interpretation, I know for example that when I made my family watch the anime they thought Marcille "See? You're just a kid!" after he said he was 29 they saw it as teasing and playful, unserious, or even disappointed, implying she'd have thought he was older than 29. It's actually ironic how someone as developmentally atypical as Marcille, whose physical and mental growth was unpredictable, unsynchronized and messy, would judge others by appearance and age so much. But well imo appearances are important to her so in that way, she especially judges those because she had to live through being judged by those standards as well. She puts elven standards on everyone the same way she does with beauty standards, so age is included in that.

Marcille here is struggling with dissonance, it's why she "hasn't come to grips with the fact internally". And this all makes sense for the arc that sharing things about himself is what opened the gates of being understood better. Point is, her vision is influenced by her own feelings of how things should be like, veiling herself to the reality of things.

And notice the point that the problem her lack of rationale when it comes people- Chilchuck regularly makes her prioritize rationality over feelings, and well that’s somewhat his whole schtick when it comes to debating philosophy. With Namari and how her leaving the party and not returning is reasonable even if it feels wrong, just like the "don’t trust someone just because they seem well-meaning and generous, strategize instead of swooning", and ironically also the "it's important to take in mind how things like touch when healing can affect parties and create love triangles" lol, "don't be emotional, and also remember people being emotional will stirr up shit". Since she’s someone pretty swayed by feelings, it balances her out. Ultimately, if we consider the Dungeon Lord arc her culmination, it’s Chilchuck who ends her arc by meeting her halfway through appealing out to her feelings, but that’s the flipside of the coin of their arc, and it’s her willpower to face reality that saves them so I don’t think that contradicts that Marcille had to do her half of the journey & comprise.

I would argue there are many hints of Marcille knowing on some level he's an adult throughout early canon. Not just seriously calling him the most mature of the group, but her behavior at the Golden Kingdom's too for example. Would you act all shy asking a kid to sleep in his bed, especially one she's always felt so comfortable trampling the boundaries of and touching casually? Idk that's weird. She's asking to sleep in his bed because by her own admition it'd make her feel more comfortable. Chilchuck is safe to her and she feels shy implying it and asking for a favor like that. Shy that he'd find her silly for it, and/or shy that this might be inappropriate according to etiquette and in other contexts. To me this feels much closer to two peers, like how in the mandrake chapter she wanted validation from him too, and yes she still infantilizes him and emasculates him into someone who's harmless in her mind- not just someone who wouldn't hurt or take advantage of her, because she knows that, because Chilchuck does protect her (more on that later!!).

He's not heroic, but he's brave, when it matters. He's mean and rude, but also caring. He's responsible, even when it means going the unpleasant route. The aesthetic doesn’t fit the role, but the actions do.

He keeps claiming he’s a selfish coward who’ll be the first to dip in a fight, and yet he’s always, consistently pulling her out of danger, or specifically calling out to Marcille when danger strikes. And I think it’s because of the nugget of info we get in the adventurer’s bible that her stamina and athletics are bad, in canon he does call her clumsyhead like once but it never felt enough for me to deduce that on its own personally. So then the reason why he’s always targeting her, beyond the reasoning that she’s the healer thus the most important to keep alive (which he brings up in the rabbits chapter), he takes it upon himself to help her, save her and pull her away from danger because she’s clumsy. She’s not defenseless, she’s known to use explosions, and still he feels the need to save her and through the manga he’s even died trying to pull her to safety one and a half times: dungeon rabbits + the drowning- they didn’t die in the latter though it’d have gone that way if it weren’t for the water bursting out just after, and that situation was especially hopeless regarding Chikchuck being able to do anything to save her at all, yet he still tried.

A little knight in shining armor, a little noble hero, a little prince charming innit?

Chilchuck IS all show and no talk- and she knows the value of that!!! It's why despite all his sour demeanor she respects him both professionally and as a smart guy she can trust, why she feels safe with him and wants him by her side when strategizing or even sleeping. The aesthetic doesn’t fit the role, but the actions do. Fantasy vs reality!!! He teaches her how to face reality both with his words and actions, through the contradictions of him, his caring behavior and bitter words, his old manners and young looks!

And actually let's TALK about that drowning scene hello. There, in the collage above, in the bottom left. The context of that is: This is after the demon leaves when the dungeon collapses, the dungeon gets flooded by water and they go under, with no sense of where or how there could be an exit to this. 1: Since the dungeon is collapsing and reviving someone only works in dungeons, there is no guarantee that Marcille or anyone would be able to revive someone during or after this, NONE. 2: He is risking his life for her, he is STRAIGHT UP playing his life on this choice, action hits and shit gets more serious than it ever has, and he yet does it anyways. Perhaps it's the gravity of it that pushes him to make this choice, that this time if someone dies it's for real and he can't accept that, but either way his choice is made in a split second, he prefers dying trying to save her than living without saving her. He is fighting for scraps of hope, seconds more of holding onto life. Which, 3: This situation is HOPELESS. In the end yes they end up being spat out by some exit out the dungeon with the strenght of the flood, but there was no way to know this would happen, and like we see in the third panel Chilchuck and the others actually lose consciousness. That's for "a way out of this", but even moreso, what is he hoping to accomplish? He's small and weak like he always reminded the party in fights, he CANNOT PULL HER UP TO SAFETY, HE CANNOT PULL HER AT ALL, WE SEE HIM STRUGGLE TO AND FAIL. HE CAN'T DO ANYTHING BUT HE STILL TRIES DESPITE THE RISK. You might also say- haha!! You might also say that this is a show of optimism from him!! You could say that after Marcille changed him, pushed him to have more hope in him, he now has the strenght and will to hope that this might do anything, that this might save her! A little similar to the situation with his wife actually, the point is that the chance is worth taking even if it might not turn out like hoped for- the point is that it's always worth trying and keeping hope to fight on, there is risk in being vulnerable and reaching out to his wife yes, there is risk, as with jobs, as with finances, as with anything- It's not that you'll never fail, but you have to not give up when you do- there's a risk but you can't just shut yourself off to the world and to relationships, you can't suddenly care about nothing! That's Chilchuck's arc! And maybe it's because his arc of becoming more hopeful and open yourself to caring centers her that it's her he latches onto here and not Senshi and Izutsumi who are equally in trouble here, maybe it's because he knew her longest or because he still feels this sense he has to look out for her like always, or because he trusts her to breathe underwater least, I don't know, but it's what happens! And listen, by all intent and purposes it was a hopeless situation, they were on the verge of drowning but he still fights to save her, and everything looks lost for a sec, but then the water current miracurously spits them out of the crumbling dungeon. He gets up and he runs to marcille fearing she's hurt but no, they're saved, she's fine, they're all alive and out of danger. It worked out. Having hope was right.

They make me ill I tell you. Like what the HELL, am I supposed to NOT go crazy when this happens??! What if they were the meaning of life what if their arc was about cracking the balance of living and loving healthily and cracking the code of life. Okay. Okay okay okay so anyways so

He can be quite self-sacrificial and noble! Always looking out for others, and giving Marcille particular attention in that regard, likely in part due to her being clumsy in his eyes and her being the healer aka their token of safety.

Sit your ass back DOWN you are in no state sir. Despite her biases Marcille is still observant, she still loves dissecting people like in that pre-canon party relationships chart in her extra, she's still the one to say "Chilchuck is the most mature here". Marcille still notices things! She has an interest in people and Chilchuck is someone she especially likes to "study". She read him like a book in the bicorn chapter, and if she was able to it’s that she looked, she remembered, she saw. The way he doesn’t like waiting on people, that he’s very reserved with feelings, the way he often doesn't pick up on others' and even his own- It all comes through in her quote unquote analysis of him, what married life with him would be like and how he reacted to his wife leaving.

Point is, Chilchuck is very harsh on himself, but there are gems inside of him, there is gold hidden away if you dig at his heart. And besides, isn’t humility a mark of heroes?

Okay. Sooo there's not that much to say about the changeling scene actually, for both Senshi and Marcille, the chapter just previous where Chilchuck reveals he has a wife and kid is what fully reckons them with how Chilchuck is a fully fledged adult, and for both of them seeing Chilchuck as a tallman is the final nail in the coffin. With Senshi it's a rather fast 180, and he mourns the sweet kid image he had of him where he poked his cheek and ruffled his hair, but for Marcille it's just an extra "he's really really REALLY really not a kid. Really". It has a bit of a reversal of Marcille and Chilchuck's dynamic, since now he can manhandle her instead of her manhandling him. This is a rather pleasant experience for him from what we can tell, whereas Marcille is struggling to keep the party's walking pace and complains about the heat implying half-foots are more sensitive to temperatures, Chilchuck finds having his senses dulled relaxing, has no problem of the sort Marcille is having AND! And! He can pull her around. The fight with gargoyles happen and he's pulling her arms, picking her up, he even throws her both before it and during the fight, he has the physical power to push her away if he wants to and also to pull her out of danger- the way he later tries to in the rabbit chapters and with drowning, but also when the Faligon reveal happens. He still doesn't look like a knight in shining armor, and he still doesn't have the demeanor of one, but he has the most power to protect her than he ever has. Anyways so yes, further "oh Chilchuck is an adult. And he's kinda knightly and can protect me wow. And also ugly not at all like elven beauty ewwwwww. I won't be able to unsee it now if I try to ruffle his hair after this".

It’s always a question of seeing more facets to someone and slowly digesting them and internalizing them, like Kui puts it herself in the shapeshifter explanation for Marcille's Chilchuck. And this illustrates a bit what I was saying in the section about Dalclan and tropes and people being "digestible" to her. She has to get used to the idea first and it's a slow process.

And during the succubus chapter as well, right after the bicorn chapter where she fully accepted Chilchuck as an adult, Marcille doesn’t falter when she’s confronted with seeing Chilchuck as, for a lack of a better term, a sexual being. She even cracks a (albeit sfw) playful quip about it, about them being all blondes. I suppose with the crass jokes he made like during the frog comic that might have prepped her for it lol.

And on that topic... We're here guys. The holy grail of Marcille and Chilchuck.

🔥The bicorn chapter🔥

The chapter finishes both Marcille and Chilchuck's arcs about harmful idealization vs not being a doomer, so to speak. It's the culmination, the ultimate balance found, the moment where the lesson gets fully internalized on both sides at the same time. It is a MASTERCLASS in how to do relationships arcs and character studies.

Chilchuck starts the chapter being dismissive of Marcille and her interests again, it opens with a narrated bit about his bad experiences with romance in past parties and he admits he has contempt for people who find the topic of love fun. He sees her still a bit as both a fly circling around him and a venus fly trap waiting for the opportunity to pounce on him and not let go until he spills everything. He ends it though, willingly giving up information on him in conversation with her, opening up, and appreciating her perspective on his romantic troubles.

Marcille starts the chapter having mostly processed that he's an adult, asking him about his wife, but she's still Weird about him and his personal life- and okay, that doesn't quite change, but something does change- everything changes for a moment, in fact.

And what's the catalyst? The cataclysm, even? Chilchuck lies and says he cheated on his wife.

[Okay guys I am officially out of pic space, sorry but I'll have to start recurringly linking to images instead: page]

We get to see live Marcille's esteem for Chilchuck plummet and freefall to the ground. And Chilchuck often acts like hassling and teasing between them is onesided, that she's always the one harassing him, but since early manga Chilchuck has always liked to tease her every opportunity he gets, often initiating interaction just for it... During half of this chapter Marcille is giving him the cold shoulder and we get to see that he misses her, we get to see her fully shut down the (racist) joke he throws at her and see him be SHAKEN over it. He wasn't expecting his lie to tank his reputation and relationship with the party members this much, maybe because before whenever he called himself selfish and cowardly no one seemed to think less of him for it, and he's at a loss for what to do like we see here. He misses their friendship. He's always said he didn't care for having a friendship with them all and whatnot, but here we see him grapple of the aftermath, of knowing what it would be like without them as friends, without them at all.

[page 1, page 2.]

And like with his wife, he has a choice to make. Be passive and spiteful and do nothing, or be vulnerable and communicate to win them back over. And this time, after a manga's length of learning little by little to be more open (and literal coercive torture) he chooses to do it, to try and clear up the misunderstanding.

And listen, on Marcille's end this was NEEDED. He DROPS in her eyes to deserving no respect- but even in these times we see her be jealous of Chilchuck opening up to Senshi, implicitly still caring about what he thinks of her, and most importantly that she does still care about him himself when the bicorn breaks his arm and she runs to his side to heal him, worried. Why was this needed? Because Marcille was forced to have her full, complete vision of Chilchuck shattered. Not only is Chilchuck not little in her eyes anymore, but he's also no angel. He can MASSIVELY- borderline unforgivably- mess up. He is an adult who can royally fuck up, even be immoral. She calls him a depraved adult man.

It sounds negative, but what this does is actually strip him from any idealization and infantilization in her eyes. Is there something more adult than adultery? Is there something less honorable, less wholesome? In this chapter Marcille is forced to reconcile the Chilchuck she knows with this man who did something vile to his wife, even the mother of his child.

And then Chilchuck clears things up, he takes the risk of an argument and actual rejection and sacrifices the secrecy around his family situation to make up with her. And it works. Instantly.

And so he goes "Okay so one day she left me and I have no idea why, probably for no reason. The end. What a petty thing to do am I right. We'll probably never talk again." and she's like "Bet? Actually I have several ideas as to what could have happened and you WILL listen."

(For a Chil & Chilwife analysis go over here instead btw.)

She was always perceptive, but she always had a bias that made her vision of others flawed. Her lens of novel worlds and narratives. Remove, or at least shift that bias in a productive direction, and you get a strength rather than an hindrance. The skill of self-inserting (literally. The half-foot depicted as his wife is even literally Marcille a a half-foot, and his child looks just like him, to show just how good her imagination is lmaoo) Marcille is such the "If I wanna hit the ball… I must become the ball" type. As proven by how she controlled her familiars in the hypogriff chapter. "If I were your wife I’d be overjoyed to go out with you and would get myself prettied up while you complain about me taking a long time, your friends would tell me that I’m cute and nice and that’d make me happy, but I’d also be sad because you wouldn’t tell me that you love me enough. Then I'd leave to test your love, and you're failing that test rn but if you came back to me even after a long time I'd take you back for sure." And see these! See Chilchuck frowning there in how she thinks of him, how he gets peeved when she takes time to get ready.

No because, this means everything. Marcille started out the manga thinking he was just a kid with a party pooper attitude and even in the shapeshifter chapter where she’s more coming to terms with her having been wrong about him, her shapeshifter of him is sweet and cute and nicer like "No the REAL Chilchuck is much less nasty! ☺️". But in the bicorn chapter it all comes to a head!! Learning that "Chilchuck cheated on his wife" made her esteem of him tank to rock bottom almost, finally acknowledging that Chilchuck can both make adult mistakes and be significantly flawed. But then! The chapter ends by him opening up which in turn make her esteem of him comes back up, but things have changed, still. What she does with her "virtuous husband" bit might seem like idealization again, and she is being optimistic about the wife'smotives, but she’s not making him into something he’s not! She recognizes his flaws (embraces them even.) Like how as the wife she thinks of an angry/frowning chilchuck, how he complains about waiting on her, which he's also done to Marcille before...

Even the way she says "he wouldn't say that he loves me enough" IS DIRECTLY SOMETHING FROM HER OWN EXPERIENCE FROM THE MANDRAKE CHAPTER. Because then she wanted to hear from his mouth with his words that he does value her, that he does appreciate her, that she's not a burden to them! She knows how it can feel like he doesn't appreciate you even when he does, and how insecure it can make someone! Now when she flavors things, she takes the embellishments from her own experiences instead of from novels! Reality, too, can be romanticized without becoming pure fantasy. Fantasy doesn't have to be dry and bitter, it can be beautiful and fun, too. Her "if I was your wife, life would be something like this and I'd feel like this" is truly based on her own perspective and feelings- her empathy and interest in others is not a weakness like Chilchuck thought, it's borderline a superpower.

She doesn't just keep his flaws in mind, she also hypes up his qualities!! He is virtuous, bicorn approved, devoted even after separation!! And that hyping up, and optimism that things wouldn’t necessarily go bad if he tried to mend things with his wife, really gave him hope, and also finished up his arc about optimism not always being bad, sometimes even being necessary.

She inspires him to think that things can work out, that he can still be pleasantly surprised even with all his bitterness. After all, he opened up to Marcille and they talked just now, and she forgave him and they made up, didn't they?

And he must have never quite let go of all hope, must stil lhave some left in him hidden somewhere, because in all those four years of separation never has he stopped calling her his wife in present tense, because even after all of them he has stayed faithful and never moved on.

And all of this with the chapter ending with Chilchuck eating a sweet and savory sandwich, which he thought would be bad and inspired disgust in him at first, and being like "Huh, the sweetness actually complements the bitterness pretty well."

THE SANDWICH IS THEM. "Syrup in a sandwich? Sweetness has nothing to do in a meal." IT'S OPTIMISM AND PESSIMISM COEXISTING. IT'S SWEETNESS AND BITTERNESS BOTH HAVING THEIR PLACE IN A DISH. IT'S MARCILLE AND CHILCHUCK COMING TOGETHER TO HAVE THE RIGHT BALANCE FOR HIM TO BE ABLE TO SAY "It might not go well like in stories, but I'll still try".

Remember what i said about compromises earlier, balance of optimism and pessimism? He tries it, and it works out despite having no faith that it’ll be good, and he’s pleasantly surprised. SURPRISES CAN BE PLEASANT! They're not just life-shattering, not just dangerous, it is possible to be pleasantly surprised! And this is why Kui is a goddess of telling stories through food.

He’s opening up to her, as he takes that last bite of the sandwich, he willingly and easily gives up an information about his family for the first time <3

Notice how she defends his virtues directly taking from Daltian Clan for her reasoning!

She’s such a wingwoman. Such a cheerleader. Couple therapist. Emotional support friend. 10/10.

Marcille: "he has a shitty personality sometimes but if he was my husband I’d still cherish him" Chilchuck: "damn I needed that" /hj

So this neatly ties the last bits of Chilchuck's reluctance to care about others and being cared about in turn, yes yes Marcille reads him like a book so well that he's left shaking, and this is it, really, their arc is about the balance in loving too much and loving too little, in stifling others with that love and care and interest the way Marcille does vs showing it so little that others don't even know if he cares at all, à la “if we want the rewards of being loved, we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”

Marcille has a whole theme with the prince charming trope, with her idealization and storybook motif and this is sort of the "Well someone perfect like that isn’t very realistic and romance is usually more complex- and that’s ok and good, and flawed people can still be ✨virtuous✨" conclusion. Again, fantasy doesn't have to be perfect to be worth it, to be valuable and lovable and great and precious.

He’s the devoted virtuous man that she wants not the storybook prince that’s unrealistic and could crumble like a script at any time. He’s the perfect example of a flawed realistic but virtuous and devoted and loving family man. Far, far from a prince charming, but not fully detached from it either. Something worth fighting for despite the flawed cracks.

Marcille has this grand fantasy, this ideal of prince charming, a chivalrous gentleman knight, but through canon especially with Chilchuck she learns to not idealize people so much. That acts are more important than aesthetics. The bicorn chapter is all about Chilchuck’s romance being realistic: flawed. And it’s no coincidence that this is what ties their interwoven arc closed, because they learn to compromise, his pessimism and her optimism. Marcille sees and recognizes a romance that is both flawed and beautiful and is able to balance the two decently, meanwhile she convinces Chilchuck that yes it is worth fighting for and having hope for. Repeating myself but it’s easy to think she’s still idealizing Chilchuck during the bicorn chapter, BUT it’s important to notice the differences with the shapeshifter chapter, where her shapeshifter of him was "cute/sweet" "not nasty", an angel who could do no wrong. In the bicorn chapter, not only does he fall from her esteem a lot because she believes he cheated for a good part of it, thus acknowledging that he can be flawed and adult enough to commit adultery, but also! When she roleplays as his wife, she doesn’t erase his flaws!! She knows he has a short fuse and isn’t always pleasant, but believes that he’s worth loving anyways… 

And see this is the point!! She romanticizes his life, not idealizes it. The difference may be subtle, but it's there. In romanticization there's how Ghibli depicts mundane scenes of daily life, portrays doing chores like cleaning clothes as something that feels good, something worth doing that doesn't have to be miserable. In Chilchuck's life, in his flawed relationship with his wife, she sees the beauty and light and love to highlight so even if the lifestyle is humble and even if the relationship is tense it seems nice, it seems worth fighting for. She's using aesthetics again, but to inspire instead of stifle, the way she uses them to hype herself up sometimes too.

This is it this is the thing! Her worshipping and idealizing the image of perfect prince charming that will whisk you away on an ethereal romance becomes her romanticizing a realistic flawed middle aged dad with personality issues and a failing marriage, that he still is worthy of love and having his cute grand romance story and his happy ending!!

Marcille has a very hard time conceptualizing a point where love can’t conquer all, right. She’s optimistic and if there’s a will there’s a way etc etc etc. Notably when Marcille speculated about Chil’s wife, she centered around the theory that his wife wanted to "test" him by leaving, that she didn’t feel loved and left to see if he’d chase after her. She believes that his wife would be ecstatic to see him again and reaching out would make them reconcile and happily get back together, no problem. Chilchuck and his wife have been separated for 4 years. When Falin left the academy she and Marcille were separated for 4 years. Marcille has to believe Chil’s wife is waiting for him, that she hasn’t moved on, that she wants to be found. There's a different perspective on time, but there's also... Just parallels. Parallels everywhere. Miss coping, meet coping in an opposite way! And so she teaches Chilchuck to not assume everything is lost before havign even tried, and so he teaches Marcille to let go when it's needed.

She specifically loves characters who think they can’t be loved and pessimistic and dramatic… And story-fying him is literally what she does when she engages with the story of his breakup with his wife like it’s a story to decode, reinforcing the whole narrative about tropes and princes and how he comes to shape her view on them.

Even if the context here is explicitly that she relates! Which, she finds being able to relate to them comforting and a positive point so it being a "type" thing isn’t fully off- but this is what I mean when I say she always keeps a film of emotional distance from people, she wants to love and be loved and know people on the deepest level possible so bad but it’s something that scares her too so she prefers to chase after the safe: the unreachable- the fictional. Like Chilchuck. Bit of tangential speculation, but she wants to crack his shell and make him open up- but it’s also easier because he pulls away instead of pulling in/closer so the relationship is fully in her control in that way, if it weren’t for the teasing… Making her into someone silly in his mind is how he keeps himself from putting weight into her words, how he gets himself to automatically dismiss the wise lessons she tries to instill to him, nope sir he doesn't have anything left to learn, he's an old crouton who understands everything there is to know about this cruel cruel life yes sir. Because trying and being rejected hurts! Because if it wasn't fated to turn out wrong, then it means there was luck or choice, and that makes failures almost more painful! But people leave!! People leave and people come back and new meetings happen and choices are good, choices shouldn't be taken away! Not like how Marcille tries to forcefeed immortality to humanity, as a dungeon lord...

The chapter ends with a panel of Marcille and Chilchuck bantering again, with everyone else going about their business seeming nonplussed while the two are being very loud as if to say, ah, classic them. Return to normalcy, return to their usual closeness and shenanigans. All is well.

The Princess imagery

And now we’re falling into the rabbithole. Imagery doesn’t have to be anything more than imagery, but I discuss romantic connotations in this section (amongst the platonic reality of things ofc), you can skip to the conclusion if you’d rather but you will miss important analysis of the dungeon lord balcony scene, a big piece of the puzzle in wrapping it all up. I found the meaning of life & the world in marchil but it’s ok I get it if you wouldn’t... We're all built different ig. The character with princely chilvalrous knight parallels in the manga is moreso Laios, but Laios too breaks the trope a lot. Chilchuck gets prince and knight parallels but by contrast instead, in subtext more than any explicitly drawn. There's a lot to Marcille's princess imagery and though I've never fully covered it I try to somewhat tackle it here.

For as much as the bicorn chapter is what ends their arc about balancing pessimism and optimism and finding healthy compromises, the arc of their RELATIONSHIP is in the dungeon lord chapter where he fully opens up to her, inviting her to meet his family and all. AND MY GOD, the princess imagery!!

Listen I am trying so hard to keep this unromantic, and to be clear subtext is subtext for a reason, it doesn’t have to be concreticized or "acted upon" perse, but… I think it’s there in this scene, at least a bit. I’ve spent a long time trying to pin down what was so charged in it, besides both of them blushing, despite him offering for her to meet his family, despite it calling out to a genuine deep instilled desire in her heart enough for it to work- for it to make her turn towards them, despite the first thing she does after is shower him in romantic gifts, and it eventually struck me… It’s the parallels with other media, with tropes!! This is HIGHKEY Romeo and Juliet type shit!!! The stuff you see in every couple new kinda trashy romance kids movies! A lady, stashed away in a high tower by her lonesome, waiting for someone to call out to her from below… Romeo courting type shit with a heartfelt spiel implicit confession from underneath her balcony, offering him flowers because he succeeded in calling out to her heart…….. And they have to CLIMB to her.

Remember her succubus' words? "Oh, princess... I can't believe you slipped away from the castle yet again... Honestly, what in the world shall we do with you...? Come, let us return." Again like with her succubus, she’s living through a storybook trope but with Chilchuck’s twist, more nuanced and realistic yet just as meaningful, even if it isn’t strictly OR at all romantic and if it’s more complicated and less glamorous. She’d have to peel the layers to get to the vulnerable truth of it, like anything else. I'm just gonna drop this here...

Doesn’t it sound like a proposal. One that’s both so storybook-like, and contrasted with such real yet unromantic and grounded words, all about the implications rather than in your face grand gestures "Don’t you want to meet my family?". They literally have an arc about the topic of romance and this is the climax/pinnacle of it like god?? I’m not saying this was all intentionally crafted to be romantic but it nonetheless exists in the subtext, ripe for analysis. Of course they talk about planning together his reconciliation wit hhis wife, but the same thing happens regardless, he fully lets her into his life.

And again there’s something to be said about how that is what makes her finally turn around! This is extremely meaningful not only to Chil but to Marcille, the enticing thing that finally hooks her, gets her to finally look down at them. An offer to meet a flawed man’s flawed family, to help him mend it and its issues. It isn’t through the filter of a book, or mere gossip to her, she knows this man and she wants to be involved in his life, to know him and his family herself, ready to meet them and form connections. The clumsy, imperfect reality of a friend telling her he’ll let her into the other spheres of his life even if that means she witnesses the embarrassing and the ugly. It’s vulnerability on both their ends, offered and received, a gambit that was worth taking, both in the moment to talk Marcille out of being dunlord and long term of letting her in to see the deeper sides of him, there are take backsies once someone knows something about you after all. SHE STOPS BEING A DUNGEON LORD IN GOOD PART BECAUSE HE TOLD HER HE'D LET HER INTO HIS LIFE. SAY IT WITH ME, A FLAWED REALITY IS WORTH IT MORE THAN STAYING IN FANTASY!!!! In denial of reality, both that Falin hasn't grown older, that everything can turn out perfectly, and that everything is lost and there's nothing Chilchuck can do to make his wife love him again or even make his party listen to him.

Chilchuck says this after he sees her materialize her parents as doppelgangers. And so he goes on to say- hey your family will never go back to how it was when you were young, my family will never be what it once was either, but we can both move on and make the best of what we have anyways, isn’t that what you taught me, there are more out there! I’m opening up myself to new relationships and friendships because of your pushes, and now I want you to do the same! Life goes on and there’s always more joy and connections to be had! Stop isolating yourself, dammit!

And the thing too with Marcille’s arc is that she can’t get what she wants. She can’t. She can’t get everyone to live forever if she doesn’t take others’ free will away, if she doesn’t make the world stop for her as she plays god with the laws of nature and the cycle of life. And everyone’s important to that arc obviously, Falin during the story is the main object of that fear, and it’s moreso her death that pushes her arc along but it’s still extremely influential, Laios is the main one who sees her insecurities and talks her down, Senshi’s always harping on ecosystems and laws of nature and how resurrections aren’t natural and is there to offer comfort and support, Izutsumi’s someone new Marcille gets to take care of and her farewell talk with her reveals a lot about how she’s grown, but seeing this it’s easy to see why Chilchuck is paired off so much with her on their respective arcs, right? The one who tells it harshly how it is even when the reality is unpleasant, who gives up quickly when it's about things turning good for him but who always pushes and fights on when it matters with the party, who challenges a rose tinted glasses perspective head on.

He looks nothing like a knight but he still acts like one. He’s nothing like a prince or a dashing romantic courting lover but still he gives her a novel worthy balcony heart to heart scene. He’s painfully real and raw but she does bring that twinkle of hope and romantization that makes the world feel more wonderful to him, but like she tells him, he’s virtuous and he should give things a shot because people see good in him too and not only the bad he always shittalks himself for, she’s not making it up, he always had that sparkle of knight and prince in him.

Like, giving someone a handkerchief is literally a romance trope associated with nobles and princes. And Chilchuck has offered Marcille his handkerchief at least twice! The second time in the cockatrice chapter as a bandage. He keeps it in his pouch, with his tools, like the most must-have to offer it Marcille at any moment, ha /j. Prince behavior <3 The cowl like a knight’s favour, a token from a loved one he cherishes above all and keeps on himself at all times. Story tropes shit.

He IS a prince figure instead that now it’s not about idealizing the grand and overt it’s about romanticizing the small things in real life!! About finding joy and beauty in things that seem normal or mundane and uplifting them to make the world feel kinder!!!!

And man this whole angle makes the "Don’t you want to meet my family?" "-gasp- I really do want to! -turns away from eldritch power and living in her demon-made dreamscape that can allow her to live in fantasy to instead go back to flawed reality with her friends-" all that more meaningful and striking. A fitting end to her arc, a fitting hook to get her to turn back towards her and tempt her to give up on being dungeon lord. It’s always been just asking things and anecdotes about him and his family, never talking about meeting them, but by having someone so "fated with doomed love" open up and reach out to her "fated to never love", she opens up too, is willing to take the risk that any relationship entails, the same one that he took by offering it, the same risk they’re both averse to and scared of, loss and rejection. By actually meeting his family she involves herself in the stories she creates. It makes them real. She’s finally involving herself intimately with others, despite the real threat of loss that she will have to experience, wether through time and death or rejection.

Marcille and Chil’s arc, man…….. See, this is why I’ve been tilling the fields of that analysis for months this is why I’m insane about them, not only is there so much to say but her relationship with Chil straight up deconstructs her perspective on the world as idealized and influenced by fiction and fantasy and optimism. Like, he’s at the core of that part of her arc and man!! Man.

And the way that this is the culmination of their arc together… Like the ‘Chil calling out to dunlord Marcille on the balcony has Romeo and Juliette romance novels imagery’ take is one thing but the ‘their arc is about growing to see beauty even in the non-idealized, in the flawed and in the real’... It makes it so so perfect if she were to lower her ideal from a perfect elven prince to a virtuous halfling man (which she does romanticize).

So she doesn’t want a prince, she doesn’t want a general, she just wants this guy she knows, this friend she trusts as reliable, who has good intentions even if wrapped in unpleasant demeanor, that’s all she needs to be content and well and feel safe. By the end, he might even have become something of a prince charming to her, won over with heroic acts and virtues.

After all- Remember when I said she wouldn't be able to be as touchy so lightheartedly as before with him? Well wrong, apparently! This parallel from chapter 23 just before the red dragon fight vs chapter 96 at the final feast confirms that her like of him and behavior with him was unconditional of him being a kid or an adult. Marcille is just Like That and that she just likes him. A good part of what reads as infantilization truly is just how she cares for people in general.

Conclusion

She’s afraid of change, so it's only fair that he would be perfect to teach her a thing or two. She had fantasies but he had experiences, both had bias.

Their arc says that love is a beautiful thing regardless of loss. Something both of them needed to remember. Life isn't like a novel. Sometimes an ending ISN'T satisfying, you don't get closure and it might not even be happy, but that doesn't mean nothing can end well, doesn't mean every farewell is bitter. Peace is worth both fighting for and making for yourself. You can't shut yourself off from the world because things sometimes hurt, there's more of life to live- won't you come meet my family? Won't you meet new people, won't I try to mend relationships that are dear to me? My family is flawed, but it's still worth meeting, still worth loving, still worth fighting for and keeping even with all its flaws, no? Elven storybooks don't feature half-foots, but they're worth spinning grand poetic and romantic tales for all the same. Life is bittersweet, and that's an acquired taste to have, but one good to be able to stomach as a whole.

There’s a lot of reasons why someone would love fictional characters but be afraid of love in reality, not unlike with Laios' and Chilchuck's own experiences love has a layer of danger and fear because it can hurt to love and it can hurt to be loved. People can leave you, and in Marcille that fear's mainly through death but for Chilchuck that’s through just… Leaving. Through giving Chilchuck optimism and hope, drive to keep going despite these realities, she’s also growing to be more comfortable with the thought of relationships ending and moving forward regardless. And I do think that was part of her arc of growing to accept that Falin might be dead dead, I think Chilchuck was a big part in that. Falin is the passive object of the arc but Chilchuck is the active actor pushing it along, in a way.

Because people can always leave, Falin will leave to travel the world, but she might come back- and that's okay. And that’s exactly the thing that the story wants Marcille to make peace with! Falin wants and needs to leave and Marcille needs to be content just taking what she can get, wether it be time with people or the boundaries they set with her. THE BOUNDARIES! THE BALANCING OF OPTIMISM AND PESSIMISM! IT'S CHILCHUCK'S DOING!! "The world isn’t all good, but you should be able to see the bright side of what you do get" is what she and Chilchuck learn. To learn that she can still enjoy when she is there, and still reach out to her and keep in touch through letters- to do what you can and to get what you can and to accept that as enough, for it to bring you the joy and peace it can. Don't push your expectations onto others, wether that's being overly intimate or overly judgemental, don't be too pushy but also don't be too afraid and not do anything at all.

In many ways even before, even on the regular Marcille was his gateway into being more lighthearted, always exchanging playful jabs, laughing at her. Teasing her because she teases him, lowering himself to her level until he looks back and realizes he’s having fun with it instead of just throwing jabs bc he’s the master of sarcasm TM.

Chilchuck smiling casually and softly, genuinely, when saying that things don’t work out sometimes, is just so powerful. From the man who always assumed the worst of everything, who always spoke of life and the world bitterly... By the end, while saying these things he’s smiling openly rather than smirking smugly. Carrying on with his go getter attitude with a touch more optimism in his heart. Now he's made his peace with life and sees the good in it, still.

It's all about... How flawed relationships with flawed people can still be made into somehing good and healthy that make the world brighter… How flawed relationships are still worth remembering and cherishing. Except the winged lion, there to represent abusive relationships you need to fucking DITCH.

Marcille and Chilchuck’s arc is about how in life sometimes books do close and end, but other ones can open and start, and to never give up on that. People’s lives, relationships, these things are temporary and inevitably end, but there’s meaning and joy in having been there for them, and focusing on the end and the pain and being pessimistic in it doesn’t keep anyone safe, not meaningfully. "It’s not all nice like in the stories. Sometimes, a book just ends." "And another opens."

Dungeon meshi promotes the important of balance for both a healthy body and a healthy mind, and optimism vs pessimism is one such case <3

MAYBE IT'S ALL COMPROMISES MAYBE IT'S ALL SWEET INBETWEENS. Maybe we'll take our vision of what we thought we could be and make something new together! DRINK IN MODERATION!!!!!! SEE LIFE LIKE FAIRYTALES IN MODERATION!!!!!!! THE RIGHT ATTITUDE LIES BETWEEN IDEALIZATION AND PESSIMISM

Disclaimer:

This was pretty messy but thank you so much for reading!!

To be clear! Does this arc exist in the text, the whole tropes and idealism vs pessimism thing, do they have tangible impact on each other as both characters and narrative devices? Yes. Is Marcille and Chilchuck the central piece of the story? No. Is Dungeon Meshi about this and how it all culminated into a cool Romeo and Juliette scene? Lol no. Chilchuck isn't the most important person to Marcille and her story nor is Marcille the one most important to Chilchuck. Just like the other major characters in the story, their dynamic and progressing relationship is a plotline/subplot amongst others, and the level of layers and subtext it possibly has doesn't erase any other part or subtext of the story. Arcs can coexist. Multi-layered relationships can coexist. Just a reminder that this is my own analysis and interpretation of canon.

Dungeon Meshi is about food and how it ties us to a life that’s worth living, about unity and trying to understand that which you do not, to not demonize that which is different or unknown, to connect with others even if it’s hard, even if it’s in unusual or undescribable unlabelable ways, and Marcille and Chilchuck’s relationship is certainly a pawn in these themes like every other relationship.

I’m having fun, but I don’t want anyone getting lost in the sauce. It's unfortunate that to many, acknowledging there's any merit to analyzing this subtext is equal to supporting a ship they dislike, but this isn't ship propaganda, this is analysis of canon text where I happen to see a more niche angle. You can disagree with an interpretation without saying that it's nonsensical.

Like I don’t wanna say I’m a marchil truther but if you define it as believing canon does have genuine and credible basis for it then yeah I guess I am. I feel insane everyone acts like they have no chemistry and no material and??? We exist on different planets I think Like I know I implied some romantic undertone but in canon it totally can start and end at two coworkers bonding and getting to know each other better and see each other’s perspective and it influencing them both for the better. No buts, you can totally do that. Although this plus the crumbs it drives me up a wall when people say they have no chemistry or ‘how come people see anything in this pairing?’ They’re literally a comedic duo? A comedic duo that interacts so so much that gets paired off in scenes, a thematic duo which is even acknowledged and reflected in the anime’s opening. He teases her 24/7 canonically because he finds her reactions fun/cute, the only person he teases on the regular, and she’s obsessed with knowing more about him and loves being touchy on top of it, plus reads him like a book because she files away every little thing about him in her memory, like if that isn’t a strong basis for a ship I think the bar has gone too high. I’m derailing but yeah just. Do you see all of this? They drive me insane, I feel like I’m reading the necronomicon when analyzing them, picking up on subliminal messages, I keep always seeing new threads. And it’s been my otp for like 2 years now, idk when they’ll stop having a grip on me but????? There’s just so much to dig into with them. There will never be another pair like them. Do you hear me there’ll never be another duo that hits all of these like this, do you see this insanity? They are my lifeblood and if i’m eating up anything them-related it’s because they’ve earned it so hard tbh. So yeah if I’m ever dramatic about marchil it’s because I have this 100k words novel narrative in my head and marchil is the meaning of life to me hope this clears it up

Which on that note idk what or when my next Marcille & Chilchuck analysis will be. I might very well make a bite sized, summarized version of this analysis because asking people to read all of this is kind of insane of me... And full disclosure I’m also very likely to edit points in or tweak bits every so often in this analysis because idk if I’ll ever stop thinking about it, and phrasing can improved. This has been in my drafts and outlined more than a year and I’m literally still adding extra points save me. I might also do a different angle on their arc because here yeah I mostly just dug at the prince trope angle, at ONE of many angles... Like one interesting thread in the manga is Marcille emotionally maturing and becoming more like her mother, on top of her regularly being a mom type friend the way she looks after Izutsumi and Falin, which could be interesting to pair with the fatherhood of Chil. Hmm. Anyways

And obviously do whatever you want, but this analysis and all is why I personally can’t stand the fanon that Chilchuck and Marcille have a father-daughter undertone. It goes against their arc together, which is explicitly, literally about her acknowledging him as a man, an adult, about coming to see each other truly as peers and her coming to validate him as an adult, then a father and husband from an outside perspective and a friend, and inversely him coming to not belittle her profession and philosophy. Their whole arc is about learning to see each other as an equal and equally value each other’s perspective and opinion. You could argue it’s also the arc that happens with Izutsumi, but honestly with her it’s a lot about Izutsumi learning to compromise and others instilling lessons to her onesidedly while learning to respect her perspective and boundaries, it’s not nearly as much of a reciprocal thing. Izutsumi needs to be heard, but she also needs people teaching her and guiding her. Imo it cheapens the arc, the whole point is that they’re just two people who grow to see each other as equals, that the Laios party is coworkers turned friends. Marcille doesn't need a new parental figure, she needs friends who'll keep her in check the same way she does them.

I do love the way that the manga avoids romance. For every romantic undertone there’s a platonic explanation that is just as compelling and especially to this degree it’s both rare and wonderful. I think that a lot of people need to learn that sometimes ambiguity is the point instead of something that needs to have a specific objective answer. Sometimes the intent is for something to be able to be read in different ways in itself, or that the complexity of the relationship is canonically something that cannot be put into a neat box. Which! Next analysis I'm very intent on making is gonna be about unlabeled relationships in Dunmeshi and queerness, see you there!

Fast and dirty TLDR

Marcille’s personality is very serious and direct. Due to this, she frequently gets into arguments with the master of sarcasm, Chilchuck. Chilchuck views Marcille as “the friend who cannot shut up”. He is often the practical foil to her more imaginative or idealistic views.

She actually thinks very highly of him! "He’s usually the most mature one of us" "he’s dependable, we’re counting on him" "No chilchuck is definitely virtuous", and at first it’s also through this twisted lense that he’s a kid, like she has to put people into boxes so they’re more digestible, tropes, in line with aesthetic, and at this stage it’s hard for her to see Chilchuck as being even able of wrongdoing really. And gradually that gets challenged when she sees that yeah, he’s an adult, and then BAM bicorn chapter- Because by then ok fine he’s an adult, but it hasn’t quite fully settled yet as we see in the shapeshifter chapter and she still has a warped view of him a bit, she has an accurate grasp on his behavior yet still sees him as a little angel. And then she "learns" he committed adultery. Her esteem for him hits rock bottom and she spends the chapter cold to him, she still cares and comes running when he’s hurt, but she’s set on mean mugging him, until it’s revealed that- He didn’t actually. Oh, actually he just has family angst. And she starts roleplaying and having her novel vision again BUT THIS TIME HER MIND VISION OF CHILCHUCK IS OVERTLY FLAWED. He’s angry and his wife left him, he’s *flawed*, but he’s still worth hyping up, still worth having his own romance story, still has a shot of winning back his beloved. She sees him for what he is, human and real and not a carefully scripted character that fits an aesthetic, and she thinks it’s still worthy of love and admiration, worth fighting for.

The prince charming figure has importance in Marcille and Chilchuck’s arc, where she romanticizes things to a sometimes worrying degree or idealize people into something more poetic, easy and digestible (like Chil being a kid, and then him being a virtuous ✨✨✨husband), and where she needs to learn to value aesthetics less and actual acts and facts more, be more grounded (like seeing people for what they are flaws and all, but seeing their virtues too, like accepting that people need money and not pulling through on principles of honor or unity shouldn’t get Namari shamed) and a part of that is accepting that Chilchuck is BOTH flawed and virtuous, a loving husband that still has shitty moods and fumbled his marriage so bad etc etc. So it’s like, her image of perfect prince charming that will whisk you away on an ethereal romance -> realistic flawed middle aged dad with personality issues and a failing marriage but who still is worthy of love and having his cute grand romance story and his happy ending.

Their arc together is literally learning to 1) see each other for how they are and not undermining their qualities and capacities etc etc while still not leaving flaws unchecked either and 2) opening up to people. Marcille LITERALLY makes Chil open his heart up to hope like idk man. What do you want from me. He’s literally the guy helping her through deconstructing novels and fantasy and rose tinted glasses and like. Deconstructing the prince charming figure into something more real but still a virtuous husband like KUI KUI STOOOOP STOP I’M ALREADY HOOKED I’M ALREADY-

[imaginespazzi]

GUYS GUYS GUYS I FINALLY GET TO GIVE Y'ALL THOUGHTS AND HAVE THE YELLING BE OUT OF LOVE AND HYPE AND EXCITEMENT (should tell you in advance that a lot of this might be in cap because I'm so fucking happy)

AZZI FUDD

OH MY GOODNESS AZZI FUDD

LIKE BABYGIRL YOU HAD ME WORRIED A LITTLE BIT IN THE FIRST I CANNOT LIE LIKE I WAS GONNA HAVE TO MUTE YOU ON TWITTER AND SHIT

BUT THAT'S MY BAD CAUSE AZZI FUDD 3RD QUARTERS??? INSANE SHIT

Like honestly she was just....wow. Brilliant, spectacular, amazing. And I have to just point out what a testament this is to the growth in her mentality because there's a version of Azzi who would've gone 2-10 and then just stopped shooting. But not this one and man oh man was it freaking awesome. Also the 5 rebounds? Means the world to me actually. And what's being talked about less is that she played hella good defense today and kept Pao Pao from ever getting into a rhythm.

POINT GUARD PAIGE BUECKERS

WELCOME HOME SWEEHEART WE HAVE MISSED YOU SO MUCH

MY GOAT FINALLY GOT HER DOUBLE DOUBLE ALMOST A TRUPLE

You know what it didn't matter that, that basket coulda been the size of an ocean and Paige still might not able to get a ball through it because Paige was the heart of the offense. THAT'S MY LEADER. MY PG. MY OFFENSE MOVER. And she did it beautifully, all while occasionally having to defensively play PF.

SARAH MF-ING STRONG AMAZING AS PER ALWAYS. Like truly what is there to say about Sarah because she's just always so consistently good and that one half-court steal? OH I STOOD UP AND EVERYTHING

OH AND OF COURSE ANOTHER DOUBLE DOUBLE FOR MY NFOY

JANA EL ALFY BEST GAME OF THE SEASON AND OH MY GOD THAT HUSTLE??? Y'ALL SEE THAT HUSTLE? IT'S BEEN THERE ALL SEASON TBH BUT IT REALLY SHONE THROUGH TODAY AND THAT FIRST MOVE WHEN SHE CROSSED THAT GIRL OVER? OH THAT'S WHEN I REALLY STARTED TO BELIEVED. Just amazing work from MY center and miss girl didn't even miss a layup today I think (even if she did we didn't see it okay?)

ASHLYNN YEEHAW SHADE GIRL I HAVE YELLED AT YOU (and I still side-eye the hell out of you off the court for that follow) BUT M'AM YOU SHOWED UP! Those 3 threes really set the tone for the whole game and like she has all season, Ash hustled on the glass constantly and she saved some really important posessions.

KK GIRL THAT ENERGY BEEN CONSISTENT EVERY BIG MATCHUP AND YOUR TEAM FINALLY MATCHED IT! And those two fouls on Milaysia that she drew? Crucial shit forreal. Defense was great, made the right moves offensively AND DIDN'T GET BLOCKED ON A DRIVE!!

KC HAD A SOLID GAME!! Quiet 10 tbh I barely realized she'd gotten double digits but I did notice every basket and you could see her being aggressive about it and that's so important.

AUBREY BBG GOT SOME GOOD MINUTES TOO!!! Hard to say if she should've gotten more after such a dominant performance by but her presence is always great and I think really deflated SC, seeing her come off the bench in the 2nd half when we were already demolishing.

REBOUNDING REBOUNDING REBOUNDING. I been yelling all season and then we play the best rebounding team in the country an out-rebound them? SHUT ME UP UCONN

DEFENSE IN GENERAL? SO FUCKING GOOD. They couldn't get nothing going and we didn't do any of that overhelping shit (again mayhaps that's the adrenaline but even if we did, I didn't see it) and it was just lockdown at all time JUST AMAZING

And finally, no one I have yelled at more than Geno fucking Auriemma. AND THIS IS WHY. BECAUSE GRANDPA IS THE BEST COACH IN THE WORLD AND HAS BEEN FOR YEARS. AND WHEN HE REMEMBERS THAT AND COACHES LIKE IT, LOOK AT WHAT WE CAN DO. Like this man did everything right today. He gave the ball to Paige, he called the right timeouts, he ran the right plays at the right time, subbed the right people in and out the same time AND LIKE THIS IS MY FUCKING HALL OF FAME CAOCH. DO THIS EVERY GAME GODDAMN ION LIKE YELLING AT YOU EITHER GRANDPA.

MAN OH MAN I AM SO FREAKING PROUD OF THIS TEAM LIKE I CANNOT EVEN EXPLAIN TO Y'ALL JUST HOW PROUD I AM. THIS IS THE POTENTIAL THAT HAS BEEN THERE THE WHOLE TIME AND THEY JUST HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO SHOW AND LOOK AT THAT THEY FINALLY DID. AND MORE THAN ANYTHING ALL I WANTED FROM THIS TEAM IS TO JUST COME OUT AND LOOK LIKE THEY FUCKING WANTED IT AND THEY DID AND THEY GOT WHAT THEY WANTED JUST LIKE I KNEW THEY WOULD IF THEY JUST PLAYED TO WIN!!

[jilymicrofics]

Our amazing writers have come together to sow a little extra love this Valentine's Day. Here to make everyone's heart blossom with joy at the astounding 19 fics!

Mia and Monty's Potion Shop by @tedwardremus for eclipsedechoesofmywords

After the death of his parents, James Potter takes over ownership of the family potion shop. He has to pass the Ministry's mandatory inspection to ensure he his following all safety regulations. Unfortunately for him, the Ministry inspector is his old Hogwarts rival and crush - Lily Evans.

Memories by @siriuslychessi for juniperpyre

James wants to show Lily a very special place in the castle but Lily is not patient enough to get surprised.

Neither Of Them by @eclipsedechoesofmywords for Constanzin

his wife by @juniperpyre for chiaraforfun

James interrupts an Order meeting to argue that Lily shouldn't be sent into the field under any circumstances. Lily is pissed, but kind of turned on. or Lily: you should be addicted to shutting the fuck up James: you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid

Castles Made of Sand by @practicecourts for Annabtg

Every single member of the noble and most ancient house of Black has to show up, however unwilling he or she might be, to any Black family event. It's the cursed tapestry. Sirius Black has tried pretty much everything he can think of to get himself off of the blasted thing, nothing so far has worked, until he meets an old friend from school. Lily Evans is absolutely sure she'll manage to turn the prodigal son and heir of the Blacks into a persona non grata, within three dates. Everything goes about as well as you'd expect.

Second Time's The Charm by @tinyluminaryzombie for @abihastastybeans

James kisses Lily and then dashes, leaving her to devise a plan. The goal? To be James's girlfriend by the end of the night.

Like I lived my whole life before the first light by @annabtg for Annasghost

The spark between them flares into life on the first day and never goes out. Lily thinks nothing of it at first — it’s just there, and he’s just a boy — but over the years, as she grows up and learns of life, there are some moments where it shines brighter. A heavenly provision, one might say; a little ray of light to brighten the cold, damp February mornings. Or: Five Valentine stories where James Potter came first in Lily Evans's heart and the one time he didn't.

Second Chances by @annasghosts for Emmathecasualauthor

Headquarters, 9 pm. For James Potter, it’s another Order meeting. For Lily Evans, it’s the crack that threatens to tear her carefully constructed world apart and force her to face the past she fled five years ago.

Something Big by @chiaraforfun for jjameslily

James wants to do a snowball fight

In Love, With Extra Credit by @livelaughlovetoread for Eastwindmlk

He's annoying. He's a nerd. He's handsome. And, He's hers. A Seventh-year Fluffy Sexy Jily

The Space Between by @jjameslily for Nena-96

Trapped at the Three Broomsticks during a snowstorm, James never expected that a night spent with a certain sharp-tongued rival would stir up feelings he hadn’t realized were there.

I Bet You Think About Me by @wearingaberetinparis for neverenoughmarauders

“Do you think about it sometimes?” Her voice was soft, shy almost, and when he looked up in surprise he noticed that her face was pinker than it had been a moment before. “About -?” He trailed off. “Yeah,” she nodded. “I mean…” he started, feeling as if he might as well lay his soul bare if he were to admit to the fact that he had never stopped thinking about what had happened between them just over a year ago, “… do you?

a woman taken by the wind by @littlefoldedpaperstars for siriuslychessi

“What?” James asked, slightly offended that he was being kicked out. “What are you guys doing?” “Performing human sacrifices,” said Marlene, heavy on the sarcasm. “Drinking the blood of men,” said Lily, notably less sarcastic than Marlene. James didn't have a vampire fetish, but if that was what Lily was into, he would be cool with it. - Or: James is immediately enchanted when he meets Lily and her one-eyed cat. Lily thinks she'd be better off alone (not counting her four cats).

In the Cracks of Light by @emmathecasualauthor for wearingaberetinparis

He blinks several times, and Lily can tell he’s trying to work out what he’s seeing. Who he’s seeing. Then, whatever has been keeping him( from registering the sight in front of him falls, because he manages to speak. “Lily?” Her heart positively plummets. In which Lily Evans is a Muggleborn street thief, and her latest target is a man she hasn't seen since she was seventeen.

Hold My Hand by @neverenoughmarauders for practicecourts

Lily Evans has spent months convincing herself that keeping her distance is the best way to protect her and James' friendship. On September 1st, her resolve to keep away must come to an end. However, the summer has only served to have her heart ache more for James, which spells trouble.

(Un)Happy Accidents by @eastwindmlk for tedwardremus

James Potter wants to ask Lily Evans something important, but it seems like the universe is against him and he regales his misadventures to his friends.

Scene from a Marriage Proposal by @constancezin for tinyluminaryzombie

A Sunday Kind of Love by @formerlympp for littlefoldedpaperstars

Lily never would have imagined moving into a flat where three men already lived together and all she could hope for were relatively tidy, non-axe murderers, who would let her live in peace. But life had other plans for her, and it all started with a simple Sunday morning.

Date Night by @nena-96 for livelaughlovetoread

James meets Richard Evans before taking Lily out on a date, but it seems that Richard wants to make sure his daughter won't get into any sorts of mischief. As always chaos ensues. or "What in Merlins saggy balls is going on here?!" Lily shouted.