#some of these are mine and some have credits but let me know if one is yours

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, time-skips, the absolute shit-show that was the first half of the 2023 season.

Notes — Amelia being McLaren's literal saviour? IKTR

2023 (Saudi Arabia — Silverstone)

The paddock in Bahrain had started to quiet down after qualifying, the desert heat finally slipping away into a cooler breeze. Amelia was walking through the paddock, steps quick and stride polished, muttering statistics under her breath and trying to burn off some extra energy before debriefs were due to begin.

“Amelia.”

She turned. Adrian stood just outside Red Bull’s motorhome, hands in his pockets, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

“Hi, Adrian,” she greeted, smiling politely at the man she’d once idolised who had become something more reminiscent of a friend over the last two years.

“Do you have a minute?” He asked.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure.”

He gestured for them to walk a little away from the thinning crowds. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you since testing, but I figured it was better in person rather than on the phone.”

Amelia waited, quiet.

Adrian glanced toward the Red Bull garage, then back at her. “You have done something incredible,” he said. “The car — it’s… brutally efficient. Elegant, even. It’s the cleanest thing I’ve seen come out of our CFD pipeline in five years. Maybe longer.”

Amelia’s brow ticked up. “Thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. “So why did you leave, Amelia? You could’ve ridden that thing straight through another championship with Max. Earned the credit. The spotlight. A long, solid legacy.”

“I didn’t need to,” she said simply.

He blinked, thrown off. “Didn’t need to… win?”

“I didn’t need credit,” she clarified. “That was never the point. Max knows that this years car is ours — mine and his, in a way. You know, too. That’s enough for me.”

“You designed one of the most dominant aero concepts I’ve seen in a decade,” Adrian said, still incredulous. “And walked away before it even hit the track?”

Amelia nodded. Shrugged. “I didn't build the car for glory. I built it because I knew what it could be. And then I gave my concepts to you, so that you would make them happen, and you did.” She pursed her lips. “Max didn’t need me anymore. He knows how to handle a championship. He’s done it twice, now.”

“And McLaren does need you?” Adrian pressed.

“Yes,” she said. Smiled. “They do. Oscar too.”

Adrian looked at her like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t speak. Slowly, he said, “You’ve created a car that will be remembered for generations.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care that you won’t get the credit?”

“No,” she said. “Doesn’t change what I did.”

There was a long silence, the dusk settling over them in a soft hush.

Adrian let out a slow breath, almost reverent. “I admire it, you know. Even if I don’t understand it.”

Amelia gave him the faintest smirk. “That’s okay. I’m not an easy person to understand.”

“No,” Adrian agreed. “But you’re very, very good.” He paused. “God, sometimes, Amelia, I wonder if maybe you’re better than me.”

“I might be. One day,” she said, and turned to go.

—

The debrief room was quiet, too quiet.

Oscar sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, eyes on the floor. His race suit was half-unzipped, his undershirt sweat-darkened at the collar. Amelia sat at the head of the small conference table, her iPad flat in front of her, her stylus spinning slowly between her fingers.

“Well,” Oscar said dryly. “That was shit.”

Amelia’s lips twitched. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course you can.” She frowned at him.

Oscar looked over at her, brow creased faintly. “You knew the car wasn’t going to be good this year. You warned me. So why did you still come back to McLaren?”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, you were a big part of it.”

Oscar blinked at her.

“You needed somebody who was able to make the most of a bad situation,” she said. “Not someone who’d write it off before the lights went out. You’re better than the car right now. But the car won’t stay this way forever; I promise you that.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “Right. Thanks,” he said eventually, voice low.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Amelia said, flicking a button on her iPad. “We’re both going to be angry for a while, at least until I can fix this.”

He nodded, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. “Fine by me.”

She tapped through to the race data, then looked up. “Okay. So. Let’s talk lap one.”

Oscar squinted. “What was wrong with lap one?”

“You braked late into Turn 10. Just like you did in qualifying.”

“Maybe the corner needs to come sooner,” he muttered, deadpan.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Maybe you just need more time in the sim.”

Oscar made a face. “If I spend any more time in it than you already make me do, I might merge with the chair.”

They dove into the telemetry together then — back and forth, sharp and focused, their language slowly becoming shorthand. She pointed out throttle traces, he challenged her on strategy calls. She fired back with sector deltas, he offered precise corner feedback.

By the time they were done, an hour had passed.

Oscar leaned back, drained but calmer. “You’re intense.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, unapologetically. “I’m also right, most of the time.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

She packed up her iPad, stood, and gestured toward the door. “Come on, ducky,” she said. “My husband is probably pacing somewhere, lamenting about how shit his car is. We need to stop him before he spirals.”

Oscar made a face as he got to his feet. “I don’t like being ducky.”

Amelia shrugged, unconcerned. “Too bad. You are.”

He sighed. “Why can’t I just be Oscar?”

“You can,” she said simply. “But you’re ducky too. Both can be true.”

Oscar blinked at her, clearly expecting more of an explanation. Amelia paused in the doorway, tilting her head like she was debating whether to explain. Then she did — bluntly, honestly, in her Amelia way. “Nicknames are… structure,” she said. “They help me sort people. Feelings. Connections. If I nickname you, it means I’ve decided I trust you. It’s like… mental shorthand. Emotional filing.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Like… categories?”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes lighting up slightly. “It’s not random. It means something. I call you ducky because you’re calm on the surface and all chaos underneath, and also because you look like someone who would fall asleep in a bathtub. And because I like you. You’ve earned it.”

He stared at her. “I… don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Just know that it means I’ve put you in the ‘safe’ column.”

Oscar followed, a little dazed. “That’s a lot to attach to a duck.”

Amelia smiled to herself. “Also, my husband kept saying that I imprinted on you like a mother duck, so…”

They rounded the corner and found said husband, Lando, in the corridor, muttering to himself with a piece of tyre compound data pulled up on his phone.

Oscar pointed wordlessly.

Amelia just sighed. “See? Spiralling. I told you.” She stepped forward, nudged the phone down, and gently took her husband’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “You did well with what you had.”

Lando looked between the two of them, Amelia’s steady face, Oscar’s unreadable one, and let out a breath that was mostly a laugh. “We’re going to be fucking shit this year, aren’t we?” He asked.

Amelia sighed. “I hope not. I’m already trying to get my hands on the car, but the cost cap is preventing me from making any significant changes this early…”

Lando pouted at his wife.

“Pizza?” Oscar asked.

Amelia’s head snapped around in his direction. “Yes!”

Lando was still pouting when he said, “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Depression pizza. Yay!”

—

The glass walls of the office reflected the glow of early evening. Outside, the MTC lake was still, pale with late-winter. Inside, Amelia sat at the head of the table with her knees drawn up in the chair, a pink, battered notebook open in front of her.

Andrea leaned in to look closer. “You did this all by hand?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I think better with a pen and paper.”

Her dad, seated opposite her, turned a few pages. His brows rose as he scanned carefully drawn schematics, annotated calculations, wind tunnel projections, notes in tiny, slanted handwriting. Everything from ride height tweaks to theoretical suspension layouts to predicted competitor development trends.

“This is a full concept,” Andrea said, quietly impressed. “This is… years worth of work.”

“Just a few weeks,” Amelia said. “That’s not just theory in there, though. That’s a car.”

Zak sat back, flipping to the final page. It was labelled, in block capitals, with an underlined title.

PROJECT: MCL38-AN

Underneath, in her neat writing.

It’ll win if you trust it.

He looked up. “This will put us back on top?”

“I know it will,” Amelia said, finally meeting their eyes. “Everything I’ve learned — from Red Bull, from Max, from every telemetry graph and CFD failure and stupid porpoising issue in the last two years — I used it all. And not just to make something clever. To make something fast. Reliable. Adaptable.”

Andrea gently closed the notebook. “This is championship-level ambition.”

“It’s more than ambition,” Amelia said. “It’s your 2024 car. The notebook is yours now.”

Her dad raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to keep it?”

She shrugged. “No. I won’t need it, but you will. I’ve already made a million copies, but I’d like you to keep the original.”

Her dad looked at her and reached for the notebook again with something like reverence. “We’re going to need to start assembling a team around this immediately.” He said.

“I already started,” she told him. “Tom in aero’s got preliminary CFD models. Jordan’s been mocking up rear suspension geometry in CAD for two weeks.”

Andrea laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “You went over our heads?”

“I’m not very good at leaving things to chance,” she said. “And our car this year is awful. So bad. I needed to start making something happen, even if most of it will have to wait until next year.”

Her dad stood and leaned across the table, hand on the notebook. “Honey, this is…”

“Yours. Ours.” She said.

Andrea let out a breath.

Her dad stared at her for a beat, and then he was beaming.

—

It was nearly midnight, and the MTC was mostly dark — save for the soft hum of light in the engineering wing. Amelia sat on the floor of her office, legs crossed, iPad glowing in her lap.

Oscar lay stretched out on the rug in front of her, still in his training kit, a protein shake abandoned next to him. Lando was in her desk chair, spinning gently, half-asleep and barefoot.

“This is the weirdest sleepover I’ve ever been to,” Oscar muttered.

“You say that every time you hang out with us,” Lando replied, yawning.

“I mean it every time.” Oscar said.

Amelia didn’t look up. “Shut up. I’m trying to change the trajectory of your entire careers right now.”

That got their attention.

Lando leaned forward. “What are you doing, baby?”

Amelia turned the iPad so they could both see the screen. Her voice was calm, even, but there was a thread of something bright underneath it. “This is going to be your 2024 car.”

Oscar blinked. “You—what?”

She tapped through a few screens: 3D renders, rear suspension models, aero flow maps. “Codename MCL38-AN. I told you both that I already had it planned out, didn’t I?”

Oscar sat up straighter. “You really think that’ll put us at the front of the grid?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re driving scrap metal right now, I won’t lie. It’s holding you both back. But this car—” she tapped the image again “—this is what we’re building toward. This is the one. The team just needs time. I need time.”

Oscar was staring at the iPad, wide eyed. “You’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. All I need is for you to keep showing up. To keep believing. We’re not going to be at the back of the grid forever.”

Lando stood, walked over, and looked down at the designs for a long moment. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Why are you showing us now?”

“Because,” she said, glancing between them, “I can’t ask you to keep suffering through this season unless you have a reason. A future. This is your future. You’ll win races in this car.”

Oscar laughed, breathless and stunned. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, finally smiling. “Holy shit.”

Lando slid down onto the floor beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Us. This team. This sport.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Oscar pointed at the iPad again. “Can I name it?”

“No.” She said.

“Can I drive it now?” He asked.

“It doesn’t exist yet.” She told him.

“Then can I keep being your ducky?”

She looked at him, bemused. “You want to be ducky now?”

“I’m reconsidering my argument,” he muttered. “Out of loyalty…”

Lando was grinning. “We’re going to win championships, aren’t we?”

Amelia nodded. Smiled at her husband. Kissed him. “Yes. We are.”

—

They got back to Monaco well past midnight, Lando wordless beside her in the car. The race had been brutal. Another pointless race. Another weekend where the car hadn’t performed, and the looped back data had made her want to throw her laptop into the Red Sea.

But home was home.

Amelia dropped her bags in the entryway, kicked off her trainers, and walked straight to the kitchen, wordlessly opening the fridge. She fished out a can of Diet Coke and pressed it to her forehead.

Behind her, Lando wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"You gonna fire me?” He asked quietly.

She laughed despite the burning itch under her skin. “No. You did your best.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled against her neck.

They stood like that for a beat. Amelia breathed in the scent of his hoodie and let the familiar weight of him soothe the static in her chest. He was solid. Warm. Hers.

Finally, she turned around and kissed his jaw. “It’ll get better.”

Lando nodded. “Good. Because I’m getting real tired of seeing you more frustrated than smug.”

She cracked a smile. “I’m always smug.”

“There she is.”

—

Amelia didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was loud, chaotic, and always somewhat efficient.

Oscar sat at the breakfast bar, watching her with mild horror as she chopped onions at a blinding speed.

“You’re a very violent chef,” he observed.

“The quicker it’s done, the better,” she said. “Now pass me the basil, ducky.”

He handed it over. “Still don’t particularly like being called that.”

“Don’t care.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you want red or white wine?”

—

The living room was littered with discarded Uno cards, an empty pizza box, and the remains of someone’s sprite can that Max Fewtrell had been using as a drum for the last ten minutes.

“You are cheating,” Pietra said flatly, accusing Lando with a pointed look.

“I’m just playing strategically.”

Amelia, half-asleep on the sofa with her feet in Lando’s lap, mumbled, “Strategically being a little shit, yeah.”

“Don’t hate the player,” Lando shot back, tugging her ankle gently. “Hate the wife.”

“You’ll sleep on the couch for that,” she muttered, eyes still closed.

Max Verstappen arrived late, as usual. Amelia opened one eye when he collapsed beside her on the sofa and started picking at the leftover cold garlic bread.

“Missed you.” She told him sleepily.

“Missed you too, zusje.” He said.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

—

The Spanish GP had been marginally better than the ones that’d come before. Still not good. But better.

Back at the airport, Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, while Amelia reviewed strategy notes and Lando bought three Snickers and two iced teas.

Lando dropped next to her with a huff, his arm winding around her waist, hand flexing before squeezing her hip. “I’m considering sabotage.”

“Of?”

“The car. I’m gonna drive it into a lake or something.”

Oscar pulled one headphone off. “Wouldn’t it sink?”

Lando stared at him. “That’s your concern?”

“Hydrodynamics are important.” Oscar smirked.

Amelia sighed. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Lando grinned. “You love it.”

She didn’t reply, just leaned closer, then passed him a highlighter. “Help me mark the wind tunnel data.”

—

They’d flown into Spielberg a little early to prep and decompress. Amelia had her notes. Lando had brought five pairs of sunglasses and absolutely no socks. Oscar was, predictably, already on his fifth stretch of the legs down the paddock.

The three of them walked the track together at sunset, shoes crunching against the gravel.

“You know,” Amelia said, glancing between the two drivers, “if either of you crashes this weekend, I won’t be happy.”

“Would you leave me for dead?” Oscar asked, deadpan.

“Yes.” She lied.

“She wouldn’t,” Lando said.

Amelia looked ahead, wind tugging at her hair, then back at the boys; her husband and her ducky.

This job was hell. The car was beyond flawed. The season wasn’t what they’d hoped.

But this, this team, this family, this effort, felt like something worth holding onto.

—

Silverstone came, and there was a shift.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, arms crossed over her chest, watching the mechanics finish prepping the car for FP1.

The upgraded floor. The reshaped side-pods. The altered rear suspension geometry she’d argued over for weeks.

It was all here. On track. Real.

It wasn’t perfect — of course it wasn’t. The budget cap had demanded compromises. She hadn’t been able to implement the full package she’d thrown together back in March. That version of the MCL60 was meaner, leaner, cleverer — a little monster of a thing. A title fighter.

But this was the one they could afford. And she’d made it the best it could be.

Oscar stepped beside her, helmet tucked under his arm, race suit halfway unzipped. “Doesn’t look like a paper towel on wheels anymore.”

She hummed. “No. More like... a reinforced napkin. Maybe a placemat.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “How confident are you?”

She exhaled slowly. “Seventy percent we’re in the points. Fifty percent one of you surprises me. Zero percent we DNF. I’ve triple-checked the aero modelling. You’re safe.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment. Then, “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” she said honestly. “It’s not. But it’s what we’ve got. And it’s good enough to fight for points rather than the chequered flag.”

Oscar squeezed her shoulder. Tight. “I trust you.”

There was something boyish in the way he said it. Uncomplicated. She smiled and nudged him toward the car. “Go, ducky.”

“Still don’t like that.”

“Don’t care.”

—

By Sunday, the paddock was electric.

The buzz was real. The performance gains were visible. And people were talking.

After qualifying, someone from Sky asked Lando if he felt like McLaren were back in the fight for ‘best of the rest’.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. We’ve got Amelia Norris to thank for that.”

That one made her throat pinch.

Later, back in the garage, she caught Andrea’s eye as he leaned over the pit wall screens. He grinned, then gave her a thumbs-up.

Even her dad, who’d spent the last several months managing expectations to sponsors and shareholders, gave her a bear hug that nearly knocked her clipboard out of her hands.

“You’ve made believers out of us again, kiddo,” he said into her ear. “They’re already asking about 2024.”

Amelia stepped back and smiled tightly. “Let us get through this race first.”

—

Lando was flying. Oscar was right on his gearbox. And Amelia was vibrating in her seat, headset digging into her ears.

The car wasn’t just competitive; it was racy. Bold. Alive.

She and Will traded glances as they watched Lando chase down Lewis.

“This is all you,” Will said.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her heart was somewhere near her throat.

Oscar’s voice crackled in her ear. “Is this what driving a real car feels like?”

Amelia couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Keep it clean, ducky. Still a few laps to go.”

“Is my wife crying tears of joy right now?” Lando asked over his radio. “I bet she is.”

“She is.” Will said.

“Liar.” Amelia laughed, and okay, maybe she did sound a bit choked up.

—

The crowd was still roaring and Amelia was frozen beside the pit wall, headset hair sticking out from under her cap, breathing like she’d just done the full length of the race herself.

It wasn’t a win.

But it was enough.

Lando ran up behind her and flung his arms around her shoulders, lifting her slightly off the ground as she shrieked.

“Put me down, you sweaty idiot—!”

“We did it!”

“You did it.”

“No,” Lando said, spinning her once before finally setting her down. “You did.”

He kissed her, quick and messy, and the cameras were definitely watching, but she didn’t care. She’d earned this moment.

Oscar wandered over and offered her a half-hearted fist bump.

“Better than a placemat,” he grinned lopsidedly.

“Almost a dinner plate,” she agreed.

He laughed, and then he took her to watch the podium.

Max on top. Lewis next. And then her Lando.

Her husband.

Beaming right at her.

She made Oscar hug her. Needed the deep-pressure to cut through the overwhelming joy coursing through her veins. Somebody took a picture and posted it on Twitter with the tag ‘Best racer/engineer duo EVER’.

—

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on their hotel bed, notebook open in her lap, notes scribbled in every margin.

Lando walked out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair damp.

“You’re still working?”

She looked up. “I’m trying to figure out how to sneak in another mini upgrade before Qatar.”

Lando crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. “You’re mad, you know.”

Amelia frowned. “I’m not.”

He slid into bed beside her. “C’mere. Work can wait till tomorrow.”

She paused, then closed the notebook and handed it to him. “Don’t lose it,” she warned. “That’s the future in your hands.”

He looked at the cover, scuffed, dented, covered in papaya and coffee stains, and held it like it was a sacred text.

“We’re going to have podium celebration sex now.” She told him. “I bought chequered flag lingerie.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh—Holy shit. You did?”

She smiled. 

[janecafe]

ROMANTIC PURSUITS PAC: your next (first) date will be 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

can be applied for future spouse. soulmate. twinflames. crushes and other romantic pursuits.

𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗧𝗢 𝗖𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗦𝗘? from the left side to the right side. pick which picture is drowning you with, pulling you in. breathe in and out and start to visualise all the piles. trust your intuition and set aside your aesthetic preferences. enjoy and have fun! 🍀✨

⠀⠀ ⠀𐚁 ❪ヵめへ❫

SHOP | MASTERLIST | JOIN TO MY COMMUNITY

• reblogs for „ huggies

© janecafe 2025

special shout out and credits @uzmacchiato for letting me use your lace divider for free.

template link: here. the basic color divider and edits was mine.

• 𝗨𝗡𝗢

the date is gonna take place at an amusement park. and could be one of you is gonna be late at an agreed time and place. this rendezvous is a moment that engraved your memories in this lifetime, it is gonna be flowing with sweetness. the interaction between two souls is gonna honey, sweet and smooth. i can feel the timidity between these two but it's more likely because before dating, you've already have feelings for each other. which is quite interesting because this sounds like a shelter in my fingertips but the hesitation and insecurities take the lead from this date. well, i quite understand that because it was your first time going out with this individual. perhaps, negativity won't make the situation any better but i advise you to feel the moment--- enjoy and have fun. feelings here are not lying, i can feel the 100% affection from the two of you. i also feel this person is gonna ask tons of questions to you like they want to get to know you more. you may have a remembrance picture from a photo booth or in another term, you gonna take a lot of pictures especially stolen photographs. this on the spot of "spark" date where you gonna feel elated. having conversations with this person is like pulling you into their soul and you want to more. after this first date, i think the text and video calls will be more often. you two will grow closer.

★ check the previous pac

• 𝗗𝗢𝗦

your person is gonna be so damn whipped and tripped for you, my goodness 😩🤌🏻 this person is gonna express their intense feelings towards you like how much they likens their favorite brew. they underscore the profound impact of this date and you in their heart. sissy, their love is like an affogato burning hot but willing to pour more and more dozen. this is date is gonna bring overwhelm feeling at the same time comfort on your side. this date gonna delectable treat that you want to consume every day 😉✨this pile is giving me so much young-spirited epoch. a reminiscent of a teenage love drama that will make you giggle and tickle. i think your will be your tour guide for this date, it feels like this is their favorite place. they will guide you in this place. i found this rom-com lol, where the two of you may seems different from others people at this place. for example, you two are wearing face mask 😷 which you may find odd from others. it's like you gonna feel shy at the same time see it as funny scenario. the place where you two will dine in to eat is something new from your eyes and ears, it can be fine-dining restaurant. although, your date may casually notice your eyes seems wondering and roaming the place where your partner may seem notice. they may buy you something you really want, i can say they are someone who have a lot of money but they are able to afford what you want. thus, i don't feel like the two of you were looking for love or any romantic ship but in the end you gonna feel something with each other. otherwise, i don't see you two as people are hungry and desperate for love perhaps you two wants to take it slow.

★ check the previous pac

𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗦

warning some parts are 18+

geez. so hot. btw, this is kinda similar to group two, your person is gonna spoil you a lot on this date. the first kiss and sex may happen after this date. i see that you will wear something black and your partner is gray partnering with a white. i view the two of you as attractive individuals on this date. this date might take a lot of chances and moving due to busy schedule of you two. thus, i see that in the beginning the conversation is awkward but it end the conversation goes in sexier and hotter. you gonna ogle with each other and thinking some lewd stuff. i also think both you are ready to settle down like you are on right age to get committed. you are interested to get to know each other. i think you are the one who will take the initiative to kiss your person. it seems like you weren't even expecting that this is gonna be your best date? this person is giving you fun that your previous dates don't. thus, this person will bring a lot of healing into your soul and heart. you are gonna feel appreciated and loved by this individual.

★ check the previous pac

jane, the bean fiend tarot reader

˚⊱🍀⊰˚

[scarletwinterxx]

the archer - choi seungcheol imagine

helllloo ~ short backstory as to why this is titled 'the archer', i was omw home one day and the line "Who could ever leave me, darling But who could stay?" just stuck. i hope when you read this one, it will make sense😅 oh and yea we have a cute shy cheol for this one sksksks

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’ve heard the crying before but tonight, it’s relentless. For nearly an hour now, it’s been Soojin’s voice echoing through your studio, softening only to rise again like a wave you can’t block out with pillows or music.

You lie there, eyes on the ceiling, heart pacing with a mixture of concern and hesitation. It’s not your place. You barely know him—Choi Seungcheol, your next-door neighbor with the quiet eyes and tired smile. You’ve exchanged the occasional nod in the hallway, a few polite words in the elevator. He moved in six months ago, shortly after the baby was born. Alone.

But something about the way the cries go unanswered tonight makes you swing your legs out of bed and pad toward your door. You don’t think too hard as you knock. It takes a moment before he opens it. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, already looking apologetic. “She—she won’t calm down. I’ve tried everything.”

“May I?” you ask, surprising even yourself.

He blinks at you, caught off guard. But when you extend your hands, he hesitates only a second before handing her over.

She’s warm and trembling, but you sway gently, instinctively, and hum something low under your breath. an old tune from a drama your mother used to love. Soojin’s cries hiccup, then soften. Within a minute, she’s quiet against your shoulder.

You glance up.

Seungcheol is staring at you like he’s witnessing a miracle.

“Uh—wha—how?”

You glance at him, one eyebrow raised as you continue to gently sway with Soojin nestled against your shoulder, her tiny fists tucked under her chin now. 

Seungcheol looks like someone just handed him the answer to a test he didn’t study for.

“I… I swear I tried everything,” he says, running a hand through his hair, which sticks out at odd angles like he’s been yanking at it all night. “Bottle, diaper, bouncing, singing—I even googled ‘is my baby possessed’ at one point.”

“That must’ve given you comforting results,” you say, adjusting your hold slightly as Soojin lets out a soft sigh. “Any luck with the holy water?”

“Didn’t get that far. I was about to throw salt at her, though.”

You laugh. You haven’t laughed like that in a while, and from the way his expression shifts, neither has he.

“Okay, but seriously,” he says, crossing his arms loosely over his chest as he leans against the doorway. “What did you do? Are you some kind of baby whisperer? Do you own a magic shoulder?”

“She probably just likes that I don’t smell like desperation and instant noodles,” you tease, nodding at the small mountain of convenience store trash on the kitchen counter behind him.

Seungcheol groans and presses his palms over his face. “That’s so valid. You’re right. I reek of ‘guy barely holding it together.’”

“You said it, not me.”

Soojin shifts in your arms but doesn’t wake. You lower yourself gently onto the couch, adjusting your hold.

Seungcheol watches, awe still etched into every line of his face. “She never calms down like that with me,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “She usually screams like I’ve offended her ancestors.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

You blink. Right. You’ve lived next door for months and this is your first real conversation. You tell him your name.

He repeats it, softly, like he’s testing the sound. “Well. I owe you. Like… a lot. If I had knees left I’d be bowing right now.”

“Save the bowing for when she starts teething,” you murmur, eyes on the baby now curled like a bean in your arms.

He laughs, and it’s warm and real, like it hasn’t been heard in his apartment for a long time.

“So,” he says after a moment, still watching you like he can’t quite believe it. “Do you do this for all your neighbors or am I just lucky?”

You glance at him over Soojin’s soft head. “Only the ones who google ‘possessed baby’ at 3 a.m.”

“Damn,” he grins. “That narrows it down.”

“She probably felt you freaking out,” you say, keeping your voice low so you don’t wake the now peacefully sleeping Soojin. “Babies are weirdly psychic like that. You panic, they panic harder. It’s like emotional Wi-Fi.”

Seungcheol squints at you. “You’re telling me this tiny human was mirroring my mental breakdown?”

You nod. “Pretty much.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Well, that makes me feel both seen and judged by someone who can't even sit up by herself.”

“She is very advanced,” you say with mock seriousness. “Clearly an empath.”

He huffs a soft laugh and flops into the armchair across from you, legs sprawled, head tilted back. “You have one too?”

You glance down at Soojin, then back at him. “A baby? No. I just like them. And—lucky me—they like me back.”

He lifts his head and raises a brow. “That’s not fair. I made her. She should like me.”

“Maybe she’s still bitter about the eviction from the womb.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-groan, like he’s not sure whether to be offended or impressed. “I’m never going to win an argument in this house, am I?”

“Not with her from the looks of it”

He tilts his head, giving you a look that’s part amused, part grateful. “Seriously, though… thank you. I didn’t realize how close I was to completely losing it tonight.”

You shrug, glancing down at Soojin’s soft lashes against her cheeks. “It’s okay. Everyone has their limit. Even sleep-deprived single dads who try to summon baby-calming magic via YouTube.”

He groans again. “Ugh, please don’t remind me.”

“No promises.”

Seungcheol smiles—really smiles this time. “Well… if you ever want to visit your favorite fan again…”

You glance up at him. “Are you saying I have visitation rights?”

“With Soojin? Definitely. With me… maybe. I’m still evaluating.”

“Rude.”

“Fair.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just watch him watching her.

Then, softly, “She looks just like you.”

His eyes flick to you.

You nod, gentle. “Same nose. Same shape of her eyes when she squints. I saw it the moment you opened the door.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, the sound laced with disbelief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling down at Soojin. “It’s a good face to grow into.”

He exhales, some of that pressure inside him loosening, like you handed him a valve to let the fear out slow. He rubs the back of his neck, looks down at the floor, then at his daughter again.

“I’m scared all the time,” he admits. He doesn't know why he's telling you this but it's too late to stop, “Like—I love her so much it physically hurts, but I keep wondering if that’s enough. If loving her this much makes up for everything I can’t give her yet.”

“You’re here,” you say. “You’re trying. You’re sleep-deprived, semi-malnourished, and your apartment smells like baby wipes and cold coffee. But you’re here. That already makes you better than a lot of people.”

“Also,” you add, “she fell asleep in like, two minutes. I’m pretty sure that means she’s happy and safe. Or she’s secretly plotting. Either way, you’re doing okay.”

“Thanks,” he says. “For everything tonight.”

You shrug one shoulder. “What are neighbors for, right?”

=

A knock at your door isn't unusual. Packages, random hallway noise, maybe the building ajumma making her rounds with gossip and kimchi. But this one is too soft to be a delivery guy and too polite to be a kid. You pause your Netflix episode and head over, peeking through the peephole.

It’s Seungcheol.

You open the door and he’s standing there in jeans, a hoodie zipped halfway up, one strap of Soojin’s diaper bag slipping off his shoulder. He looks a little frazzled, hair tousled like he ran his hand through it too many times.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “Sorry, are you busy?”

You glance behind him. Soojin is in his arms, blinking like she just woke up from a nap and hasn’t decided whether the world deserves her attention yet.

“Not really,” you say, brows raised. “Everything okay?”

He nods, shifting Soojin to his other arm. “Yeah—yeah, I just—look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really quick, but I have to run down to the ward office to drop off some paperwork. It’s boring, annoying, and they hate when babies scream through it.”

You smirk. “So you’re abandoning your child to avoid judgement.”

“Exactly,” he deadpans. “And you’re the only person she doesn’t seem to think is a demon in disguise.”

You hold out your hands automatically, and he hesitates just long enough to look guilty before gently placing Soojin in your arms. She blinks up at you like, Oh, it’s you. Okay, this is fine, then promptly grabs a fistful of your shirt.

“I’ll be gone maybe thirty, forty minutes tops,” he says, already half-turning like he doesn’t trust himself not to second-guess this. “I swear, if she cries, I owe you—like—coffee for a month. Or five years. Whatever’s fair.”

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him, bouncing her a little as she starts to hum her sleepy protest song. “Go do your boring adult things. We’ll be here, judging your outfit.”

He looks down at himself, frowns. “What’s wrong with my hoodie?”

“It’s giving ‘college sophomore in finals week.’”

He looks personally wounded. “Wow. Harsh from someone wearing pajama pants.”

“Bold of you to assume these are pajamas and not my formal lounging attire.”

He grins, then presses his palms together in a dramatic bow. “Gamsahamnida. You are a lifesaver.”

“Go, Seungcheol,” you say with mock severity, like you're kicking him out of your own house. “Before I charge you babysitting rates.”

“Noted,” he says, already backing down the hallway. “If she starts crying, play her that weird folk song you hummed the other night. She apparently likes that.”

You snort. “It’s not weird. It’s vintage. Now go.”

He disappears down the hallway, mumbling something about government forms and how adulthood is a scam. You close the door, look down at Soojin.

About an hour after Seungcheol left, someone knocked on your door again.

“She’s out,” you said.

Seungcheol blinks “Out?”

“Like a light,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Didn’t even fight it. Just conked out mid-conversation with her carrot.”

He entered cautiously, peering over at the couch where Soojin lay snoozing like an angel, one sock halfway off her foot. His whole body went still for a second, like even his breathing slowed down.

“No way,” he muttered. “She never naps this easily. I have to do a whole routine. Like, bouncing, swaying, bribery, gentle pleading—”

You held up a hand. “To be fair, I did sing her an exclusive remix of ‘Arirang’ with some freestyle humming in between. It was Grammy-worthy.”

Seungcheol leaned down slightly, adjusting Soojin’s sock with that instinctive tenderness he probably didn’t even notice he had anymore. 

“You’re doing okay, you know,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, startled.

“I mean it,” you added. “You always look like you’re bracing for a storm, but… she’s happy. You’re doing okay.”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I never know if I am.”

“You are.”

He nodded slowly, then straightened up, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Um. Thank you. Really. I owe you, like… a year’s supply of coffee or something.”

You grinned. “How about you start with dinner next time?”

He paused. Not in surprise but like he was waiting to make sure you really said what he thought you said.

“Dinner?” he repeated.

You leaned against the doorframe, casual. “Yeah. You bring the baby, I’ll bring dessert. Seems fair.”

“Deal,” he said.

“Why don’t we let her sleep?” you say, voice soft. “You want coffee?”

His head snaps toward you like you just offered him oxygen. “God, yes.”

You stifle a laugh. “Come on.”

You move to the kitchen and start pulling mugs from the shelf. Behind you, he hovers awkwardly for a second before cautiously lowering himself onto one of the kitchen chairs like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit down in someone else’s life yet.

You hand him a mug, fingers brushing his. “Cream and sugar?”

He stares at you for a second too long.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. Just a little.”

You smirk as you fix it the way he asked, then slide it across the counter. “Look at you. Saying ‘just a little’ like you didn’t pour half the sugar jar into your coffee the other morning.”

He narrows his eyes over the rim of the mug. “I was sleep-deprived. I needed moral support in powdered form.”

You sit across from him with your own cup, resting your chin in your palm. “And here I thought you were this composed, competent, remote-working professional.”

He scoffs. “I am composed and competent. Most of the time. Except before 8 a.m. Or when Soojin decides sleep is for the weak.”

“So… most days,” you tease.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. One that doesn’t look so tired now. You sip your coffee and let the quiet stretch a little, comfortable and warm.

“Thanks again,” he says after a moment. “For today. For—whatever magic you’ve got going on. I still don’t get it.”

You shrug. “She’s easy to love.”

There’s something in his face that flickers at that. like he’s trying not to show how much those words hit. His thumb taps against the side of the mug.

“She really is,” he says. “But… sometimes I forget that it’s okay to enjoy it. I’m so busy trying to keep up with everything, I think I forget to stop and—feel it.”

You lean back slightly, studying him. “Well. You’ve got backup now. Whether you want it or not.”

He settles more into the chair, like your words gave him permission to breathe a little deeper. The mug cradled in his hands, still warm, anchors him in the moment.

You glance toward the living room, then back at him. “You always wanted to be a dad?”

He hums, considering. “Yeah. I think so. Not like—I didn’t grow up dreaming of diaper bags and formula,” he says with a faint smile, “but… I always liked the idea. Being someone’s safe place.”

Your heart stirs a little at that. You hadn’t expected such a soft answer.

“And now that you are?” you ask, gently.

He exhales a laugh, tilting his head. “It’s like I got dropped in the middle of the ocean with floaties and a smile and they were like, ‘Good luck!’” He pauses, then adds, “But then she looks at me like I’m her entire world and suddenly I don’t mind drowning a little.”

You smile into your mug. “That’s… weirdly poetic for someone who wears socks with mismatched cartoon characters.”

He looks scandalized. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to when you wore Pororo and Iron Man.”

“Okay, but hear me out. Laundry day.”

“Sure,” you nod solemnly. “Blame the system.”

“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “No kids of your own, but you’re, like, terrifyingly good at it.”

You shrug, swirling your coffee. “I’ve always liked being around them. Babysat a lot. Volunteered at a daycare during uni. There’s something honest about babies, you know? They don’t pretend. If they like you, they like you. If they don’t, you know immediately.”

He grins. “So what you’re saying is, Soojin’s got good taste.”

“Exceptionally,” you deadpan. “Especially considering her father pairs Iron Man with penguins.”

You both laugh again, soft and low so you don’t wake the sleeping queen in the next room. 

“You know,” he says, almost shy, “I didn’t expect any of this. The neighbor thing. You, being... kind.”

You quirk a brow. “Kind? Is that what we’re calling basic human decency now?”

He gives you a look. “It’s different. Most people don’t know what to do with single dads. They either pity you or overstep.”

You nod, thoughtful. “I’m not here to fix anything. I just... like her. And you’re not exactly awful either.”

He chuckles. “High praise.”

You finish your coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. “Besides, I figure anyone who handles a teething crisis without crying deserves at least a neighbor who makes decent coffee.”

“This is decent?” he teases, lifting his mug. “That’s all I get?”

You smirk. “I’m keeping ‘great’ in my back pocket. You have to earn it.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and smiles in that quiet, melting way he’s got. “Challenge accepted.”

=

It’s been a few days, but the rhythm is already familiar.

You’re coming home later than usual. Just as you hang up and juggle your keys, you hear it again. soft giggling, baby babble, and the unmistakable click of a stroller wheel bumping over the hallway tile.

You glance back and there they are. Seungcheol in a black cap and hoodie, pushing the stroller like he’s trying to look inconspicuous but failing because Soojin is loudly babbling and flapping her arms like she’s the mayor on parade.

“Caught you,” you say, smiling.

Seungcheol grins sheepishly. “We were trying to sneak back in.”

“Oh yeah? How’d that go for you?”

He peers down at Soojin, who grins up at you like she just told a great joke. “She’s terrible at stealth.”

Soojin kicks her feet in response and lets out a very enthusiastic raspberry.

He unlocks his door, gesturing you over. “You wanna come in? She’ll never forgive me if you don’t.”

You grin. “I could be convinced.”

A few minutes later, your groceries are in the fridge, and you’re sitting on his living room floor, legs crossed, feeding Soojin tiny bits of cut-up apple. She’s babbling nonsense and trying to grab the bowl, grinning like this is the best part of her day.

Seungcheol leans against the counter, arms crossed, just watching.

“She’s been in a mood lately,” he says. “But you walk in, and she turns into a cartoon sunflower.”

You glance over your shoulder. “She just knows good vibes.”

He smiles quietly. “You’ve got this… thing. With her. I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Charm,” you say matter-of-factly.

He snorts. “Dangerous charm.”

Seungcheol walks over, drops to the floor beside you, close enough that your knees brush. You both look down at Soojin, who is now focused on trying to fit her whole fist in her mouth.

“I never thought…” he starts, then stops, fidgeting with a baby spoon. “I mean, before she was born, I didn’t know if I’d be doing this alone. I had no idea how to be good at it and I’m still scared. All the time. Like if I mess up once, it’s over. For both of us.”

You reach out, brush your fingers gently against Soojin’s soft little hand.

“She’s happy,” you say. “She’s healthy. She feels loved. That means you’re already doing the most important part right.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Not just for this. For… showing up. For her. For me.”

You hold his gaze for a beat. “You don’t have to thank me. I like being here.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

He watches Soojin for a while, her small hands grasping at the last apple slice like it’s a national treasure. There’s a little silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just soft, shared air.

Then, without you asking, his voice comes low, careful.

“Her mom… left after she was born.”

You don’t move. You just listen.

“She—uh, she told me she wasn’t ready. For any of it. And I guess I knew. Deep down. We were already drifting, and then the pregnancy—it just pushed everything to the surface.”

He looks down at his hands, thumb rubbing at a small mark on his knee.

“I tried to hold things together for a while. Bought the crib. Took the classes. Thought maybe if I showed her I could do it, she’d change her mind. But after Soojin was born… it was just me.”

You feel something tighten in your chest.

“I signed the papers. Named her. She wasn’t even there. No message. No goodbye.” He pauses, blinking a little too fast. “And I didn’t know if I was angry or just… numb.”

He exhales slowly, the sound more of a release than a sigh.

“It’s weird. People always say they can’t imagine doing it alone. But you don’t really get the choice. You just… do it. You wake up. You feed her. You change her. You learn what each cry means. You hold her even when you’re falling apart. And the worst part is that sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. If one parent can really make up for the absence of another. If she’s gonna grow up and ask where her mom is and… and I’ll have to tell her.”

You reach over without thinking and gently lay your hand on his. He flinches slightly, not because he’s startled—but because it’s been a long time since someone touched him like that. Quietly. Kindly.

“You are enough,” you say, voice steady but soft. “She doesn’t need perfect. She needs you. And she’s got you.”

His eyes meet yours. There’s a shine there he doesn’t bother to hide this time.

Soojin lets out a tiny burp and promptly faceplants into her own lap, startling herself into a squeaky hiccup. You both look at her, then at each other—and laugh.

And just like that, the heaviness lifts. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to let the warmth back in.

Seungcheol leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter than before. Like he’s afraid saying it too loud might make it more real.

“I just don’t want her to grow up thinking she wasn’t wanted.”

You look at him, and something in your chest aches. He’s not just talking about Soojin now. He’s talking about himself too. About the fear that all his love won’t be enough to drown out the silence someone else left behind.

“She won’t,” you say softly, certain. “Not with you. Not with the way you look at her like she’s your whole world. Not with the way you know the exact rhythm that calms her down. Or the way you whisper to her when you think no one’s listening.”

He gives you a shaky little smile, eyes shining, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“She’ll know she was wanted,” you say again, firmer now. “Because you show her. Every single day.”

He nods slowly, like he's trying to believe you. Trying to let that truth settle somewhere in the spaces guilt has lived too long.

“When she was a newborn, she hated the crib. I used to hold her all the time even when my arms ached, her little cries broke me. It still does”

You smile, imagining a newborn Soojin and a sleep deprived Seungcheol, “Yeah well cribs don’t have a heartbeat, yours probably calmed her down”

And that statement stirs something in him. Seungcheol turns to you, something breaking open in his expression. Not sadness, exactly. Just… gratitude. Raw and unguarded.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Anytime.”

=

It’s a slow, golden Saturday. You’ve got no plans today no errands, no calls, no responsibilities. Just you, your comfy clothes, and the peace of a rare free weekend. Meanwhile, right next door, Seungcheol is pacing his living room barefoot in a plain tee and gray joggers, Soojin perched in her bouncer like a tiny queen on a throne. 

He stops mid-pace, turns to her.

“Okay. Hear me out,” he says, pointing a spoon in her general direction. “We should go ask her.”

Soojin gurgles and kicks one leg.

“But like—not in a weird way,” he adds quickly, eyes wide like he’s already spiraling. “Just casually. Like, ‘Hey, what’s up, you doing anything? Wanna hang out with this delightful six-month-old and her semi-stressed dad?’ Totally normal.”

Soojin lets out a fart noise with her mouth and slaps the penguin.

“Exactly. See, you get it.”

He rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the door.

“But what if she’s got plans?” he mutters. “Like… what if she’s one of those mysterious types who secretly has a jam-packed social calendar. What if she’s got a date. A tall, charming, emotionally available—ugh. No, nope, not thinking about that.”

He turns back to Soojin, hands on hips.

“Okay, but what if she’s just chilling in there with snacks and no idea what to do with her Saturday? What if she wants someone to knock?”

Soojin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a cough-sneeze-laugh hybrid and flings her penguin across the room.

“That’s a yes?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

She kicks both feet at once and squeals.

Seungcheol sighs dramatically. “Fine. If this crashes and burns, you’re going to daycare on Monday in mismatched socks out of spite.”

He walks to the mirror, runs a hand through his hair, then turns to Soojin. “Do I look casual? Like, ‘Hey, I just came over on instinct and not because I’ve been rehearsing what to say for the past fifteen minutes’ casual?”

Soojin lets out a loud raspberry, very pleased with herself.

He points at her. “Don’t sass me. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Finally, he scoops her up—socks and all—grabs a burp cloth (because he’s not a total amateur), and heads for the door.

“I swear, if she’s got company over and I walk in holding you like a prop, we’re moving apartments.”

Soojin gnaws on his collar, utterly unfazed. He sighs, shifts her in his arms, and knocks. Twice. Light. Hesitant.

Then waits.

And you, from the other side, put your book down, already smiling because somehow, you knew it would be them.

Seungcheol is standing there, Soojin on his hip with one sock off and the other one half-on, clinging to his collar like she owns the place. 

“Hey,” he says. Voice a touch too casual. “We were just… y’know. Wondering if you were around.”

“I am around,” you say, stepping aside. “And I see I’ve been summoned by royalty.”

“She insisted,” Seungcheol says, shifting her with a grin. “Practically bullied me into coming over.”

You raise a brow. “Ah. So this was her idea, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s the boss. I’m just the driver.”

Soojin lets out a burble and grabs your sleeve with sticky fingers like she’s making a legal claim.

“Well,” you say, gently taking her from his arms, “I’m honored to be chosen by her highness.”

You cradle her easily, bouncing her on your hip. “She smells like she’s recently made some… decisions,” you add, scrunching your nose playfully.

Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. “Oh no, did she—? Wait, really?”

You laugh. “Relax, she’s clean. I’m just messing with you.”

He exhales, clearly relieved. “Okay. Good. Because I forgot to bring the emergency diaper and I was not about to make a dramatic exit.”

You nod solemnly. “Wise. Nothing ruins a cool entrance like a diaper blowout.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway… I was just thinking, if you’re not busy today, maybe we could hang out? Or just… sit around and pretend we’re doing something productive?”

You smirk. “That sounds like exactly what I had planned.”

You motion toward your living room. “Come in. She can help me finish this coffee I forgot about an hour ago, and you can tell me what you’ve been pacing about for the last thirty minutes.”

He steps inside, mock offended. “Okay, how did you know I was pacing?”

You grin. “I didn’t but now I do”

A little while later, after Soojin had taken a tour of every object on your coffee table and spent a solid five minutes drooling purposefully on your shoulder, Seungcheol stands up with a stretch.

“I should probably grab her stuff—she’s gonna get hungry soon, and I didn’t bring anything except a bib and blind optimism.”

You snort. “Go. We’ll hold down the fort.”

He’s only gone for maybe five minutes before he reappears, slightly out of breath, carrying a small insulated bag and what looks like a pink spoon in his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles around the spoon before pulling it free. “She has this weird sixth sense about when I try to move fast and immediately decides to throw a crisis.”

You take the bag from him as he plops onto your floor with a sigh, Soojin perking up at the sound of the zipper being undone like she knows exactly what’s coming.

Seungcheol pulls out a small container of baby food and holds it up like it’s radioactive. “Just a warning. She hates this. Like, we’ve had full negotiations over a spoonful of this stuff.”

You laugh, settling on the rug with Soojin in front of you. “What is it?”

“Sweet potato banana something? It smells… unsettling.”

He hands you the spoon and the little jar like he’s surrendering it. “She usually swats it away. Or looks at me like I’ve betrayed her.”

You scoop a small amount onto the spoon, raising an eyebrow at Soojin. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, tiny critic.”

She blinks at you, eyes curious. You gently offer the spoon—and without hesitation, she opens her mouth and eats it. Chews. Swallows. And then opens her mouth again.

You glance at Seungcheol. “Um. That didn’t seem like a struggle.”

He looks absolutely gobsmacked. “What—wait—she ate it? Just like that?”

You nod, offering her another spoonful. She chomps happily.

Seungcheol stares, eyes wide. “Are you some kind of baby whisperer? What is going on?”

You shrug, trying not to laugh. “Maybe I just have really good snack energy.”

Seungcheol leans back against your couch, watching the scene like it’s defying all natural laws. “I swear, when I try, it’s like feeding a tiny, angry gremlin who knows martial arts.”

He watches you feed her another bite and he doesn't say anything at first but his face softens. Something gentle settles in his chest. And quietly, just to himself, he thinks, Maybe we needed her in our lives more than I realized.

Soojin is fully invested now—tiny mouth open, little hands waving in excited anticipation every time you bring the spoon near. At one point, she grabs at your wrist with surprising determination, trying to pull the food toward her faster, making a high-pitched whine that’s half-demand, half-excitement.

“She’s got a strong grip,” you laugh, letting her catch your fingers as you scoop up another bite. “She means business.”

He puts a hand dramatically over his heart. “Betrayed,” he says, deadpan. “By my own blood.”

“She didn’t even hesitate!” he says, sitting up straighter to look at Soojin like she’s done something treasonous. “All that effort I’ve put in—singing songs, dancing like a clown, inventing entire operas just to get her to eat half a spoon. And here she is, practically writing you a love letter for mashed bananas.”

Soojin responds by making a delighted little grunt and reaching for the spoon again with both fists.

You grin. “Don’t take it personally. Some of us just have snack-based chemistry.”

Seungcheol slumps theatrically against the couch. “This is how it starts. First the food. Then she’ll want you to read her bedtime stories. Then I’ll be voted off the island.”

You gently guide the spoon back into Soojin’s mouth, chuckling. “She’s just expanding her circle. You’re still the main character, Dad.”

“Barely,” he mutters, though there’s no real pout to it. He’s smiling—watching his daughter giggle and eat and look up at you like you hung the moon.

And yeah. He’s a little dramatic. But he’s also never been more relieved to be outshone.

It hits him. Not like a big, dramatic realization but like a slow, quiet bloom in the back of his mind, impossible to ignore. You laugh again, brushing a bit of puree off her chin, and Soojin squeals in response, delighted.

It’s almost daunting, how easy you are with her. How completely she adores you. How at home the two of you look like this.

And he tries—really tries—not to read too much into it.

But part of his brain… the part that’s been whispering louder every day lately… it won’t stop.

It’s saying: This is what it could look like. This is what it could feel like.

And it terrifies him.

Not because it’s bad but because it’s good. Because for the first time since Soojin was born, he’s seeing a picture he didn’t even let himself hope for.

A picture with someone in it.

Someone who isn’t just passing by in the hallway anymore. Someone who holds his daughter like she’s something precious. Someone who might be holding him too, in ways he hasn’t dared to admit.

You glance over your shoulder and catch him staring.

“Everything okay?” you ask, tone light.

He clears his throat, straightens a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, just… zoning out.”

You smile, not pressing. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

You’re wiping Soojin’s hands with a wet tissue, cooing at her like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though she keeps squirming and trying to eat the wipe instead. You’ve got that calm, unbothered rhythm to your movements, like nothing this baby could do would surprise or overwhelm you. Like she’s yours.

You glance over. “You good?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just thinking…”

Finally, he exhales. “The weather’s… really nice today.”

You nod slowly, smiling. “That it is.”

He looks at you a little longer, then finally goes, “Do you… wanna grab lunch? Like, out? I mean—if you don’t have plans. Which, if you do, that’s totally fine, I just thought it's too bad to waste a good day”

“I don’t have plans,” you interrupt gently, amused. “Lunch sounds good.”

“Yeah?” His eyes brighten a little.

“Yeah,” you say again, bouncing Soojin a bit. “And I think our third wheel here is already dressed for the occasion.”

Soojin squeals like she agrees wholeheartedly, flapping her arms and narrowly missing your chin.

A few minutes later, you’re all out the door. The spring air feels fresh on your face, the streets buzzing with quiet weekend energy. You walk side by side, Soojin tucked against Seungcheol in her little carrier, her head bobbing gently as he walks. 

Every now and then she lets out a content sigh or babble, and he automatically adjusts the shade over her face, so used to moving with her now it’s like second nature.

And then he speaks, a little hesitant.

“I’m not, uh…” He clears his throat. “I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes, right?”

You glance at him, brows slightly lifted.

“No jealous boyfriend about to appear out of nowhere and beat me with a stroller or something?”

You burst out laughing. “Wow. That was oddly specific.”

“I’ve seen things,” he deadpans. “This is Seoul.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “No boyfriend. No jealous ex. No one waiting in the wings.”

He hums, eyes on the sidewalk ahead. “Okay. Just had to check.”

You glance at him again, slower this time. “Why? You nervous?”

“A little,” he admits, hand resting instinctively on Soojin’s back. “You… You’ve been really kind. And easy to talk to. And Soojin loves you, obviously. I didn’t want to assume anything. Or make you uncomfortable.”

You look ahead, thoughtful, before replying softly, “You didn’t assume anything. You asked.”

He meets your eyes then, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it that way. And maybe he didn’t know how much he needed to hear that.

The place Seungcheol picks is tucked on a quiet street corner—one of those old-school Korean restaurants with handwritten menu signs taped to the walls, it’s cozy, worn in a way that feels like a warm hug.

The owner, a sprightly woman in her late sixties with cropped hair and a floral apron, greets you all with a wide smile as you step in.

“Omo, what a cutie!” she says, eyes immediately landing on Soojin nestled in Seungcheol’s carrier. “Look at those cheeks. Aigoo, she’s a living doll!”

Soojin blinks at her, wide-eyed and curious, then lets out a delighted sound that has the woman absolutely beaming.

She waves you toward a table by the window, already reaching for menus. “Sit, sit! This one’s good with the sunlight for the baby.”

You thank her, and Seungcheol gently shifts Soojin out of the carrier and into his lap while you take the seat across from them. The owner returns with water and leans slightly closer, eyes dancing between the three of you. Then she claps her hands once.

“Aigoo—what a beautiful family.”

You pause mid-sip. Seungcheol blinks.

“Oh—uh—” he starts, fumbling a little.

“We’re not—” you add, just as quickly.

But the owner just waves you both off with a cheeky grin, already scribbling something on her notepad. “Ah, I see, I see,” she says, in the tone of someone who does not see but is choosing delusion. “No need to be shy. Young parents these days, so stylish. Such a pretty mama and a handsome papa. And this baby—so healthy!”

Soojin gurgles right on cue, smacking the table with glee. Seungcheol opens his mouth again, clearly gearing up to correct her.

But then you just smile and say, “Thank you.”

The owner beams. “I’ll bring you something nice, service. For the baby, okay? Don’t worry, it’s all soft. Very gentle for little tummies.”

And just like that, she disappears into the kitchen.

Seungcheol looks down at Soojin, who is currently grabbing for the side of his sleeve with one hand and trying to eat the air with her mouth slightly open.

He chuckles. “Well. That happened.”

You lean back. “She meant well.”

“Sure. Though now we’re officially a stylish young couple with a baby.”

“Hey, I’ll take ‘stylish.’”

Then, quieter: “You handled that well.”

You smile, reaching across the table to nudge Soojin’s tiny hand. “I don’t mind being mistaken for your family.”

His eyes catch yours for a moment. And he doesn't say anything right away.

But the silence between you?

It feels like an answer he isn’t quite ready to say out loud.

The table fills slowly with food—banchan dishes placed with practiced ease, two bubbling pots of jjigae, warm bowls of rice. 

“She really thinks we’re a thing,” Seungcheol says under his breath, amused, as the woman disappears again behind the swinging kitchen door.

You lift your spoon and glance up. “You sound like you mind.”

He pauses, opens his mouth, closes it. “No,” he says after a second. “Not really.”

You nod, smile into your rice, and don’t push.

Soojin sits in her little portable chair between you, supported by pillows and mostly fascinated by a plastic spoon she’s been chewing on for ten straight minutes. Occasionally, she lets out a delighted squawk, causing you or Seungcheol to look over instinctively, like clockwork. He wipes her chin. You fix the corner of her bib. Neither of you comment on how easily it all flows.

“So,” you say between bites, “what does stylish dad do when he’s not being mistaken for my husband?”

Seungcheol chuckles. “Work. Meetings. More work. And then about sixteen loads of laundry.”

“Ah, a man of many hats.”

“Too many. I swear, I didn’t even own this many burp cloths before she was born. I don’t know where they come from. They multiply.”

You laugh, “Like gremlins?”

“Exactly. Feed them formula after midnight and bam twelve more burp cloths in the drawer.”

You both burst into quiet laughter while Soojin slaps the table enthusiastically, completely unaware of the comedy unfolding around her.

He doesn’t date. Hasn’t even thought about dating. He’s a single dad with enough on his plate to feed a small village. But sitting here, with you across the table and Soojin babbling between you like she belongs to both of you—it feels suspiciously close to something he used to want.

Something he wasn’t sure he’d get.

When lunch wraps up, the owner insists on taking a photo of “the beautiful family.”

You start to protest, but Seungcheol just laughs and waves you into the frame. You lean in beside him without hesitation, Soojin in his arms, her head flopping slightly against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Click.

And just like that, there’s a photo of the three of you now.

Later, he won’t be able to stop looking at it.

=

You juggle your keys, your takeout bag, you hadn’t planned to stop by anywhere but the moment they handed you an extra set of banchan and grilled fish at the restaurant, something tugged at you.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was… him.

You pause in front of Seungcheol’s door, free hand raised to knock. You think you hear faint music something mellow, like a playlist for winding down.

You knock twice. Then the door opens.

Seungcheol blinks at you, hair slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it more than once. 

“Hey,” you say, lifting the bag. “I accidentally ended up with enough food for two. Felt like a waste to eat alone.”

“She’s still with the sitter,” he says, stepping back to let you in. “I had some work I needed to wrap up tonight.”

“Oh,” you say, kicking off your shoes and stepping in. “So it’s just you?”

He smirks faintly. “Just me.”

“Well,” you grin, “lucky me.”

He lets out a soft, honest laugh at that and you both settle at his small dining table, where he quickly clears a stack of papers and a nearly empty coffee mug to make room.

You open the containers and start unpacking, setting up the rice, the kimchi, the fish, the spicy radish.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“I wanted to.” You glance up at him. 

He watches you move the plates around like it’s your table too—like this isn’t the first time. Like it won’t be the last. The food steams gently between you, the air filling with the familiar comfort of grilled sesame and garlic.

You glance at him. “You okay? You look like you’ve been thinking too much again.”

He leans back slightly in his chair. “Yeah. I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s quiet without her. That’s all.”

“Lonely kind of quiet?” you ask, soft.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. That kind.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just pick up your chopsticks and slide one of the containers closer to him.

“Well,” you say gently, “for tonight, you don’t have to eat in the quiet.”

He looks at you like you’ve said something bigger than what you meant—something that echoes a little too close to a wish he hadn’t allowed himself to name yet.

But instead of running from it, he says, “Then stay a while?”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

And as the night eases in around you both, laughter slipping through conversations, the space between you doesn’t feel quite so quiet anymore.

The food dwindles slowly, not because you’re eating slow but because the conversation keeps veering—sideways, up, spiraling through nonsense. 

You learn that Seungcheol is deeply opinionated about how jjigae should be spiced, and that he once accidentally deleted an entire quarterly report because Soojin spit up on his keyboard mid-call.

You nearly choke on rice at that one.

“She projectiled,” he says, completely deadpan, “like something out of an exorcism.”

“Why do I feel like you weren’t this funny when we passed in the hallway before?” you tease.

“Because I wasn’t,” he admits, sheepishly. “I think I was trying not to fall asleep standing up.”

It’s adorable, the way he trips over his own words. Like he’s still not used to speaking freely, like he’s trying to find a version of himself that doesn’t second-guess everything he says around you.

You pretend not to notice his ears tint pink.

Eventually, when the table’s cluttered with empty containers and chopsticks, you help him clean up. He tries to wave you off—“You’re the guest, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not leaving you with this war zone.”

Somehow it turns into a dance of bumping elbows and nearly dropping the dish soap. He’s holding a wet bowl when your hand accidentally brushes his under the faucet.

He freezes. Just a second. But you catch it.

“I don’t bite,” you murmur with a teasing smile.

“Y-yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like the faucet is suddenly fascinating. “I know.”

When the last bowl is drying on the rack, you both end up just… standing there. Side by side. Not saying much.

He glances at the clock. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” you say, but you don’t move right away.

He shifts his weight, rubs the back of his neck again. “Thanks. For coming over. For the food. And just… being around.”

You look up at him, eyebrows raised in gentle teasing. “Why do you always sound like you’re giving an acceptance speech when you say nice things?”

“I—” He laughs, low and helpless. “I’m rusty, okay? I haven’t had adult conversations that didn’t involve pacifiers in like, months.”

You smile. “You’re doing fine.”

You step out into the hallway, then turn, glancing at him again.

“You know,” you say, “if you’re free tomorrow… you could come over for dinner. Just you. I mean unless you’ll miss the spit-up too much.”

That earns a real laugh. A shy, surprised one.

“I’ll try to survive,” he says, his hand braced against the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he should lean in or keep his distance.

You grin, backing away. “Then it’s a date.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, is it—?”

But the door’s already closing behind you. He stands there for a good thirty seconds, blinking at the wood grain.

“…A date?” he mutters to himself.

Then smiles, just a little.

Definitely doomed.

The next day Seungcheol adjusts Soojin’s little headband as they walk up to the sitter’s door, her soft babbling filling the air between them.

“Okay, I know we’ve been over this,” he says, one arm holding her close, the other fumbling for the doorbell, “but let me just say for the record—she was the one who said this is a date”

Soojin blows a raspberry.

“Exactly,” he nods. “You get it.”

“It’s just dinner. Two adults. Eating. No pressure. Just… food. With a neighbor. Who laughs at my jokes. And smells really nice. And always has that soft, glowy thing going on with you that kind of makes my brain forget how breathing works sometimes.”

Soojin lets out a coo and smacks her tiny hand on his chest.

“I know,” he sighs. “I sound like an idiot. You don’t have to rub it in.”

The door opens and the sitter beams, reaching for Soojin with practiced ease. She goes willingly—of course she does—and Seungcheol hesitates for half a second before letting go.

“Be good, okay?” he tells her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “And if I don’t make it back, tell her it was the grilled mackerel that got me.”

The sitter chuckles. “You’re being dramatic again, Mr. Choi.”

But even as he walks away, trying to play it cool, he’s hyperaware of everything.

He groans softly. “I should’ve brought Soojin. She’s a good buffer.”

But it’s too late now. 

He adjusts his collar one last time. Then knocks. This time, he's the one holding his breath.

You open the door with that familiar easy smile. Your hair’s tied back in that half-messy way that makes you look both totally relaxed and somehow unfairly gorgeous. 

Seungcheol forgets what planet he’s on for a second.

“Hey,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re just in time. I was about to taste test and pretend I knew what I was doing.”

He walks in like a man trying not to trip over his own shoelaces. “You cook and downplay your skills? What don’t you do?”

You raise a brow as you shut the door behind him. “Flatter people at the door like a drama lead.”

He clears his throat and tries to sound normal. “So… Soojin said she’d cover for me if I don’t survive this.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over your shoulder. “And what does survival entail exactly? You afraid I’m gonna poison you?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ll like it too much and then embarrass myself asking for seconds before the rice is even done.”

You snort. “Wow. That’s dramatic.”

“I know. I was practicing in the mirror earlier.”

You pause at that, turn to face him, spoon still in hand. “Wait, what?”

He freezes. Blinks. Regrets everything.

“I mean—not seriously, I wasn’t like—practicing lines or anything. I just—I was…” He trails off and finally throws his hands in the air with a sheepish laugh. “You know what? Yeah. Mirror. Full speech. There was pacing involved. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

You break into a laugh that makes him feel like he just passed some kind of secret test. “Well, now I have to impress you. I can’t let that rehearsal go to waste.”

He watches you lift the lid off a pot, steam rising in fragrant clouds, and swears the apartment smells like something from his childhood—warm, familiar, comforting.

“You okay?” you ask, looking at him again, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, that same shy smile tugging at his lips. “This is… nice.”

You tilt your head. “It’s just dinner.”

You turn back to the stove, giving the stew one last stir, but your smile doesn’t fade and Seungcheol sees it. He sees how the corner of your mouth twitches like you’re trying not to grin. Like maybe he’s not the only one feeling this.

“You want to try it?” you ask, ladling a bit into a small bowl. “I need an honest review.”

“Sure, but if I say it’s good, you’ll think I’m just trying to impress you.”

“You are trying to impress me,” you say without missing a beat.

He freezes halfway to the bowl and laughs, quietly. “Wow. Okay. You’re terrifying.”

You hand him a spoon. “Eat, coward.”

He takes the spoon, eyes still on you as he tries it. Then closes his eyes. Groans. “Okay. Okay, see—now I can’t be cool about this. This is actual comfort food. Like, soul-restoring, existential-clarity food.”

You raise a brow. “Is this the speech you practiced in the mirror?”

He points the spoon at you. “You wish it was this polished.”

You both laugh again, that easy rhythm building between you like it’s always been there, waiting.

As you finish prepping, he helps without asking. Dinner is soft and familiar. Seungcheol tells you about the time Soojin tried to eat a remote control with the most serious face he’s ever seen. 

When everything’s finally done and the dishes are stacked neatly in the sink, you both end up on the couch without really saying anything about it. You sit with your legs tucked under you. He leans back, elbows on his knees. Close. Not too close.

“I had fun,” you say first, voice quiet now, softer under the buzz of the kitchen light.

He nods. “Me too.”

Then a pause. Not awkward. Not rushed. He turns his head toward you slowly, like even this moment is something he doesn’t want to break by moving too fast.

“I wasn’t really expecting tonight to feel like this,” he admits.

You look over. “Like what?”

He shrugs, but his voice is warm. “Like the part of the day I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

“You’re kind of a softie, huh?”

He groans and drops his head into his hands. “Don’t call me out like this.”

You laugh. “Too late.”

And when he lifts his head again, there’s color on his cheeks, that same bashful smile tugging at his lips—but this time, it stays. For a while, you don’t talk. You just sit. Close. Quiet. Like neither of you is quite ready for the night to end.

“So… uh,” he starts, clearing his throat once, then twice. “Soojin and I… we’re—uh—we were gonna go to the aquarium. This weekend.”

You raise your brows, curious. “Yeah?”

He nods. Doesn’t look at you. Just at his sleeve. “Yeah. Just… thought it’d be good. For her. Well—for me too. Kind of our first, like, out-out trip, y’know? Outside the baby bag radius.”

You smile, head tilting. “That’s really cute.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. Yeah. So…”

He trails off. You wait. Then he blurts it all in one go: “If you wanted to come too I mean I thought maybe you’d like it but it’s totally fine if you’re busy or if you hate fish or—”

“Seungcheol.”

He stops. Freezes like he’s been caught in a lie. You’re smiling again. That calm, steady kind that says you’ve got all the time in the world to wait out his nervous spiral.

You lean forward slightly. “I’d love to come.”

His eyes snap up to yours, wide like he wasn’t expecting that answer to be real.

“Yeah?” he says, voice too hopeful, too soft.

“Yeah,” you say, easy. “I mean, how could I say no to Soojin? She’s clearly the boss.”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking a little in his shoulders. “She is. Completely. I’ve accepted it.”

“Good,” you grin. “So… Saturday?”

“Yeah. Saturday.” He looks like he’s mentally adding that to five different lists. “Cool. Cool, cool cool…”

You squint. “You’re going to overthink this the whole week, aren’t you?”

“Only absolutely,” he says without missing a beat.

But he’s smiling. Really smiling now. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like things might actually be moving toward something better than just figuring it out day by day.

Saturday comes. You're locking your door when you hear the soft wheels of a stroller squeaking down the hallway. You turn just in time to see Seungcheol pushing Soojin toward you. Her little legs are kicking excitedly, hands flailing the second she sees you.

“She’s been doing that since we left the apartment,” Seungcheol says, breathless like he jogged here, “which is either a good sign or she thinks you have snacks again.”

You laugh, crouching to greet her. “Hi, boss lady. Ready for some fishy business?”

Soojin squeals like she understood every word.

Seungcheol grins at the both of you, adjusting the strap on the diaper bag. 

“You look nice,” you say as you stand.

He straightens. “Thanks. You too.”

Then he immediately adds, “I mean, you always do, but—uh—not that I’ve been paying attention like in a weird way, just—you know, normal neighbor-level noticing.”

You snort and start walking. “You rehearsed this too?”

“Absolutely,” he mutters.

The ride is full of soft Soojin giggles and your laughter overlapping with his quiet commentary. She grabs your fingers like they belong to her now, and when Seungcheol tries to reclaim her attention with a pacifier, she practically bats it away in protest.

By the time you get to the aquarium, it’s late morning and the crowds are still manageable. The moment you step inside Soojin goes completely still in her stroller as the first tank glows to life with swirls of orange fish. Her mouth falls open.

“Oh no,” Seungcheol whispers. “She’s about to have a spiritual awakening.”

The two of you take turns pushing the stroller, stopping often so Soojin can smack her little hands against the glass. At one point, a stingray glides by, and she lets out a tiny gasp so dramatic that a passing toddler actually applauds.

Seungcheol leans down next to her. “That’s right, baby girl. Get your nature documentary moment.”

You can’t stop laughing. “She needs her own voiceover.”

He shrugs, then adopts a deep narrator voice. “Here, the wild Soojin discovers her first sea cucumber. She is—”

“Absolutely unimpressed,” you finish, pointing at Soojin’s deadpan expression.

Lunch is simple convenience store kimbap on a bench outside, the stroller parked beside you, Soojin chewing on a toy like it wronged her in a past life. Seungcheol offers you half of his triangle kimbap without a second thought. You don’t even hesitate to take it.

“This was really nice,” you say after a moment. “I mean it. Thanks for inviting me.”

He glances at you, then at Soojin, then quickly away again. “Yeah. I—uh. I’m glad you came.”

After lunch, with the sun warm and steady above, you glance down at Soojin in her stroller. She’s got her tiny fists outstretched like she’s summoning someone, and that someone is clearly you.

You kneel beside her with a soft smile. “You wanna see the fish up close, huh?”

She squeals, arms waving dramatically now, little feet kicking like this is the most urgent request in the world.

Seungcheol stands nearby, halfway through packing up the leftover wrappers into a bag. “You don’t have to, she gets heavy—”

You’re already scooping her up, one arm cradled under her legs, the other behind her back like it’s second nature. “I think I can manage a very powerful six-month-old.”

Back inside, Soojin’s wide-eyed and alert, tiny hands reaching for the glass every time something colorful swims by. You walk slowly, giving her time at every tank, while Seungcheol trails beside you, hands occasionally brushing yours as you both lean in close to point something out to her.

The three of you moved deeper into the aquarium, into a quieter exhibit tucked in a corner where the lights were lower and the tanks stretched high like glass walls, casting slow, rippling reflections across the floor. 

You let out a quiet, awed, “Oh—look at that,” and without thinking, your hand reached out.

You grabbed his hand. The free one. Your fingers wrapped around his instinctively, tugging gently as you stepped closer to the tank, pointing upward toward the shimmering dance above you.

“Look how they move all at once—like they’re connected,” you said, voice soft.

It took a second. A full second before you realized your fingers were still around his. Still holding him. Still warm and unhurried. Your eyes flicked down—then up—to see him already looking at you, his face unreadable for a beat too long. Not surprised, exactly. Not alarmed.

Just still.

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe apologize, maybe pull away—but then he shifted his hand.

Not to let go.

His fingers curled around yours. Gentle, a little unsure, but steady. And when your gaze met his again, there was a quietness there. Something real. Something that settled between you both, subtle but unmistakable.

Soojin shifted slightly in his arms, murmuring a half-asleep sound, and he gave her a gentle bounce as his thumb brushed against the side of your hand.

Neither of you said anything more. Not because there was nothing to say, but because for the first time words didn’t seem necessary at all.

The next few days blurred into something soft.

It started with small things.

You’d stopped knocking when you came over. Seungcheol had said once, “Just come in,” and you had. 

One afternoon, you were helping fold laundry on his couch. Soojin was on the floor, busy gnawing on a teether, occasionally babbling up at you like she was chiming in. You tossed a baby sock at Seungcheol’s face. He caught it mid-air, mock-offended.

“That’s assault,” he said, tone flat but lips twitching.

“You missed a fold,” you replied, pointing at a tiny shirt he’d lazily half-folded.

“Why do baby clothes even need folding? They’re this big,” he said, holding up a onesie with both hands, then tossing it dramatically into the basket.

You laughed, and the sound made him glance over. You were grinning, hair falling a little into your face, and something about the sight made his heart do a slow, inconvenient flip.

You didn’t notice it Or maybe you did.

Another night, you both ended up cooking dinner together. His kitchen now seemingly half-stocked with things you liked. It wasn’t planned. You were there, Soojin was asleep early, and somehow your hands were brushing while reaching for the same spice jar. Again.

He paused when your fingers touched. You didn’t move either.

Then you looked at him and said, softly, “You always hesitate.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Hesitate?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes steady. “Like when you’re about to say something but stop yourself.”

He went very still. Then looked away, mumbling, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You didn’t push. Just smiled, gentle. “You’re not.”

Later that night, you were on the couch again. Soojin had fallen asleep in your arms mid-bottle, and you didn’t want to move her, so Seungcheol had passed you a blanket, then sat beside you again without a word.

His arm brushed yours. You didn’t move away.

In fact, you leaned into it.

And he let his shoulder rest against yours, hesitant at first. Then, gradually, comfortably, as the silence stretched and the tension thickened like a thread being pulled tighter.

Neither of you spoke.

Because maybe that silence said everything.

Because maybe you both already knew.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light left on behind you. Soojin was curled up against your chest, utterly knocked out, her soft breaths rising and falling with yours. 

Seungcheol was beside you, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand was on the back of the couch, just behind your head, and every now and then, his knee would brush yours.

You chuckled quietly, so soft you felt it more than heard it.

He turned his head. “What?”

You looked at him, and your smile deepened, eyes amused. “You’re too easy to fluster.”

His lips parted like he had something to say but nothing came out. His brows lifted slightly, cheeks dusted pink in the low light.

“I am not,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

You let out another quiet laugh. “You so are.”

He shook his head, a hand running through his hair. “You’re the one who says things like that and then looks at me like… like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head.

He groaned under his breath. “Like you’re not even trying to kill me but somehow you are.”

You paused.

And then, softer, your voice barely above a whisper, “You don’t know how my heart literally jumps when I see you.”

The words settled between you, unhurried, delicate but powerful.

Seungcheol’s eyes met yours.

There was a beat.

Then another.

He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” he said, voice low and uneven.

“I can’t?” you teased gently, lips twitching.

“Not when we’re like this,” he said, nodding slightly to Soojin nestled on your chest. “And it’s late. And you’re… here. And you say something like that.”

Eventually, you leaned your head back against the couch cushion, still holding Soojin close, and murmured, “Maybe it’s okay, though.”

Seungcheol turned to you slowly. “What is?”

You glanced at him. A tiny, knowing smile on your lips. “Letting it happen.”

The next morning, you found a coffee waiting for you outside your door. A simple sticky note pressed to the lid with his messy handwriting: 

Thought you might need this. You always look too good to be that tired. - SC

You grinned the whole time you drank it.

One evening, you were helping him put Soojin to bed, your voice low and soft as you read aloud from a worn picture book. Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching.

Later, in the kitchen, as the night settled into quiet again, you rinsed out Soojin’s bottle while he dried dishes beside you. Your shoulders brushed once. Then again.

And this time, he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You paused, looked at him, caught that flash of hesitation in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like that.

“You’re getting bold, Choi Seungcheol,” you teased gently.

His lips quirked. “Trying,” he admitted, cheeks pink. “Is it working?”

You set the bottle down, turned slightly to face him. “It’s cute,” you said, voice soft. “You’re cute.”

And just like that, the boldness flickered. His eyes widened a bit, and he ducked his head with a huff of embarrassed laughter. “Ah, don’t say it like that. I’m gonna combust.”

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers slipped between yours still a little shy, but deliberate now. Steady.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re kind of the highlight of my day.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And smiled that slow, sincere smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Yeah?” he said softly.

“Yeah.”

You just looked at him, heart stuttering, and then leaned in without a word, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He blinked. The tips of his ears flushed red. “You—okay. That’s fine. Cool. Totally fine.”

“You’re flustered again,” you teased, grinning.

“You kissed me!”

“Not even on the mouth.”

“You kissed me,” he repeated, dazed but smiling.

And then, because it was him, he cleared his throat and offered his cheek again.

“…Just in case it was a fluke,” he muttered.

So you kissed him again longer this time. And he didn’t say a word after but his hand found yours, and he didn’t let go this time. You smiled, the kind of smile that crept all the way into your eyes and without a word, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and strong—but a little fast. Like yours.

“I’m not very good at this,” he murmured, voice low near your ear.

You hugged him tighter, your cheek resting against his collarbone. “You’re doing better than you think.”

His voice came quieter this time, barely above a whisper, “I really like you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your smile still there, softer now. “I know.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “You do?”

You nodded. “I really like you too, you know.”

His mouth opened a little like he was ready to say something but then he just smiled. He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours. “I think I’m gonna keep falling for you,” he whispered.

“Good,” you whispered back.

=

The apartment was quiet again, warm in the late afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. 

Seungcheol was in the kitchen, rinsing out Soojin’s sippy cup and tossing a few snack wrappers into the bin. He didn’t even really need to clean, he just needed to do something because otherwise his heart might start sprinting again just from thinking about how easily you laughed earlier.

When he stepped out to check on you two, a dish towel still slung over his shoulder, he froze.

There you were.

Curled into the corner of the couch, Soojin nestled securely in your arms, her tiny hand fisted in your shirt, both of you deep in sleep.

Your head had tipped slightly to the side, mouth parted, hair a little tousled from the nap. Soojin was using you like a personal pillow, her cheek pressed to your chest, completely still except for the slow rise and fall of her breathing.

And just like that—like a switch flipping in his chest—Seungcheol knew.

It wasn’t a crush.  It wasn’t just appreciation. He wasn’t just touched that you loved his daughter.

He was in it. In deep.

There was something terrifying and sacred about the way the two people he cared about most looked so safe with each other. About how he didn’t want this to be a moment—he wanted it to be a life.

Eventually, he moved quietly, grabbing the folded blanket from the armrest and gently draping it over the two of you.

You stirred slightly, shifting, and your eyes fluttered halfway open. You looked up at him blearily, smile lazy and content.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Hey,” he said just as softly.

You didn’t even move to get up, just adjusted your arms around Soojin and let your eyes fall shut again, trusting him to take care of whatever needed doing.

Later that evening, Seungcheol stood just outside a convenience store, phone pressed to his ear, one hand buried in his coat pocket as he stared out at the quiet street. The light above him buzzed faintly, the sky overhead dimming into early night.

“Hyung?” came Jihoon’s voice on the other end. “You okay?”

“I need to drink,” Seungcheol said flatly.

There was a beat of silence.

“…Like, now?”

“Now,” he confirmed.

“Did something happen?” That was Soonyoung chiming in now, voice already laced with concern and that slightly chaotic energy Seungcheol expected.

“I left Soojin with the sitter. Just come meet me. That fried chicken place near the station.”

Another silence.

Then Wonwoo’s voice, casual but amused: “You sound like you’re about to confess to a crime.”

“I might as well have,” Seungcheol muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ten minutes later, the guys showed up, filing into the booth around him. Beers clinked onto the table. Chicken arrived. And then the staring started.

Seungcheol just slumped in the booth, arms crossed, beer untouched.

“…Okay, spill it,” Jihoon said. “You didn’t call us out here just to eat.”

Seungcheol looked at them, defeated. “I think I’m in love.”

Soonyoung nearly choked on a fry. “Wait—what?”

“With your neighbor?” Wonwoo asked, already grinning.

“She fell asleep on my couch holding Soojin like—like it was nothing. Like she’s always been there. Like we’re…” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I am so done.”

The table fell into chaotic laughter.

“I knew something was up!” Soonyoung exclaimed. “You’ve been all weird and fluttery for weeks!”

“I haven’t been fluttery,” Seungcheol mumbled.

“Bro, you giggled last time she texted you,” Jihoon deadpanned.

“Okay, maybe I giggled—”

“This is good, though, right?” Wonwoo leaned forward. “I mean… she’s great with Soojin. You like her. She likes you.”

“That’s the thing,” Seungcheol said, staring at the beer bottle. “It’s too easy. Too good. I keep waiting to mess it up. Or for her to realize I come with a lot more chaos than most people want.”

“But she already sees that,” Jihoon pointed out. “And she hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Seungcheol paused. Thought about you, smiling sleepily at him from his couch just hours ago.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “She hasn’t.”

“But like—what if it doesn’t work? I mean, she’s—she’s calm and smart and funny and actually sleeps more than three hours a night. And I’m over here talking to my ten-month-old about whether I’m embarrassing myself!”

“Didn’t you just say it was good?” Soonyoung blinked.

“I did, but that was ten minutes ago when I was delusional and riding the high of a nap scene from a drama,” Seungcheol groaned. “Now I’m thinking about the reality of it.”

He shoved a piece of chicken into his mouth like that would fix it, then talked around it.

“I mean, look at me. I’ve got formula in half my clothes, I haven’t gone on a proper date in more than a year, and my idea of romance is asking someone if they want to share baby wipes. That’s not attractive. That’s functional despair.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “Functional despair sounds like a great band name.”

“I’m being serious,” Seungcheol said, waving his chopsticks. “She deserves someone who’s not already drowning in dad mode. Someone who doesn’t have to pause kisses to check if the baby monitor blinked.”

“So don’t kiss near the baby monitor?” Jihoon offered unhelpfully, popping a fry in his mouth.

Seungcheol ignored him and ran a hand through his hair, “What if I fall harder and then she decides she can’t do this? Or worse, what if Soojin gets attached and then she leaves? That’ll wreck both of us.”

“Or,” Wonwoo said slowly, “she stays. Because she already cares. You’re kind of freaking out about something that hasn’t even started.”

“I’m pre-freaking,” Seungcheol corrected. “It’s like damage control but emotional.”

Soonyoung stared at him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol said dramatically. “And I don’t like it.”

“You’re so gone it’s almost poetic,” Jihoon muttered.

Seungcheol groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “I hate how much I like her.”

And underneath all their laughter, the teasing and snark, none of them missed the truth in his voice.

Wonwoo leaned back, one eyebrow raised. “Do you though?”

Seungcheol lifted his head slowly, hair slightly flattened from where it had been pressed. “Do I what?”

“Hate how much you like her.”

Seungcheol sighed, finally leaning back in the booth. “No,” he muttered. “I don’t. That’s the problem.”

Jihoon smirked. “You poor sap.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Wait until she actually kisses you. Your brain’s going to short circuit.”

“If she kisses me,” Seungcheol stressed. “I’m still not even sure I’m not imagining half of this. What if I’m misreading things? What if she’s just naturally sweet and I’ve been out of the game so long I’m confusing basic kindness with affection?”

“Okay first of all,” Jihoon said, “you’re not imagining it. Remember when you said she called Soojin her girl once. Like, ‘where’s my girl?’ You don’t ‘my girl’ someone else’s baby unless you’re all in.”

“Exactly,” Wonwoo said, raising his glass. “You're not doomed. You're just deeply, ridiculously smitten. Congratulations.”

Seungcheol let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and picked up his beer.

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the glass. “I really, really am.”

He stood there, keys in hand, swaying just slightly not from alcohol, really, but from overthinking. The hallway was quiet, dim, the kind of silence that made every thought echo a little louder in his head.

His fingers hovered over your door, not quite ready to knock.

He sighed and leaned his shoulder against the frame, muttering to himself, “She’s probably asleep. Or busy. Or—”

Click.

The door swung open, and there you were, hair a little tousled like you'd just gotten comfortable, holding a half-full mug and blinking in surprise.

“Oh—hey,” you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Were you about to knock?”

Seungcheol froze like you’d caught him sneaking candy from a jar. “I—uh. Maybe. I wasn’t sure if—uh—hi.”

You leaned on the frame too, mirroring his posture. “Hi.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but your eyes. “I didn’t mean to be weird. I was just… standing. Near your door. For no suspicious reason.”

“Completely normal,” you deadpanned, but the soft laugh in your voice made his shoulders relax.

“I was with the guys,” he explained. “Had a drink. Nothing wild. No one danced on tables.”

“Disappointed in you, honestly,” you teased, stepping back slightly. “You wanna come in?”

He blinked. “Really?”

You tilted your head. “Well, you were already loitering. Might as well make it official.”

You glanced over your shoulder as you set your mug down on the table. “You good?”

He blinked, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just… wasn’t expecting you to open the door right when I was about to have a full internal crisis.”

You smirked, settling onto the couch. “Timing’s always been my thing.”

“You ever feel like your brain’s just… racing ahead of everything else?”

You gave a soft laugh. “Constantly. That’s why I eat snacks in bed. Brings balance.”

He chuckled, head dropping for a second before he glanced at you. “I think I’m just…” He hesitated. “Scared.”

Your voice was quiet. “Of me?”

“No. God, no.” His answer came quickly, eyes wide. “Of… how easy it is. With you. And how fast that happened. It’s not bad. It’s just... surprising. And kind of terrifying.”

You leaned back, watching him gently, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to rush anything.”

He looked at you like that was the first thing he needed to hear all week.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I want to get it right. With you. With her.”

“You already are,” you said simply. “Even when you’re awkward and rambling.”

He groaned and flopped back against the couch. “Don’t remind me.”

You smiled, looking at him. “It’s charming.”

He turned his head toward you. His voice was quieter. “You think?”

You nodded. “I do.”

And maybe it was the way the room felt warm or how the night wrapped around the moment so gently but he looked at you for a long beat, his eyes a little softer, his heart a little louder. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t say anything either. Just leaned over, slow and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He went still for a moment when your head gently rested against his shoulder, but then you felt it the subtle shift of him relaxing, his shoulder settling just a little deeper into the couch so you’d be more comfortable. Like his body had made space without him thinking about it.

His arm lifted awkwardly at first, like he wasn’t sure where to put it, before it curved around your back, warm and tentative. You heard him breathe in, soft and shaky.

“This okay?” he asked quietly, the words brushing the top of your hair.

You nodded, your voice just as low. “Yeah.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward this time. It was gentle. Companionable.

Eventually, he whispered, half-laughing under his breath, “This is really dangerous.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes were on the ceiling, a crooked smile forming. “Because I could get used to this.”

You shifted just slightly so you could look up at him, your cheek still resting against his shoulder. “You know,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to feel things. To want things. You can be more than Soojin’s dad.”

His gaze dropped to you slowly, like the weight of your words took time to settle. His eyes searched your face, but he didn’t speak, not yet.

You reached up, brushing your fingers gently over the crease between his brows. “You’re still Seungcheol.”

And it wasn’t until right then that he realized how much he needed to hear that. How long he’d been carrying this version of himself, carefully trimmed down to the essentials: provider, protector, father. As if there wasn’t space for anything more. As if it was selfish to even hope for it.

But here you were. Not asking for anything. Not expecting him to be perfect. Just… seeing him.

“I forgot,” he said finally, his voice a little rough. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“You’ve been doing the hard stuff,” you murmured. “You’ve been strong for her. But you don’t have to lose you in the process.”

His arm tightened around you slightly, his thumb brushing against your side in small, grounding circles. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at you said everything.

“I didn’t think I’d get this again,” he said after a long silence. “This kind of quiet. This kind of—someone.”

You looked up at him again, your voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t lose your chance, Seungcheol.”

He glanced down at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to believe it.

“I think you’re kind of incredible,” you added, smiling just a little. “Even when you’re running off to buy emergency baby food or panicking in the hallway at midnight.”

A small, surprised laugh slipped from him, his eyes crinkling. “You remember that?”

You bumped your shoulder into him lightly. “You muttered a full monologue out there.”

He shook his head with a bashful smile. “I was trying to psych myself out of it.”

“Did it work?”

He looked at you again. Really looked. His gaze softened.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not even close.”

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he said, his voice unsure but honest. “But I know I don’t want to run from it.”

You smiled, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

He chuckled under his breath, his head tilting down to rest against yours again.

And just like that, the silence returned—but this time, it held something new. Something neither of you said aloud yet, but both of you felt.

The beginning of something.

=

It’s another random day, the three of you just lounging around. 

Soojin was curled between you, triumphant and snug, and Seungcheol was pretending to pout, eyes narrowed at her while trying not to smile. His arm was still behind you, his body warm and close, and for a second you looked at him

And then, almost without thinking, you leaned in.

A soft kiss. half on his cheek, half on the corner of his lips.

He froze. You pulled back slowly, your smile still there but quieter now, a little uncertain. And then he turned his head toward you, just enough that your faces were closer again, but not quite touching.

“You missed,” he said, voice low, a little breathless.

You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your pulse fluttered. “Did I?”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second. “A little.”

Soojin, completely oblivious, let out a content sigh in your arms and stuffed her fingers into her mouth.

You looked at him, at the way his usually calm eyes were dancing with something nervous and bold all at once. And then you leaned in again closer this time, a heartbeat away—

Only for Soojin to let out the loudest hiccup of her life and slap a drool-covered hand to your chin.

You and Seungcheol both burst out laughing.

“Okay,” you said, grinning as you wiped your face. “She’s really committed to cockblocking you.”

Seungcheol laughed so hard he had to cover his mouth. “She’s ten months old and already has better timing than I ever will.”

But even after the moment passed, even with Soojin demanding your attention again, he kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye—like the space you almost closed still lingered in his chest.

You were finishing the last of the dishes, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t need to turn around—you could sense him. That quiet energy of his when he wasn’t quite sure how to act, like he was rehearsing what to say even as he approached.

Then, arms slid around your waist.

You smiled before he even said anything.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmured against your shoulder, his voice low, a little too casual.

You grinned, rinsing the last plate. “Hey yourself.”

His hold tightened, not too much, just enough to feel the beat of your pulse and make you pause. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.

“You do this now every time I’m doing dishes?” you teased, flicking water off your fingers. “Getting cozy so you don’t have to help?”

“I like the view,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him with an amused look. “Of the sink?”

“Of you at the sink,” he said, then groaned quietly like he hated himself for how that came out. “That sounded better in my head.”

You laughed, setting down the towel and turning in his arms, your hands still a little damp as they rested against his chest. “You’re really bad at this, huh?”

“I am,” he admitted, no hesitation, ears slightly pink. “Like, embarrassingly bad.”

“I kinda like it,” you said with a soft smile. “It’s… endearing.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Endearing enough that I don’t need to pretend I came out here for water or something?”

You squinted at him. “You came out here to flirt.”

“I really thought I was being subtle.”

“You were about as subtle as Soojin when she wants to be picked up.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Harsh.”

“But accurate,” you teased, poking his chest gently.

There was a beat then, quiet and close. His hands were still on your waist, yours resting between his ribs and shoulders. The kitchen was soft around you, dim and warm, the sound of the hallway clock ticking faintly in the background.

And suddenly the air changed.

Seungcheol swallowed. “I’ve… kind of wanted to do this for a while now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Help with the dishes?”

He huffed a laugh, nervous and fond all at once. “God, you’re really not gonna let me have this moment easy, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Then he leaned in. Tentative, close enough for your breath to catch but still watching your face like he was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.

Your hands slid around his neck instead, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. “Okay,” you whispered, “I’ll let you have this moment.”

He smiled. Soft, real, and just a little shaky.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His nose bumped yours a little, and your teeth almost clacked from the way you both smiled halfway through it. But it was warm and real and his hands tightened just slightly like he was anchoring himself there with you.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“Worth the bad lines?” he asked.

“Definitely,” you whispered, cheeks flushed.

And from the hallway, as if on cue, Soojin let out a sleepy little squeak in her crib.

You both laughed quietly.

“Guess that’s our timer,” you said, leaning into him again.

He kissed your temple, still holding you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “She’s gonna be so mad she missed that.”

=

It was an ordinary morning. Soojin was babbling her usual string of soft sounds while sitting on the floor between you and Seungcheol.

You were handing her one of her favorite toys, grinning as she smacked it against her chubby thigh in excitement. She was bouncing, babbling, making nonsense sounds and grabbing at your sleeve like she always did when—

“Mama.”

It was soft. Clear. Unmistakable.

You froze mid-reach. So did Seungcheol, his mug halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Soojin just blinked up at you like she hadn’t just shattered the entire room into stillness.

You slowly turned your head to look at Seungcheol. He was already looking at you, eyes wide.

“Did she—” you started.

He nodded, eyes even wider now. “She said—”

“Mama,” Soojin chirped again, reaching for your hand with her gummy grin.

You blinked fast, a wave of emotion flooding your chest so quickly it knocked the breath out of you. “Oh my god.”

Seungcheol was already moving, crawling closer to the two of you, completely abandoning his coffee. “Wait—say it again, Soojin. What was that?”

But she just giggled now, slapping your arm with baby enthusiasm, still beaming. “Mama!”

You laughed, a sound caught between a sob and sheer disbelief, hugging her instinctively to your chest. “I swear I didn’t teach her that. I didn’t—”

“I know,” Seungcheol said, staring at you both like the world had just shifted. “She just… she chose it.”

“She called you mama.”

You looked up at him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wet. “She did.”

He leaned in and kissed the top of Soojin’s head, then your temple. His voice was barely a whisper, like it was only meant for the space between the three of you.

“She knows who loves her.”

Your eyes welled up so fast it surprised even you. You blinked hard, trying to breathe through it, but the moment, it cracked something open.

Seungcheol’s head snapped up, alarm flashing across his face. “Wait—are you crying? Are those—are you okay? Was it too much? I mean, she just—she just said it out of nowhere, I didn’t mean for—"

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head as you held Soojin closer. She patted your cheek, like she could sense it. “No—no, it’s not that, it’s just—” you looked up at him, your voice catching in your throat. “Do I deserve that? Is that okay with you?”

His breath caught. His mouth parted, like the words couldn’t come fast enough.

“Hey,” he said, moving closer on his knees, gently reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You didn’t take her from anyone. She chose you. She’s been choosing you.”

You swallowed hard, but the tears still fell, quiet and honest. “I’m not her mom…”

“You love her like one,” he whispered. “She feels that”

You stared at him, breath shaky.

“I didn’t know if it was okay,” you murmured, “to feel this much.”

He leaned forward, forehead touching yours. “It’s more than okay.”

Soojin squirmed in your arms, reaching one tiny hand up to grab a piece of your hair and yanking gently. You both laughed, eyes still wet. And then Seungcheol pressed a kiss to your cheek, soft and sure.

“Welcome to the family, mama.”

You were crouched on the floor, gathering up Soojin’s toys and it hit you all at once. The memory, bright and clear, of her smiling up at you with those shining eyes, her chubby hands reaching out as she said it.

Mama.

The quiet shuffle of feet made you look up. Seungcheol stood at the edge of the room, eyes wide with concern, a half-folded blanket still in his hands.

“Hey—” he said gently, moving to crouch in front of you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks, the words barely able to form. “I don’t know. I just—” you swallowed, voice cracking. “She looked at me like that. She smiled and she called me mama like I’ve always been that for her and I—”

He moved closer, hands bracing on your arms as if to ground you.

You took a deep breath and looked at him, tears still spilling. “How can I even love someone this much? She’s not even mine, but I feel it—I feel like she is. Every part of her. And then I think…” Your voice wobbled harder. “I think, how could anyone not want that? How could her mother not want her? Not love her?”

Seungcheol’s expression folded not in shock, not in discomfort but in something raw and full of understanding. He pulled you forward, wrapping his arms around you tight, pressing your face against his shoulder as you cried.

“I ask myself that all the time,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. But I’m grateful—” he held you tighter—“so damn grateful that she has you. That she loves you.”

You clutched his shirt in your fists, letting yourself cry into him, letting the weight of all of it — the love, the ache, the wonder of being chosen — pass through you.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” he said softly. “You already gave her what no one else did.”

You pulled back a little, eyes still glassy. “What’s that?”

He smiled gently. “Your whole heart.”

“I don’t want her to grow up ever thinking she doesn’t have enough love,” you said, voice raw and breaking. “She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves so much more.”

Seungcheol’s arms tightened around you, his breath catching like your words had punched straight through his chest.

“She won’t,” he said firmly, his voice a little hoarse now too. “Not with you in her life. Not with us.”

You pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your face still streaked with tears. “What if one day she wonders why her mom left? What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough to cover up that kind of ache?”

His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away with the gentlest touch. “You being here doesn’t erase what happened,” he said. “But it gives her something else to remember. Something better. She’s gonna grow up knowing that she was wanted so badly that even the people who didn’t have to stay… did.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to love her like this,” you admitted. “I didn’t expect to. But now I can’t imagine not.”

“She doesn’t know anything else but love when you’re around,” he said quietly. “You’ve already changed her whole world. Mine too.”

You closed your eyes, more tears slipping free, but they didn’t feel heavy now. They felt… full.

“I’m so glad she has you,” he whispered. “I’m so glad I do too.”

And there, in that quiet room filled with baby toys and love you didn’t see coming, you nodded and leaned into him, holding on like the two of you — all three of you — were exactly where you were meant to be.

=

He was just coming out of the other room, towel slung around his shoulders, when he heard your voice. Not loud. Not laughing. Not teasing like it usually was when you played with Soojin. 

This was quieter—gentler.

He padded closer to the bedroom doorway, peeking in without making a sound. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in one of his old sweatshirts, Soojin nestled between your knees, her little arms lifted as you struggled to get her tiny hand through the sleeve of her onesie.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, a fond smile on your lips as you smoothed the fabric over her back. “Look at you, almost dressed all by yourself. You’re so smart.”

Soojin babbled in response, wiggling slightly as if trying to help.

“You are,” you told her softly, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “So smart, and brave, and kind. And everyone who meets you is going to see that, because you shine. You know that? You shine.”

He stilled, towel forgotten in his hand. Something tugged hard in his chest. You laughed a little when Soojin blew a spit bubble in reply, unbothered, like she understood every word you said.

“And you’ve got the strongest little heart,” you continued, guiding her chubby feet into her leggings. “You’ve been through more than most, haven’t you, sweetheart? But you keep going. You keep smiling. And you’re so, so loved.”

You paused for a second, your fingers slowing.

“By your dad,” you whispered, kissing her forehead. “By me.”

Soojin squealed, flapping her arms with glee, and you grinned, lifting her up in a little bounce. “Yeah? You know it, huh?”

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe before he could stop himself, heart in his throat, eyes on you like he couldn’t believe this was real. You glanced over, surprised, but your smile didn’t falter.

“Hey,” you said, lifting Soojin a little higher. “We’re dressed. Tell Daddy we got dressed like champs.”

He laughed “I heard.”

You tilted your head. “Too much?”

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

And in that moment, watching you cradle his daughter like she was the whole world and speak to her like every word mattered, Seungcheol realized something else. 

You weren’t just part of his life now. You were helping build it.

You were still laughing softly with Soojin, brushing her wispy hair back and blowing a gentle raspberry to her cheek, when he said it.

“I love you.”

Your hand paused midair.

The room stilled not tense, but full. Full of everything that had been building for weeks in glances, in soft touches, in the way you carried his daughter like she was a part of you, too.

You looked up slowly, lips parted slightly, eyes wide with something between surprise and breathless warmth. “What?”

He stepped forward, leaving the towel forgotten on the hallway floor. His voice was calmer than he expected, his hands at his sides, heart pounding—but steady.

“I love you,” he repeated. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say it just now. I was going to… I don’t know. Plan it better, maybe.”

You blinked, standing up with Soojin still in your arms, her head now resting lazily on your shoulder like she was sensing something important.

“But then I heard you,” he went on, his voice rough around the edges. “The way you talk to her. The way you love her. And I just—there was no way I could keep it in.”

You stared at him for a beat longer, as if trying to decide if this was real, if you were allowed to feel everything you were suddenly feeling.

Then your mouth curved into the softest smile, and your eyes glistened.

“You’re really bad at planning, huh?”

He let out a breath of a laugh, stepping closer. “Terrible. But I meant it.”

You nodded, hugging Soojin a little tighter between you. “I know.”

He tilted his head, suddenly unsure again. “You know?”

Your smile deepened as you stepped close enough to press your forehead to his, Soojin squished gently between your chests. “Of course I know.”

Then, quieter, your lips brushing his:

“And I love you, too.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You felt it — the way his shoulders dropped, the quiet shudder of relief through his body, how his hands finally moved to hold your waist, steady like he was anchoring himself to the moment. You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in closer, letting Soojin nestle in between you both like she belonged there — because she did.

He let out a breathless laugh, rubbing one hand gently up your back. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You smiled against his jaw. “You let me in. That’s enough.”

Soojin shifted in your arms with a sleepy little whimper, and both of you instinctively rocked slightly, a quiet rhythm the two of you had already fallen into like it was second nature.

Seungcheol watched you the curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the way your arms curled protectively around Soojin like you were born to love her.

And now, him too.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I want you to stay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “Today?”

He shook his head, a little crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “I mean… in our life. Always.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, full and aching and warm.

You whispered, “Okay.”

And when he leaned down this time — with Soojin smooshed between you both, giggling now, tiny hands batting at your chins — you tilted up to meet him halfway, a soft, sure kiss shared right there in the center of your little world.

Messy, imperfect, beautiful.

Yours.

=

It was the day before Soojin’s first birthday, and the apartment was a gentle mess of soft pinks, pastel streamers, and tiny decorations waiting to be set up. 

Later that evening, after Soojin had gone down for the night, the apartment was unusually quiet. The living room still held the remnants of earlier chaos. You were at the table, folding the last few napkins.

You caught him staring.

“What?”

He gave a guilty little smile. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

He laughed under his breath. “True.”

“Thinking about what?”

He hesitated, then came to sit across from you, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped. “Just… tomorrow. Her first birthday. It feels like a milestone for her, but also… for me.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hands. “I think it is. You kept her alive, loved, and growing for a whole year. You did amazing.”

“She made it easy. And you…” he trailed off, gaze softening. “You came in and filled in every space I didn’t know was empty.”

Your heart squeezed at that.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I used to count down every hour until bedtime. Just so I could breathe for a second. And now—now I look forward to the mornings because I get to see her smile. And I get to see you.”

You smiled gently, voice quiet. “Cheol…”

“I mean it,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter. “You changed everything.”

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. He turned his palm to meet yours, fingers lacing instinctively, like they’d always meant to do that.

Then he squeezed your hand. “Wanna stay over again tonight? Just us. Before the chaos of tomorrow.”

You smiled softly. “Only if you make me your famous midnight ramen.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

He stood, pulling you up with him by your joined hands. You laughed as he tugged you close, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

Later, you found yourselves curled on the couch, sharing a blanket, your legs tangled, a bowl of instant ramen balanced between you. You took turns feeding each other, whispering quiet jokes and memories from the past few months, letting the soft light from the kitchen be the only thing illuminating the moment.

And neither of you said it, but it was clear. This, it wasn’t fleeting. It was growing roots.

Right here, in the warmth of laughter and late-night ramen, on the eve of a little girl’s first birthday.

You're both lying in bed, the lights dimmed to a soft glow, the sheets pulled up to your waists. Soojin was asleep in her room, the baby monitor quiet on the nightstand. Seungcheol was on his side, facing you, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting just barely on your waist.

You’d been talking about her birthday party tomorrow, about whether the cake would survive the trip from the bakery, about how she was probably going to end up covered in icing before the day was done. 

You’d laughed, light and sleepy, and then the room had gone quiet. Not awkward—just still.

And you’d gone quiet too.

He noticed it almost instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Where’d you go just now?”

You blinked out of your thoughts, glancing at him. “Nowhere.”

He raised a brow, giving you a look.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “Okay… not nowhere.”

He waited, eyes patient, a quiet comfort in the dark.

“I was just thinking,” you said, your voice low, barely more than a whisper. “How fast everything changed. How we went from being strangers in the hallway to…” You trailed off, gesturing softly between you and him.

“To this,” he said.

You nodded. “And how it doesn’t feel scary. I thought it would. But it doesn’t.”

He smiled, eyes still on you. “I thought it would too. I tried really hard to keep things from going too far, honestly.”

You gave a playful scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

He laughed quietly. “I mean because I was scared. Because I thought maybe it was too much to hope for. That someone could just… walk into our lives and fit so perfectly. Be exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”

“I still get scared,” he admitted. “But every time you’re here, or she reaches for you, or you say her name like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world… I stop doubting for a little bit.”

You shifted closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Then I’ll just have to keep doing all of that. So you don’t forget.”

His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers curling around yours gently.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Deal.”

He never said it outright again after the first time, “I love you”, but he didn’t need to. 

It lived in every small thing he did. In the way he made your tea just the way you liked. In the way he gave you the first bite of everything. In how he never missed a chance to touch you — hand on your back, brushing your fingers, tucking your hair behind your ear.

And you — you loved them back so fiercely it scared you sometimes.

“She’s so loved,” you whispered

“She is,” he said, almost like a vow.

You looked at him — this man who had doubted everything once, wondered if he could be a good father, a good partner, someone worth staying for. Now he says things like vows he'll keep for the rest of his life.

“I was so scared,” he murmured, voice low. “That I’d mess her up. That I’d never get it right.”

You reached for his hand. “You did everything right, Cheol. Everything.”

A long pause.

Then, softly, with a small laugh in his voice, he asked, “So… same time next year for birthday number two?”

You smiled, leaned up to kiss him — gentle, reassuring. “Already thinking what theme we should do next”

Right here, right now he doesn't even remember all those who left, everything he once lost. Now, all he can think of is what he has, wha he gained ever since he met you.

Wrapped in each other, the past behind and the future so very close, it felt like the beginning of everything good. Of everything true.

[jjwolves]

The most recent Ena fic (the one where the reader transforms as they continue to be in this digital world) reminded me of a passing thought I had once: What do you think would happen if someone was isekai'd into her world AS an Ena? Like, a human in the real world who transformed into a member of Ena's species in this new dimension? Do you think BBQ Ena would be willing to take them under her wing? What about Webseries Ena?

You can take this as a request or not, it's your call. But if you do write about this idea, may I request you keep it platonic? Sort of like siblings? I feel a little odd about Ena dating Ena... I'd prefer if we didn't Onceler-ify the poor woman, ya know?

TUTORIAL LEVEL · · ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─── · ·

What: ENA and ENA the Worker X ENA!Reader (Platonic)

Who: ENA and ENA the Worker from ENA and ENA Dream BBQ (Both by Joel G)

How Much: ~800 Words, ~4 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: None

A/N: HOW ABOUT BOTH MWAHAHA

ENA has lived many different lives as an anthology anomaly. One aeon she’s going on adventures with her moon friend, the other, she’s employed. Her existence was like a closed loop until you showed up, breaking into samsara. You had wandered across a world where every wondrous creature you met treated you like a pest. Your days were marked with confusion, until she found you and was… surprised. How could this be? Had she respawned incorrectly? She couldn’t compute what you were doing, being her. Having a face like hers. It shouldn’t be possible, but it was. And she was…

...Delighted! She had never, in all her travels, met someone who was like her! You two had so much to talk about! “Oh! How nice to meet a fellow conspirator! Your face… It’s just like mine!” ENA made sure to pull your suprisingly solid hair and experimentally pinch your polygonal cheeks. You were glad to meet a friendly face, but the head-touching was getting annoying and you waved her hands away. “Are you some kind of doppelganger?” A glitch-and-switch into blue. “If it’s true, just kill me and replace me already! I bet you’d do a better job than ME!” You weren’t startled by the sudden change—after all, you’d been a walking collection of emotional outbursts yourself. ENA chuckled nervously and returned to sunshine. “Ahem. Apologies. Would you like me to reveal to you the wonders of this land?” You would.

ENA gives you an enthusiastic tour of her strange world, occasionally interjecting with gentle advice when you would touch something that might be unsafe. Along the way, she gestures and dances excitedly as she talks about her favorite places. “This is Auction Hill. My good friend Moony and I come here to bet on various things. Oh, do be careful of the rainrocks. You’ll get squished!” ENA seems to take a great deal of delight in taking on a role which she usually doesn’t occupy: that of the mentor and guide. “Now, now. That banana is not to be touched! A man and his blue friend informed me that it is unsanitary.” She does little jumps and maneuvers to get into places which are difficult to reach, and then turns around, patiently waiting for you to do the same. When you eventually get it, she alternates between exclaiming “Joy!” and sobbing about how “You just got here and you’re better at it than I am!” When you part ways for the first time, you promise to come visit her again. “I look forward to your visitation. Thank you for letting me be your tutorial character!”

...Eager! ENA the Worker is a little bit different than her more carefree counterpart. She’s glad to meet someone who’s like her, and she’s happy to educate you on the ways of the world, but it’ll be filtered through her very business-oriented mindset. “Welcome, unsuspecting customer. Or should I say… employee?” She tacks a nametag onto you. “I am no longer the boss of myself, so I will be your boss today. Er, supervisor.” A switch. “GET TO WORK! SUPERVISOR’S ORDERS!” ENA is pretty busy, so she leaves sticky notes for things that you need to do and how to do them in a place you can easily see, but it’s ENA. It’s hardly comprehensible. Notes include ‘reach for the stars’, ‘sell stock’ and ‘try oil’. That last one left you more stumped than the others.

She sits you down to talk about your ‘job performance’. You’re pretty sure you haven’t been paid, so you’re not sure why you’re working for her. Smiling, and with a hint of sarcasm, she chirps, “Your performance has been terrible. Every time we talk to a customer, you end up crying on/screaming at/being apathetic towards/trying to kiss them! How unprofessional!” She passes the baton to her pale side. “ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY JOB OR SOMETHING! YOU WANNA TRY BEING MANAGER?!” You point out that she said she was the supervisor. “IT’S BOTH!” You flip to one of your extremes and both start getting tangled in a chaotic emotional clash. Froggy can’t stand it. “Will you both shut the hell up?!”

[my-body-likes-you-in-control]

Enough Credits (Pt. 2)

After that, I decided Max was getting a bit obsessed and so I decided the best thing to do was to put some distance between us.

I had enough credits from all my previous swaps—including the ones with Max—to stay out of my body for a little over two months. I figured that if I kept moving direclty between bodies, I wouldn't give him an opening and maybe he would just get obsessed with someone else.

My first stop was Madrid.

I’d picked Mateo, a bartender with sun-kissed skin, a sharp jawline, a sexy beard, and glasses that perfectly framed his face. His profile picture screamed 'take me.' How his body was available I won't understand.

One second, I was in my dim apartment, staring at the ceiling, and the next—bam—I was behind a polished oak bar, my fingers deftly twisting a lime wedge onto the rim of a glass. The air was thick with the tang of citrus and spilled beer, laughter and clinking glasses layering over the hum of conversation.

A group of British tourists crowded the counter, three drinks deep and radiating boozy confidence. One of them, a blond with tousled hair and a smirk that screamed trouble, caught my eye.

"¿Qué quieres, guapo?" I asked, leaning in just enough to watch his cheeks flush.

He barked a laugh. "Christ, mate, don’t start with the Spanish. Absolute shite at it."

I switched to thickly accented English, grinning. "Is okay. I understand what I need to. What can I get you?"

He talked like a lad—all banter and bravado—and honestly, I wouldn’t have pegged him as gay if he wasn’t aggressively flirting back. Meanwhile, the brunette beside him kept “accidentally” brushing her fingers against mine every time I passed her a drink.

So I played along.

By last call, I had them both hooked—leaning into Mateo’s natural charm, lingering touches, teasing words. The guy was practically vibrating when I whispered, "You’re trouble," in his ear. The girl? She hated it.

"Guess I’m walking you home tonight," I told him, loud enough for her to hear. Then I shot her a look—slow, deliberate, the kind of grin that said, You wish it was you.

The glare she fired back was priceless.

---

Ten days in Madrid had been glorious. But before the swap could expire, I initiated another—no hesitation, no looking back.

One blink, and the sun-soaked streets of Spain vanished. The next, I was in the steam-clouded kitchen of a Parisian bistro, my hands moving with practiced precision as I diced shallots into paper-thin crescents. Around me, the chaos of dinner service roared: the hiss of seared duck, the clang of pans, the sous chef’s barked orders in rapid-fire French.

Mathieu.

His life was all sharp knives and hotter tempers, a world of reduced wines and rare meats, of calloused fingers and a permanent burn mark on his left forearm. I loved it instantly.

But the best part? Christophe.

Mathieu’s boyfriend was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of effortless dominance that made my—his—body react before my brain could catch up. The first night, Christophe didn’t even wait until we were fully inside their apartment. The door had barely shut behind us before he shoved me against it, his mouth crashing onto mine, his hands already working open the buttons of Mathieu’s stained chef’s jacket.

"Tu me manquait aujourd'hui," he growled against my throat.

A shiver tore through me. My back arched, pressing into him as his grip tightened on my hips. He knew exactly how to touch this body—where to bite, how hard to press, when to let his fingers dig in just shy of pain. Every flick of his tongue, every possessive drag of his palms over Mathieu’s skin was a lesson in control.

And the best part? He had no idea.

No idea Mathieu had signed up for Metamorph. No idea the man he was pinning to the mattress, the throat he was marking, the body he worshiped with rough, knowing hands—wasn’t his boyfriend at all.

That made it even hotter.

I spent days in their sunlit apartment, letting Christophe map every inch of Mathieu’s skin like he owned it. Mornings started with his mouth between my thighs, evenings ended with my back against the shower tiles, steam and sweat and Christophe’s voice in my ear: "T’es à moi."

And for a while, I let myself believe this was my real life.

Then, one morning, as I lay tangled in their rumpled sheets, Christophe’s arm slung heavy over my waist, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Max:

Max: Hey. Your body hasn’t been available in a few weeks. You avoiding me?

My stomach twisted. I deleted it without responding.

---

After Paris, I decided to switch things up. No more tangled sheets, no more possessive boyfriends (as hot as that was). This time? A straight guy.

I chose Bangkok.

Kiet's body was a fucking masterpiece. Broad shoulders that strained against his tank top, abs carved like a Roman statue, thighs thick from years of Muay Thai squats. And then there was that—the kind of natural endowment that made even loose gym shorts look like a sin.

The first time I caught my reflection in the gym mirror, mid-pull-up, I nearly laughed out loud. Jesus Christ. No wonder people stared.

I dropped from the bar, rolling my shoulders, and caught my sparring partner—Ton—watching me. Again.

He was leaner than Kiet, all wiry muscle and sharp elbows, but quick as a viper in the ring. And the way his gaze kept flicking to my chest, my arms, my—

Yeah. He’s into me.

Which was hilarious, because Kiet’s profile had been very clear: 100% straight.

That didn’t stop me from having a little fun.

I grabbed my water bottle, taking a long drink just to watch Ton’s throat work as he watched me swallow.

"You’ve been getting stronger," I said, clapping him on the shoulder, letting my thumb brush the damp skin of his collarbone. "Looking good lately."

He stiffened, then shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Just training hard."

"Must be," I mused, stepping closer to adjust his stance—close enough that he could feel my breath on his neck. "Girls must be noticing, huh?"

His jaw tightened. "Yeah. Maybe."

I sighed dramatically, shaking my head. "Wish I had your luck. My girl’s been so distant lately…"

A lie. Kiet was single. But Ton’s eyes darkened, conflicted—caught between concern, jealousy, and something far more interesting.

I let the tension simmer for days. Lingering touches. Compliments that walked the line between friendly and too friendly. The way Ton’s breath hitched when I wiped sweat off his brow after a brutal round. The way he’d stare at my mouth when I laughed.

And then—on my last day in Kiet’s body—I decided to give him exactly what he wanted.

The locker room was empty except for us, steam curling in the air as Ton toweled off. I leaned against the lockers, watching.

"You ever think about trying something new?" I asked, voice low.

He froze. "Like what?"

I pushed off the lockers, closing the distance between us in two strides. His breath caught as I caged him against the bench, close enough to feel his pulse racing.

"Like this," I murmured.

And then I kissed him.

Just once. Just enough to feel him melt against me for half a second before he jerked back, eyes wide, lips parted in shock.

I grinned, stepping away. "See you around, Ton."

And then I left him there—flushed, breathless, and utterly ruined.

---

After Bangkok’s sweat and adrenaline, I craved something decadent. So I chose Mo.

One moment, I was in a humid gym locker room; the next, I was standing on a private balcony, the dry desert wind tousling my hair as Dubai’s skyline glittered below like scattered diamonds. The air smelled of expensive cologne and the faint, briny tang of the Persian Gulf.

I closed my eyes and rifled through Mo’s memories.

By day, I was the polished heir to a Bahraini business empire—custom suits, boardroom smiles, a family name that opened doors with a whisper. By night? A closeted hurricane, fucking my way through the diplomatic corps with the kind of reckless hunger that came from a lifetime of restraint.

I grinned, running a hand down my chest—Mo’s chest, lean and toned from private trainers and rooftop yoga. This was going to be fun.

For the first time since Max, I got a notification from the resident of my body.

It was Mo.

He’d sent a selfie: my body—his body now—wearing a croppedtop, my (his?) hips cocked in a way I’d never dared in public.

Mo: Turns out your closet was full of boring clothes for an out guy. Fixed that 😘

I barked a laugh. I’d never wear that—too bold, too femme—but something warm curled in my chest. He was out there, living freely in my skin, good for him.

Then my phone buzzed again.

This time, it was a text from Niklas—Mo’s very German, very blond fuckbuddy with the shoulders of a Olympian swimmer:

“You’ve been quiet. I’m in town. You down to meet up tonight?”

I bit my lip. Honestly, I might be the lucky one in this dynamic.

And I know, I know—the gay community would have me burned at the stake for saying it, but there was something thrilling about stepping back into the closet.

The stolen glances across gilded hotel lobbies. The way Niklas’s hand “accidentally” brushed mine under the table at dinner. The risk of it—the way Mo’s pulse would jump when a colleague mentioned seeing him at a certain bar, the way his breath hitched when he had to lie flawlessly to his father’s friends.

It was a game. A performance. And I’d always been a damn good actor.

By the end of ten days, Niklas had me pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Mo’s penthouse, his teeth in my shoulder, the city lights blurring below us as I gasped something halfway between Arabic and German.

But all good things end.

I opened the app, scrolling through potential hosts, but the credits were dwindling. I'd only have enough left for one more swap

---

That’s when I found Ryan.

His profile popped up late one night as I scrolled through the app, the glow of the screen casting sharp shadows across my borrowed Dubai penthouse. Toronto. My hometown. And his body—Jesus Christ—almost as defined as Kiet’s, but leaner, more compact. Like a swimmer’s build dialed up to eleven. His face was softer too, boyish in a way that made his sharp jawline even more striking. Early twenties, probably.

The swap hit like a punch of crisp Canadian air. One second, I was surrounded by desert heat and the weight of Mo’s secrets; the next, I stood in a dimly lit Toronto bedroom, rolling Ryan’s shoulders, flexing his arms, marveling at the way his muscles moved under smooth, pale skin. The guy was built—not just gym-strong, but gymnast-strong, every line of him taut and efficient.

And yet.

I opened his closet and nearly groaned. Oversized band tees. Baggy joggers. A hoodie that could’ve housed a family of four. It was a crime.

I remedied that immediately.

One trip to the mall later and Ryan’s wardrobe had been… optimized. Graphic tees that clung just right (subtle nerd references, because his browsing history betrayed him). A few button downs that I would leave one too many buttons undone on. Dark jeans that hugged his thighs. A thin silver chain with dog tags that rested perfectly against his collarbones.

There. Now he looked like someone who knew what he was working with.

We’d agreed to meet—him in my body, me in his—at a bar near his place. The irony wasn’t lost on me: two strangers, each wearing the other’s skin, about to critique the fit.

I spotted him the second I walked in.

There I was—me—slouched at the bar in one of Ryan’s tragic hoodies, fingers drumming against a beer bottle. He turned, caught sight of his own body striding toward him, and holy shit, the way his eyes darkened—like he’d just walked in on himself naked.

He whistled low. “So,” he said, nodding at me—at himself, “you’re the guy squatting in my skin.”

I laughed, sliding onto the stool beside him. “And you’re the guy who dresses like a monk despite having a god-tier physique.”

Ryan—my Ryan, in my body—flushed, rubbing the back of his neck (my neck). “Yeah, well. I didn’t always look like this. Kinda hard to shake the habit of hiding.”

“You should try it sometime.” I leaned in, close enough to watch his pupils dilate. “I went for a shirtless run yesterday. Nearly caused a traffic accident.”

He choked on his beer.

We ended up back at his place, sprawled across his bed, fingers tracing the lines of his—my—body with a kind of awed frustration. His hands lingered on his own abs, now mine, his brow furrowed. “It’s weird,” he muttered. “Seeing it from the outside. Like it’s not even real.”

I caught his wrist, pressed his palm flat against the ridges of muscle. “It’s real. And this is how people see you all the time. You just never let yourself believe it.”

He huffed a laugh, but his fingers flexed, greedy. “And you? This body has been getting stares all day. People really check you out like this?”

“Oh, absolutely.” I smirked, sliding my hands down my—his—waist, admiring the way the muscles tensed under my touch. “I mean, I’m checking me out right now.”

Our chemistry was stupid. Electric. By the time our initial swap period ended, Ryan didn’t hesitate. “Let’s stay like this,” he said, his voice rough. “Another week.”

I agreed.

It was intoxicating, watching him come alive in my skin—louder, brighter, freer—while simultaneously craving the way he yielded to me in his own body. The way he’d arch into my touch, like he was rediscovering himself through my hands.

And then, one night, his lips against my ear: “What do you say to making this permanent?”

My breath hitched.

“I want to be you,” he murmured, fingers laced through mine. “And more importantly, I want you to be me.”

I should’ve said yes. We fit. I loved this body—the strength of it, the way it moved—and the idea of keeping my old life close, just… reshuffled. My family, my friends, but through new eyes. A fresh start without the goodbyes.

But something itched under my skin. The rush of the past months—Madrid, Paris, Bangkok, Dubai—the thrill of slipping into someone else’s life, just for a taste.

“I want to try a few more people first,” I admitted.

Ryan didn’t push. Just nodded, kissed me slow and deep, and whispered, “Of course. I’ll be here.” A pause. Then, with a grin that sent heat straight to my borrowed bones: “But don’t wait too long.”

--

That turned out to be the dumbest mistake I could’ve made.

The second the 48-hour grace period ended after my swap with Ryan, the world lurched—like a roller coaster dropping out from under me—and then I was back in Max’s body.

Fuck.

I screamed, slamming his fists against the bathroom counter. The reflection staring back at me was all soft edges and tired eyes, that same patchy stubble, that same defeated slump I’d seen a dozen times before. My stomach twisted. No. No no no—

I grabbed his phone.

A DM pinged immediately.

Max: You’ve been holding out on me, gorgeous. I’ve been swapping nonstop, trying to forget how good you felt—but the second I saw your body was available again? I knew had to do something about it.

He sent with it a few pictures of my body shirtless, as if to taunt me.

My blood turned to ice.

I should’ve known better.

I should’ve known he’d been watching. Waiting. That he’d pounce the second my guard was down.

I was a fucking idiot.

Damn right I’ll be taking Ryan’s offer as soon as I’m back in my body.

I opened the app, fingers shaking, and checked the countdown.

Expecting 10 days.

Expecting anything but what I saw.

Permanent.

No.

No no no no no—

That wasn’t supposed to be possible. I didn’t accept that.

What the fuck did he do?!

[isabella-2025]

Backlash predictions

Please respond with your own predictions and let me know if you agree with mine or not. Let's talk about it but keep it Civil. 😊😊

Pat vs Gunther - Gunther for the win all the way even though I don't like his character work his in-ring abilities are top tier. Pat Is not a wrestler, and I don't see how him winning would benefit the business sorry not sorry.

Becky vs Lyra - Lyra retains with help from Bayley. I know they obviously said for storyline purposes she would be "out" for a while, but I think she will return tonight and attack Becky during the match which will lead to a DQ or she will attack Becky after the match. Either way I am so excited for this match because both Becky Lyra are amazing in the ring together and they never fail to make unforgettable matches when they step in the ring together. PS: I saw Bayley's interview where she said she did not feel like she was on Becky, Charolotte or Sashas level but I disagree with her. Bayley's face run was questionable, but she had some great moments, and her Heel run was amazing. Do I think they pushed Becky and Charolotte more than her yes, but she persevered and that is why she is one of my favorites.

Jacob vs drew vs Damien vs la knight - Jacob for the win but a BETRAYAL happens after the match. My logic on this is that Drew, Damien and LA are already established star's therefore Jacob needs to win this match because they are pushing him as a dominant force. Damien and LA will most likely be fighting each other most of the time and Drew most likely be focused on Damien and get distracted just like he did with CM Punk which will cost him the title. I think after the match Solo will attempt to take credit for Jacobs win or Jacob will tell Solo he doesn't need him anymore and one of them will turn on the other. Hopefully we get a Tama return or Zilla debut, but I doubt. PS: Jacob is amazing, and I love him, but Solo is great and needs some recognition I am hoping he does sort of what Naomi did but in a different way if that makes sense because he deserves so much more than they are giving him. I think what happened was higher ups saw the reaction that Jacob was getting, and they switched their focus from Solo being the top guy to Jacob and there is nothing wrong with that but why can't Solo and Jacob both be pushed at the same time you know? Also, I think if solo turns on Jacob it would be justified honestly, he could make people finally respect him.

Dominick vs Penta - I feel like Dominick will take the W on this with help from the Judgment Day members minus Finn obviously. I also think that Penta will be at more of a disadvantage because he will have to worry about the Judgement Day members and I feel like Chad gable will make an appearance which will cause a disqualification and Dominick will retain. I also think that Finn will TURN on Dominick after the match or Dominick will TURN on Finn after the match. The tenson between those two have been boiling over since WrestleMania and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if Finn pulled something with Dom like he did with Damien at WrestleMania last year. PS: If they don't Turn on each other today than when?

Randy vs Cena - I think Randy is going to take the W on this one. I don't know though because Cena likes to fight dirty and cheat so if he can do that and win then I know he will. I think if someone interferes it would be the Rock because he did not show up at WrestleMania so I feel like he would probably steal the spotlight here if he can. Not him the person his character. This is a big one, or Cody returns help Randy win and then Turns Heel. If you look at the history book if I am correct, then the last time Cena and Orton Fought Cena won so it would make sense if Orton won this one. PS: I hope we get a punt kick (:

@trippinsorrows @acute-crashout-jeyuso @empressdede @punksyeet @uceyliyahh @femdisa @mytribalnightmare @eringobragh420 @southerngirl41 @officialeve24 @usoinked @bossbitch-22 @madhatterbri @purplementalitybluebird @bloodlinemadness @holycollectivekitty @jstarr86 @livslunaticdamiansdisciple18 @duhitzkay380 @bloodlinesbabe93 @theusotwinzcom @thebigredmonster @chynagirl13

[thespillwaysofyoursoul]

The lack of Swiss in the movie has driven me to create this.

I don’t know what the Ghost Chappell Roan overlap is but I hope you enjoy Super Graphic Ultra Modern Swiss.

[king-lena]

watermour + text post meme (part 26) // inspiration credit to @watermourdivorce and their top tier watermour coded reblogs

[serkonans]

so frustrated bc I need to break up w my personal trainer fr But he's experienced w helping people recover from injury and I want him to coach me through getting back into lifting after top surgery

[tundrakatiebean]

I found out the tag limit is 30 on this post lmao anyway I had a very good year. I wish all of you so much good and light.

hey honest question, did anybody have GOOD stuff happen to them in 2024? cause it was really bad for me and for most people i know, so it would be nice to hear about anything that's been going WELL for any of you. even if it's small stuff. just to know there's light out there.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also, with all that knowledge now about 7th through 9th xmas shows vis-à-vis the hicks & the krampuses, seeing 12th annual xmas's flashback joe iconis afresh like Aha

on the basis of overalls alone maybe i'd think nothing of it but with the white tank top also & knowing "yeah, this wouldn't be a coincidence that nobody thought about & yeah, they would do an homage thusly" exactly as i did when i saw the bloodsong role being named Hick In Overalls & went wait a minute, photo recollection of "who's this xmas role in overalls i wonder? especially memorable in this case b/c [standing, saluting] when they seemingly crop up again going extra hard as a virgin mary dancer" like if that happened to also be jeremy morse then that wouldn't be a coincidence that nobody thought about & yeah they would do an homage thusly....definite twelfth annual it's like i can still hear his voice stop telling people i'm dead Reference there / plausibly kinda role mashup with flashback joe lol

while i'm here, also just enjoyed these twelfth annual sweet baby jesus pics b/c it's heartwarming when people are just going i am looking directly at it & great when there's people clearly cracking the fuck up at any point in the show

[cy-cyborg]

Free Manual Wheelchair Reference Models

ID: A banner with grey 3D models of 5 kinds of manual wheelchairs in a line in front of the disability pride flag and text that reads "Manual Wheelchair References" /End ID

For disability pride month, I decided to release a pack of 3D manual wheelchair models.

The pack includes 5 wheelchairs:

2 Active urban-style chairs (one of which includes a smart drive)

1 off-road active chair

1 children's wheelchair

and 1 standard "hospital" wheelchair).

All the wheelchairs are based off either wheelchairs I or friends of mine have used

Downloadable here!

or on the Clip Studio Paint Asset Store (ID 2097442) (there's been an issue with the CSP version, but the models in the download folder can be imported into clip studio paint until I can fix it)

More info about the download contents below:

The first download link includes the original .Blend file with all 5 chairs, as well as individual .obj or .fbx files the chairs (All but 1 have an .obj file, as they're only meshes. The chair with the smart drive is rigged, which is why it has an .Fbx file instead so it will retain that information) as well as a "read me" file that explains in more depth what kind of disability/character/lifestyle each chair is made for (These are just what I had in mind when I designed them, they are usable by other characters who don't fit the suggestions for the most part!) I wanted to include the Read Me contents in the CSP Asset Store listing, but CS said it was too long lol.

Also, as the title says, these files are free to use! While it's not mandatory, I would appreciate credit if you use them (or even just a tag so I can see the cool art you make with them!!)

I actually made these ages ago, the original plan was to use them in a series of posts then release the pack, but I never got around to making the series and so they've just been sitting here. I took a day off from art fight attacks to clean them all up and get them ready to post. If you experience any issues, let me know and I'll try to fix it up.

I had a couple more that were supposed to be in the pack including a sports (basketball/Tennis) wheelchair and some different styles of wheelchair, but I think the files corrupted so once I fix (or remake) them, I'll probably make a second pack.

If you have any issues, please let me know!

[pomegranatesarchive]

PR nightmare | oscar piastri

paring: oscar piastri x singer!reader

summary: y/n is considered a pr nightmare. let’s watch her get into her first relationship.

notes: yet another repost from my old account, i tired to make it exactly the same, enjoy!

— y/n has posted new pictures!

liked by mclaren, f1, yourbrother, and 737,938 others!

yoursername: my manger told me to tell you guys that the illuminati is NOT real and i was just joshing around !! 😂👍👍😂

view comments below!

user1: ugh this is SO BELIEVABLE

user2: | WAS WAITING FOR THIS POST

user3: yeah let's all ignore the "i wrote songs about an f1 driver!!!!"

user4: the pictures 😭

yourmomsuser: pic credits?

yoursername: you're like 60 why do you know what pic credits are ??

user5: the illuminati is totally real 🙄

mclaren: 👀

yourusername: NO THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING PLS LOOK AWAY

user6: no offense, but how did you stumble across F2 oscar???

yourusername: my brother is like a HUGE f1, 2, AND 3 nerd and he always forces me to watch races with him 😣

yourbrothersuser: you literally ask me to tell you when oscar's back on the screen???

yourusername: okay kill yourself????

yourbrothersuser: @/yourmomsuser

yourusername: GOD YOU ARE SUCH A SNITCH

ynupdates: y/n and her brother; jacob, were seen at the airport earlier today, she later posted the picture on the right, on her story, confirming that she is in fact traveling. y/n has no shows coming up, and she rarely travels with jacob. thoughts?

view comments below!

user7: guys guys..the monaco grand prix in literally in two days.

user8: SHES GOING TO THE GRAND PRIX. I KNOW IT.

user9: why's her brother kinda??

user10: you can't even see his face 😭😭?

user9: I CAN JUST TELL

user11: everyone saying she's going to the grand prix are like getting my hopes up??????

user12: WATCH HER GO SOMEWHERE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT 😭

user13: okay guys..but we never talked about what songs could be about oscar

user14: IVE DONE SO MUCH THINK ABOUT THIS!!!

user13: GIRL PLEASE TELL

user14: OKAY OKAY!! one that REALLY stands out to me is "my love mine all mine" because, we all know y/n has never had a boyfriend before, SO when she writes love songs, obviously people speculate that she's in a relationship

user14: WHEN SHE WAS ASKED ABOUT THE INSPIRATION FOR "my love mine all mine" she said "i sadly do not have a boyfriend yet. but there is someone i've had my eye on for some time." SHE COULD HAVE BEEN TALKING ABOUT OSCAR AND WE DIDNT EVEN NOTICE

user15: istg if y/n doesn't show up in the paddock tomorrow, i will throw a fit.

liked by mclaren, f1, yourbrother, and 837,938 others!

yourusername: i could tell you where i am and what im doing, but its funny reading the theories

view comments below !

user15: are you going to a secret illuminati meeting user16: pls y/n pls just tell us

user17: this is cruel AND YOU KNOW IT

user18: pls lord, let y/n go to the monaco grand prix🙏🙏

user19: there's no way she ISNT going to the grand prix, i mean she's with her brother, and he's literally like the biggest f1 fan ever?? why else would they be traveling together

user20: maybe they're traveling together because they're siblings😭😭 ?? it doesn't have to connect to f1

yourbrothersuser: y/n pls put the phone down. i need a good nights rest for tomorrow.

user21: TOMORROW ???? IS ??? THE ???? GRAND ??? PRIX ??? ARE ???? YOU ??? GUYS ???? GOING ????

ynupdates: it seems like the rumors are true! y/n and jacob are currently at the grand prix!

view comments below!

user 22: 1 FUCKING KNEW IT

user23: everyone knew it...

user24: WHOO CAREEESSS oscar and y/n interaction WHEN ???

user25: ugh i NEED grid x y/n interactions RN

user26: y/n this, oscar that. WHAT I NEED IS TO SEE Y/NS BROTHER MEET MAX

user27: omg can you imagine how happy he is rn

— mclaren has posted new photos!

liked by yourusername, f1, yourbrother, landonorris, oscarpiastri and 837,938 others!

mclaren: monaco was a dream! thank you y/n for joining us view comments below!

view comments below!

user28: 1 SHOULVE BEEN THERE. I COULDVE METY/N. THAT SHOULDVE BEEN ME.

yourusername: thank you for having me🧡

user29: okay now make oscar and y/n kiss

yourbrothersuser: thank you for making my dream come true 🙏🙏

redbullracing: @/yourusername our garage next

yourusername: i think @/yourbrothersuser would enjoy that more then i ever could

redbullracing: he's always welcome to join 💙

yourbrothersuser: AHHHHHH OMG OMG

user30: okay now more grid x y/n content

user31: the way this became like a meet and greet for y/n was INSANE

user32: who would've thought there would be so many y/n fans at a F1 race??

user33: everyone's a y/n l/n fan.

— y/n has posted new photos!

liked by, mclaren, landonorris, oscarpiastri 763,928 others!

yourusername: do you think he'll try weed with me now that he's my boyfriend?

view comments below !

user34: EXCUSE ME BOYFRIEND???

user35: OMG Y/N GOT HER FIRST BOYFRIEND!! АННННН

user36: OSCAR AND Y/N??? HELL YEAH

user37: okay let's just pretend that doesn't say what it says 😭

yourmanger: y/n please change that caption.

yourusername: i don't know how ☹️

user38: WHO CARES ABOUT THE CAPTION!!! Y/N AND OSCAR SHIPPERS RISE

mclaren: in case that caption isn't a joke, y/n please refrain from getting our drivers high.

yourusername: YOU GUYS ARE NO FUNN

user39: i love how public y/n is. like she genuinely acts like she doesn't have millions of followers

oscarpiastri: love i already told you, we cant get high.

yourusername: YOU WOULD IF YOU LOVED ME.

maxverstappen1: i'll get high with you y/n 🙋‍♂️

redbullracing: no you will not.

[sarahroutldge]

inked.

a/n: hey y'all! this is my first fic on this account. just a fun little jj one shot - lmk what you think!! (gif not mine - credits to the creator)

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: you and jj have been dating secretly for half a year, and a small question about a mysterious new tattoo leads to his friends finding out about the two of you.

word count: 2.8k

warnings: fluff/humor, marijuana use, implied sexual content, I think that's it

JJ’s not the greatest at dates, and he’s aware of that. But when it comes to you, he’s decided to step up his game, and that’s why he took the initiative to take you to Charleston for your birthday. While he currently can’t afford to spring for an elaborate dinner at a pricey restaurant, he’s trying to make tonight something special. Usually, you’re the one who has to pick up the slack when it comes to romance—though you’re not great at it either—but he figured that since it’s your birthday, all the planning should be his responsibility.

And so far it’s been great.

Walking hand-in-hand down the cobblestone streets of Charleston, you can feel how much freer JJ is when he can take you out somewhere people won’t recognize you. It’s been hard keeping such a big part of his life a secret from his friends for so long, but he doesn’t want to push it too far. You’re what he calls ‘kook-like,’ since you’re from Figure Eight but you went to the local public school instead. And while you never really interacted back in high school, JJ doesn’t want to have to explain to his friends everything about your relationship. It’s private, and though he knows he’ll confide in the Pogues at some point, he’s just not there yet. And thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother you.

It’s been silent for a while, but not uncomfortable. You just enjoyed a delicious meal that JJ had to fight with you to pay the bill over, and you feel calm. Peaceful. Outside of the Outer Banks, there are no kooks and no pogues, just the two of you. 

Choosing to break the silence, you voice your inner thoughts. “It’s nice to not have to worry about running into people we know, you know?”

JJ nods. “Yeah, it’s nice to know that I can kiss you without being afraid of being punched by Topper,” he teases.

You chuckle at his comment before pulling him to a stop. “You said you’d never bring it up!”

“Hey, he’s your ex-boyfriend,” JJ retorts, pointing at your chest.

“Hardly. We dated for two weeks when I was fourteen. And it’s still my greatest shame.”

“I thought I was your greatest shame.”

You roll your eyes, knowing he’s joking. “Never.” As he leans in to kiss you, you can swear that you’ve never felt lighter. You’re a bit tipsy from the drinks at dinner and JJ has a sparkle in his eyes that’ll never stop making you smile. 

His lips press to yours, and you swear you know what the romantic comedies mean when they talk about fireworks. It’s nothing too heated—you’re standing on a sidewalk and you’re not that crazy—but it’s special and passionate. Your lips are a perfect fit for one another, and if you don’t pull away soon you know you’ll get swept up in it.

Knowing JJ has other plans for the two of you, you break away from the kiss and wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Alright, so what’s next on the agenda, Jayj?”

And that’s when you spot it—the signature twinkle in his eye that only shines when he has something a little bit crazy planned.

“Oh no…” you protest in preparation for whatever’s about to come out of his mouth.

“Okay, it’s just a crazy idea I had and it’s totally up to you. We don’t have to do it, but I think it would be fun.”

“What?” you ask. He unwraps your hands from his shoulders before grasping one of them in his own again, and starts to guide you down the street. “JJ, where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.” He winks, and at that point you decide to just let him lead you wherever. You know he’d never put you in danger, and he’s safely gotten you out of your comfort zone many times before, so you’re sure that it can’t be too bad. Right?

As the two of you walk down the street hand-in-hand, your mind wanders. You’ve accepted your fate, but where could JJ possibly be taking you? And before your mind settles on a single answer, he pulls you to a stop in front of a little brick-walled building. ‘Inks Tattoo Parlor,’ the sign reads.

“Okay, I know it might be a crazy JJ idea,” he starts.

“I’m glad you’re self-aware,” you retort.

He rolls his eyes. “Just hear me out. I know we haven’t been dating for long and maybe I had too many drinks at dinner but I know you’re it for me. We’re young and I know we haven’t talked about marriage and I know we’re nowhere near there yet—”

“JJ, just breathe,” you say to comfort him, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

“Well, basically, I love you. Like a lot. Like more than I ever thought I could, and I think I want a tattoo of your initials on my ass.”

And then you give him the weirdest expression he’s ever seen. He can’t tell if he’s scared you off or turned you on or maybe both. But slowly, a smile makes its way onto your face.

“Okay, well, number one: this is definitely a crazy JJ idea,” you start. “But crazy JJ ideas are part of why I fell in love with you, and it’s your ass—you can do whatever you want with it. Frankly, I’m honored.”

He smashes his lips to yours and you kiss him back, chuckling against his lips. “Oh, babe, by the way, this ass belongs to you, too.” You playfully swat his chest, and his smile only grows.

You don’t know if the drinks from dinner are finally getting to you or you’re just on a high from spending so much quality time with your boyfriend, but as you and JJ wait for him to get tattooed, your mind starts to wonder if maybe you should get one as well. 

After the tattoo artist finishes up with his previous client, you get up from where you were waiting next to JJ and look at the intricate designs on the wall. “Hey, Jayj?”

“What’s up?” he asks, looking up from his phone.

“What do you think of this font?”

JJ squints before deciding he might as well come over to get a better look. Standing behind you, he rests his head on your shoulder and examines what you’ve been pointing to. 

“It’s alright, but not my thing,” he responds, as he wraps his arms around your waist. “Plus I think I’m just gonna stick with something simple. No twirly shit.”

You chuckle at his description of the font. “I didn’t mean for your tattoo, Jayj. I meant for me.” And that catches him off guard. 

Unraveling his arms from around your waist, he moves to stand in front of you. “You’re getting a tattoo?” he questions. 

A bit annoyed at his disbelief, you roll your eyes. “Why is that such a big deal?” 

Racking his head for an answer that won’t make him sound like a dick, the best he comes out with is “well, it’s just not very… you.” 

“Maybe that’s the point.” 

JJ lifts his hands in defeat. “Hey, it’s your body. Your body, your choice, and all that, or whatever.” You chuckle at his wording. “What would you even get?” 

“JJ, duh.”

His eyes widen. “You’re not serious.”

“Why not?”

He stares at you for a minute, looking deep into your eyes, trying to see if you’re joking with him, but he can’t seem to find any nervousness. “Well damn. Where are you gonna get it? And don’t say your ass because that would just be copying me.”

You roll your eyes. “No, I was thinking on my hip, right above my bikini line, you know? And it wouldn't be big or anything, just two J’s. No extra swirls or details or whatever.”

JJ puts his hand to his chin as if he needs to think it over, before stepping as close to you as possible and whispering in your ear, “that’s kinda hot, honestly.” He punctuates his comment with a kiss on the inside of your neck, and before you can do anything more you hear a clearing of breath from the tattoo artist.

“You’re up next.” 

The two of you break apart from one another as if you’re fifteen and you’ve just been caught making out by the lockers during class time. JJ winks at you before laying down on the cot. “Alright, man, tat my ass up.” 

Two weeks later…

“Kie!”

“Wake up!”

“Get up, Kie!”

“You’ve gotta see this!”

“Alright, I’m up!” Kiara relents, rolling her eyes as she wakes up from a heavenly nap in the hammock on the employees-only floor of the tackle and bait shop. “This better be an emergency.”

Sarah, John B., Pope, and Cleo squint a bit at her casual threat. “Okay, so it’s not exactly an emergency,” John B. clarifies. But before Kiara can object again, he explains, “JJ has an ass tat!”

“What?” Kiara asks, still a bit dizzy from her nap.

“JJ has a tattoo on his ass,” Pope clarifies proudly, and Cleo rolls her eyes in response.

“I know what an ass tat is, thank you very much,” Kiara bites back. “And why do we care that JJ has one? And also, how do you know that he has one?”

“Okay, well, you know how sometimes JJ doesn’t wear underwear?” John B. asks.

“Gross, but yes, I think we’re all unfortunately aware after the regrettable cliff diving incident last July.” Everyone shudders in horror at the memory. 

“We care because it’s not something JJ-y,” Sarah explains. “He has a tattoo of someone’s initials!”

“And it’s not like JJ to, you know, ink anything remotely sentimental on himself. To be honest, I was surprised he didn’t get a joint tattooed on his ass first,” Pope elaborates.

“Well, what are the initials?”

“Y/I. And I can’t think of anyone with those initials.” John B. answers.

Now invested in the mystery of JJ’s ass tat, Kiara concentrates, trying to think of who she might know with those initials. Coming up with nothing, she asks, “Are we sure it’s not just something stupid?”

“Come on, Kie. It’s JJ. If there’s anything we’re sure about, it’s that there was a high level of stupidity involved in this decision,” Pope answers.

“Fair point,” Kiara concedes. “How did you even see the tattoo?”

“John B. walked in on him sleeping butt naked,” Sarah confesses. He shoots her a look, and she smirks. “I’m just glad you didn’t find it cuter than mine.” John B. rolls his eyes in response, and Sarah chuckles.

“Never,” he says, before kissing her on the lips.

“Gross!” Pope interjects.

Elsewhere on the island, you and JJ are enjoying a day at your favorite secluded part of the beach. The waves never get especially big here so you’re not crowded by surfers, but it’s a nice area to get away from it all and simply relax with one another. 

You’re lounging on a towel, letting your back tan, as you engross yourself in your current book. Right next to you, JJ sits shirtless on his towel as he does whatever on his phone. It’s been relatively quiet for a while until you sense your boyfriend starting to stir.

You glance over at JJ only to see him typing incessantly on his phone. 

“Babe?” 

“Yo,” he says in acknowledgment, but without looking up from his screen.

You roll your eyes and move over onto his towel, making yourself comfortable behind his bare, sun-tanned back. Looking over his shoulder, you try to make out what he could possibly be doing.

Wrapping your hands around his stomach, you feel his abs tense under your fingers. “What’s going on?”

“I think our cover might be blown,” he answers, placing his hand above his phone so you can see the messages in the blaring sun. 

John B.: Please tell me she’s not a kook.

Sarah: Hey 🙁

Cleo: We want to meet her!

Pope: How did you convince her to go out with you? Is she being held against her will?

Kie: I stfg JJ if you don’t just tell us her name.

Sarah: We’re at the usual surf spot on the beach, bring her over!

Pope: You have to come now because I need proof that a real human woman agreed to go out with you. Also if she doesn’t exist then JB owes me fifty bucks.

“Your friends are funny,” you say into his ear, and he smiles wide.

“So, what do you say? Do you want to meet them? I know we’ve kept this thing a secret but I guess it’s pointless now.” 

“I’d love to meet them,” you respond, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before standing up and packing your book, towel, and your cover-up into your bag. 

Once you’re all packed, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his chest. “Thanks for doing this, babe.” He lightly presses his lips to yours.

“Don’t thank me, I can’t wait to meet your friends and hear all the embarrassing stories you haven’t told me. And of course I’ll have to share some of my own in return.” You return his kiss, and for a few seconds the two of you just stand there, kissing under the hot sun. His tongue makes its way into your mouth, and you tug on his messy blonde strands in response. He moans into the kiss, but before it can get too heated, you pull away. “As much as I love this, if we don’t stop, I don’t think we’ll make it in time to meet your friends.”

“Who cares about them?” he jokes, before pressing his lips to you again. And then, in signature JJ fashion, he grabs your bag in one hand and tosses you over his shoulder.

You shriek in response. “JJ put me down!”

“You’re the one who wanted to hurry. I’m just making sure you don’t get distracted.” As he walks you to his truck, you giggle at being held upside down, swatting his butt playfully. 

Meeting his friends goes great, and you easily fall into a rhythm with Sarah, Kiara, and Cleo. John B.’s extra welcoming since your existence means that Pope now owes him fifty bucks, and by late afternoon you’re all relaxing around a bonfire. Gathered in a circle around the flames, you swap embarrassing JJ stories and enjoy just getting to know the Pogues. You pass around a joint, and a comfortable silence grows among the group, interspersed with a few chill conversations. Lounging in between JJ’s legs, his hands begin to wander before settling comfortably on your hips. 

He plays with the hem of your cover-up, pulling it up and down ever so slightly. Sarah sits next to you, tugged under John B.’s arm. She glances around the group before she notices a bit of ink along your bikini line. “Ooh, that’s such a cute spot for a tattoo, what is it?” she asks.

You feel your face warm and JJ shoves his head into your back, chuckling at the situation.

The rest of the group looks confused at JJ’s reaction, and now everyone’s attention is on the both of you. Realizing there’s no way out of this, you meet JJ’s fingers at your hip and ever-so-slightly move the string on your bikini bottom so that Sarah can make out what it says.

She squints. “Oh my god! You have JJ tattooed on you!” 

Everybody else’s eyes go wide and they all look at you in shock. 

“Really?” Pope asks, questioning your judgment, and Cleo slaps him in response. 

“Leave her alone, it’s cute.” 

You smile at Cleo in thanks, and JJ looks at Pope. “Pope, it’s like the hottest thing ever, I swear. The sex was great already, but now–” 

You cover JJ’s mouth with your hand in embarrassment, as John B. smirks in amusement. It’s silent for a second before JJ decides to lick your hand and you immediately pull away. “Ew!” you shout, and your boyfriend howls in amusement.

Standing up from between JJ’s legs, you wipe your wet hand on your cover-up, before tugging it off. “Anyways, I’m going to go for a final swim before the sun goes down completely. Anyone want to join?” 

“I just want to finish my beer, but I’ll join you in a minute,” Sarah answers, and you smile. Cleo and Kiara nod in agreement, and you make your way into the water. But before you can reach the ocean, JJ runs up to you and lifts you off the ground. You yelp at his antics, and again he lays you over his shoulder. He turns around to wave at the group as they laugh at the two of you.

The rest of the Pogues look on as JJ drops you into the water. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they might be perfect for each other,” Pope confesses.

Everyone nods in agreement. “They’re adorable,” Sarah adds. “Absolutely adorable.” 

so... please let me know what you think! I don't currently have a taglist, but if you'd like to be tagged in my next jj fic, please send me an ask :)))

[ellewritesx]

terms of service

(part two of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: Before he can break you in, he needs to know exactly where you break.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, fingering, oral (f!receiving), use of vibrator, mention of handcuffs, blindfolding, a panic attack, repeated use of safe words, a ton of ''good girl'' (oops), dom!Harry, it just gets kind of intense guys

A/N: i had so much fun writing this and i've got sooo much still in store for the series! i have no idea how this ended up being almost 5k words cause it feels shorter than anything else i've written but yk what i'll take it. let me know if you like this x

Word Count: 4,870

...

The morning after that first night with Harry, you wake up to the shrill buzz of your phone, a new notification lighting up the cracked screen. Bleary-eyed, you swipe it open and freeze. Your stomach drops. You blink once. Twice. But the number doesn't change.

Ten thousand dollars.

Deposited directly into your checking account at six o'clock in the morning. For a moment, all you can do is sit there, fingers trembling slightly where they clutch the device, heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to punch its way free. It feels unreal, like a glitch in the system, like some impossibly generous mistake you should scramble to correct.

Before you can spiral too far, another notification rolls in.

Harry: For your trouble. Don't get any ideas, it won't always be this generous.

You don't know if he's joking.

Still in your pajamas, still half-numb, you stumble over to the kitchen table and open your laptop. In a daze, you pay off two months' rent in advance. Clear the electricity bill that's been relentlessly stacking up with threatening red letters. Kill the last of your credit card debt, the looming, gnawing anxiety that's been a permanent fixture in your life for as long as you can remember. With one click, it all vanishes. Just like that. You release a breath you didn't know you were holding.

You sit back in the wobbly wooden chair and stare at the zeros. No debts to pay off. Rent covered for months. You blink slowly, feeling weightless and heavy all at once.

You should cry. You'd expected you would. But no tears come. Only a heavy, eerie kind of calm. Like you were standing on the edge of something vast and bottomless and have just taken your first step backwards, away from the deep end.

Later that afternoon, your phone pings again.

Harry: Quit the fucking cafe. Waste of time.

You stare at the message, thumb hovering over the screen. It would be so easy. To type out a resignation email, walk out of that dingy little shop with its sticky counters and fluorescent lights that make your head ache, and never look back. To let Harry sweep you up and off your feet and stay at home, maybe pursue a hobby.

But you don't. You type out a short, almost defiant reply. Can't. I like it.

You don't explain that working keeps you tethered to yourself. That hard work isn't just something you do; it's part of who you are. You've never had anything handed to you before. You've worked for every scrap, every small victory, every breath of air above water. Walking away from that would feel too much like walking away from yourself, even if a selfish, aching part of you wants to.

You wonder if your answer will piss him off. You wonder why a wicked little part of you wants it to.

When he doesn't reply, you expect to be iced out. Canceled. Game over before it even begins. It makes your stomach churn in fear. But the next day, after a particularly exhausting shift, a message comes through, curt and demanding:

Harry: Come to mine tonight. 9PM. Need to finalize terms.

His tone is sharp and professional, but something about it makes a subtle anticipation bloom between your legs anyway. You spend an hour picking out an outfit, second-guessing yourself the whole time. In the end, you settle on something simple. Comfortable, but soft. Easy to take off. You tell yourself it's practicality, but the fluttering in your stomach calls you a liar.

You take the bus to his place, cringing at the cost of a ticket until you remember that you've got more than enough money now. Hell, you could've ordered a limousine if you'd liked.

You never visit this part of the city. The people here wear designer sunglasses that cost more than a year's worth of your salary (besides, what's the point of wearing sunglasses when it's nearly pitch-black outside?), peering over them at you like they can sense that you're not like them. That you don't belong here.

When you knock on his door, Harry answers immediately, like he's been standing just behind it, waiting. His lingers in the doorway, broad shoulders framed in a loose black hoodie, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his curls damp like he's just stepped out of the shower. The faint smell of vanilla and mint clings to his skin, warm and heady in the cool night air.

He leans against the doorframe, appraising you silently for a moment with those unreadable green eyes, and something tightens inside your chest. You wonder if he notices the dark circles under your eyes you've tried covering up, exhaustion having clawed its way into your skin, unrelenting. You wonder if he resents it, a reminder that you aren't fully his yet. That you still belong, even a little, to a life outside of what he's trying to build around you.

''Come in,'' he says finally, voice low and gravelly. It's not a request.

You step inside, heart hammering.

"You're late," he says without looking at you, voice dry, turning his back on you and walking back into the apartment like he already knows you'll follow.

Your breath stutters. "Five minutes."

He only shrugs, like it doesn't matter, like you don't matter, and maybe you don't, but something in the way he leaves the door open, wide and waiting, soothes the sting a little. An invitation, even if it's a sharp-edged one.

The apartment smells like expensive cologne and the faintest trace of smoke, like he aired it out but not quite enough. The lighting is low, casting long, moody shadows across the heavy furniture: sleek, cold, and obscenely rich. Dark leather sofas. A steel-and-glass coffee table. No rugs, no paintings, no photos. No personal touches at all. You take a few cautious steps inside, pulse thrumming, letting your eyes roam while he moves into the kitchen.

The place feels like a model home. It's sterile. Hollow. Like a space meant to impress but never to be lived in. There are no family portraits, no framed snapshots of drunken nights with friends, no messy piles of mail or keys on the counters. Just the necessities. Barely even that. You wonder what kind of person chooses to live like this. You wonder if he even notices the loneliness curling in the corners of the room, or if he's too used to it by now to care.

You hear the clink of glass behind you; Harry fixing himself a drink. Something amber and expensive sloshes into a crystal tumbler. Without asking, he pours a second drink, slightly lighter, and sets it down on the counter with a muted tap.

Decided for you, like everything else. You take a small sip. It's good. He knows you better than you think.

When he finally turns back to face you, he's cradling his drink lazily in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. He cocks his head, surveying you like you're something he's bought and isn't quite sure he's satisfied with yet.

"Clothes off,'' he orders without ceremony, without even offering the barest pretense of conversation or kindness.

You blink, caught off-guard by the bluntness of it, the complete lack of foreplay, not sexual, but social. No small talk. No polite lies to smooth the way. Just a command.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, the blood in your veins boiling unpleasantly with offense. It's not like you didn't know what this was (you agreed to it, after all), but still, something about the way he dismisses any human interaction and social norms you're used to stings a little more than you're prepared for. Like you're less a person, more an object now. A thing he's purchased fair and square, and can use however he sees fit.

For a split second, you hesitate. The frown that flickers across your face is small, barely there, but it flashes quick and instinctive before you can school your features.

And Harry sees it. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, a glint of something unreadable flickering behind the casual facade. He lifts the tumbler to his mouth, sips slowly, never breaking eye contact.

But he doesn't apologize. Doesn't explain himself. Doesn't soften the command. He just lets the silence stretch, heavy and deliberate, until the only thing you can hear is the faint hum of the busy bustling outside and the sound of your own breathing.

Still, something shifts almost imperceptibly in the air between you. Like he's offering you a choice, even if it's silent. Testing you. Waiting to see if you'll push back or fold.

Your fingers reluctantly move to the zipper of your dress, fumbling slightly. The fabric feels heavier than it should, thick and stubborn under your touch. Your cheeks flame with heat as you let it pool around your ankles, the air cool against your bare skin. You don't dare meet his eyes. Your panties come next, sliding down your legs in a slow, humiliating crawl.

You stand there, naked and flushed, heart jackhammering, feeling less like a goddess offered up on a velvet throne and more like a product left bare on a shelf for inspection.

Harry finishes his drink in one long swallow, sets the glass down with a sharp clink. Then he moves, slow, deliberate, until he's standing right in front of you, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. Two fingers tilt your chin up until your gaze locks with his.

"Color?" he asks quietly, almost gently, surprising you.

The simple question unravels something in you. You swallow hard. "Green," you whisper, the word catching slightly in your throat.

His mouth curves, not a smile, exactly, but something close. Satisfaction. Approval. Good girl.

You don't know if you're trembling from the cold or from the way he's looking at you like a man starved.

"On the bed," he orders, voice lowering, rougher this time.

You hesitantly walk toward the bed, your nerves buzzing like an electric current, your skin prickling under his watchful gaze. He follows behind at a leisurely pace, his steps deliberate, as though he owns every inch of the space between you two.

When you sit, knees pressed together tightly, a nervous instinct, you can feel his eyes on you, sharp and calculating. He doesn't say a word, but his stare is almost suffocating, like he's dissecting every tiny twitch of your body. You think you're hiding it, the tension coiling in your gut, the sharp breath you can't quite control, but Harry notices. He always notices.

"Spread."

You hesitate, just for a second, but that's enough. A flicker of amusement passes over his features, the kind that tightens your chest even more. You obey, reluctantly, the cool sheets beneath you feeling too uncomfortable, too foreign, your breath stuttering as you do what he says. He slowly kneels before you, like he's got all the time in the world, his hand casually holding something you hadn't even seen him grab: a slim, black vibrator, sleek and intimidating.

Your stomach flips. You open your mouth, but the words get stuck somewhere between wanting to beg him to stop and wanting to prove yourself.

"We're gonna test your limits," he says simply, his tone darker, more serious now. "Gotta know what you like. What you don't."

You swallow. "I thought we were... going to talk about the arrangement. Finalize the terms?"

He smirks, slow and cruel. "We are, baby. This is part of it."

Your heart races as he rolls the vibrator between his fingers, eyes glinting as he examines you. He's studying your every reaction, every subtle change in your body language.

You shift uncomfortably. Your hands are trembling, but you try to control it. You're not good at this, not good at admitting when you're not okay, not good at showing your hesitance.

The vibrator hums to life with a quiet buzz, low at first. He starts slow, teasing the inside of your thighs, moving closer to your hips, barely brushing against where you need him. Your body clenches, straining towards it instinctively. He watches you, eyes focused, reading every tiny twitch in your expression, every sharp intake of breath, every subtle, desperate movement of your body.

"No lying," he says, voice serious now. "I'll know."

You nod shakily.

His fingers hover near your skin, just enough to make you ache for his touch, but not enough to relieve the pressure building inside you.

"Beg."

"Please," you whisper, barely audible.

"Please, what?"

"Please touch me."

His smile deepens, satisfied, and he presses the vibrator firmly against your clit. Your hips jerk violently at the sensation. You need more, so much more, but it's too much at the same time. Your body can't decide what it wants.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice low and guttural.

He keeps the vibrations steady at first, gentle pulses that send waves of heat and discomfort through your body, your breath ragged, eyes shut tight. But then he turns it up, gradually increasing the intensity, and you feel like you're losing your mind.

Your body is already sensitive, already overstimulated from a long day at work dealing with insufferable customers, and the more he pushes, the more your thoughts scatter.

When the toy brushes lower, teasing your entrance, your body tightens reflexively. You flinch. You can't help it. The discomfort, the anxiety, it all hits at once.

He immediately pulls back, eyes narrowing as he watches you, still calm, still in control.

Your breath is shallow, your chest rising and falling too quickly, too erratically. You're embarrassed. This is not the reaction he was hoping for. He's watching you, scrutinizing you.

"That's a no, then?" he asks, voice still cool, but there's a hint of something else, a hint of curiosity.

You blink quickly, nodding hesitantly as you try to steady your breathing. Your chest is tight. Your hands are still fisted in the sheets, trying to ground yourself, but it's hard.

He clicks the vibrator off, the absence of the buzzing almost as deafening as the silence between you. He moves up the bed toward you, his gaze softening just a little, but the dominance in his posture remains.

"You should tell me when you don't like something," he tells you, voice low, almost like he's lecturing you, but there's no harshness in it. ''It's not my job to guess what you want. You've gotta speak up when things aren't okay."

Your throat tightens. "I didn't want to... disappoint you."

He laughs softly, not unkind but with an edge of exasperation. ''You're not a fucking robot, baby. Don't play me for one. I'm not paying for you to pretend.''

His bluntness cuts through the shame, leaving you raw, exposed.

"Let's continue," he announces, the smirk tugging at his lips. You nod, dazed, unable to think clearly.

He presses his lips to your neck, nipping at the skin with sharp little bites, and you gasp, your whole body reacting to him.

He doesn't give you time to recover before his hand disappears under the bed, pulling out a pair of handcuffs. The cold metal glints in the dim light, and your stomach plummets, dread pooling at the pit of your stomach. Your eyes flick to the cuffs, to him, to the way he's watching you, waiting. You don't want to seem weak. But the panic is rising, bubbling just under the surface.

He sees it. That flicker of fear. And to your shock, he tosses the cuffs aside without a second thought.

"No?" he says, arching a brow, the coolness of his voice making your heart beat faster. ''That's alright.''

You don't know whether you're relieved or disappointed. But you're grateful, more than anything, that he noticed. That he cared.

He shifts you, gently but firmly, positioning you on your stomach, ass up. He pins your hands behind your back, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers like iron. You can't move, can't escape, but it doesn't feel like punishment.

"This," he mutters, low and dark with satisfaction, his voice laced with something rough and possessive. "This I know you like."

You can't help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as his body presses against yours, grinding slow and punishing, drawing out each movement. Your mind starts to unravel as he moves over you, your body arching into him automatically, desperate for more.

Harry's hands let go of your hands and stroke slow along your arms, down your sides, grounding you in the bed's soft sheets. His touch is almost tender, but his voice stays steady, purposeful, like he's still holding back, still working toward something darker.

''Wanna try something,'' he mutters, his mouth brushing over your ear. ''Think you can handle that, baby?''

You hesitate, heart jumping a little too fast in your chest. But you nod, eager to please, eager not to disappoint him, even if there's a pit opening up inside your gut.

He notices the slight delay in your answer, a flash of reassurance passing over his face before he pushes up from the bed and retrieves something from one of the drawers in the nighstand beside his bed: a long strip of black silk. Smooth, intimidating.

You tell yourself you're fine. You tell yourself you can handle it.

He straddles your hips, pinning you lightly to the mattress with the weight of his body, and your breath catches when he brings the silk to your face, letting it ghost across your cheeks. He watches you, studying every twitch of discomfort, every tiny tremble of your lips, but when you don't say anything, he smiles, slow and satisfied.

"Good girl," he breathes, tying the blindfold tight around your eyes.

Darkness falls immediately. Your world narrows to the sound of your breathing, too loud in your ears, and the rough scrape of Harry's sweatpants against your bare skin.

You feel his hand trail down your side, but you can't see it coming, can't prepare for the way it jolts through your body, can't anticipate where he'll touch next. The loss of control makes your heart hammer faster, panic starting to simmer under the surface.

It's fine. It's fine.

Except it's not.

You can't see him. You can't read him. You can't breathe.

The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy. Your chest tightens, your hands gripping at the sheets helplessly, your body locking up beneath him. You try to stay quiet, you try not to ruin it, but your breathing gives you away, short, ragged little gasps that stutter out of you uncontrollably. The harder you try to stop it, the worse it gets.

At first, Harry doesn't notice. His hands are moving, teasing, rough and unrelenting, dragging noises out of your mouth you don't even recognize. But when you whimper softly, not in pleasure, but in fear, you feel him freeze above you. His body goes stiff. You realize, even through the roaring of your rapid heartbeat in your ears, that he's gone completely silent.

''Take the blindfold off,'' he commands sharply.

You struggle to move, shakily reaching up, but he swats your hands away and rips it off himself, tossing the silk onto the floor. His face is right there, inches from yours, his brow furrowed, his mouth drawn into a hard line.

''What the fuck do you think you're doing?'' he demands, voice low and cold and furious.

You flinch, shrinking down into the bed, heat flooding your cheeks in shame. You don't know what to say. You don't know how to fix it.

He sees the panic still written all over you, the way your hands are still trembling, the way you're practically vibrating with anxiety. His mouth curves into something crueler, something sharper, the fire of burning frustration clear in his eyes.

He's disappointed. You've responded poorly to nearly everything he's into. You bet he's offended. You bet he regrets picking you.

"You think I'm mad you're uncomfortable?" he growls, voice harsh enough to make your stomach drop, like he knows exactly what you were thinking and he doesn't like it. "I'm not mad you didn't like it. I'm mad you didn't fucking say so."

Your throat closes up, tears stinging behind your eyes, but Harry doesn't let up. He grabs your chin roughly in his hand, forcing your gaze up to meet his.

''You have a mouth. Use it. I'm very fucking strict about my safe words. You hear me?''

You nod quickly, shame burning through you, but it's not enough for him. Not nearly enough. He sits back on his heels, looming over you, voice cool and clinical like he's disciplining a disobedient pet.

"You're gonna sit there and answer me properly," he says, voice sharp enough to cut. "And you're gonna think about what you say. Understand?"

You nod, small and desperate.

"Use your fucking words."

"Yes, Harry."

"Good," he mutters, eyes narrowing.

He leans in a little, his hand wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb strokes lazily over your pulse, feeling it race.

"What do you say," he begins, voice low, "if I've got my hand around your throat... just like this... and I'm fucking you slow, deep, making you feel so full you think you're gonna split apart... and it feels good, but my pace is leaving bruises? Hm?"

You blink up at him, breathing shaky. "Yellow." Slow down.

His mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. "Good girl."

"What do you say if I'm making you suck me off, not letting you breathe, holding your head down, spit and tears dripping off your chin, and it starts feeling like too much at once?"

You shiver, heat flooding through your body at the image, even as shame creeps higher up your throat. "Yellow," you whisper.

"Louder."

"Yellow, Harry."

He nods, satisfied, squeezing your jaw in his hand.

"And what if I decide to cuff you to the bed," he murmurs, "and leave you there for hours. Touch you, tease you, never let you come. What then, hm? What if you realize you fucking hate it?"

Your breath stutters. "Red." Stop.

"Say it like you mean it."

"Red!"

"Good girl."

He shifts closer, his knees spreading your legs wider, his hand sliding dangerously low along your stomach, stopping just before your core.

"What if," he growls, "I'm slapping your clit, making you sob for it, and you're struggling to breathe?"

You flush so hard your vision blurs.

"Yellow," you stammer.

"Good girl," he praises darkly, the words sliding over your skin like a brand. "Now, what if I'm spanking you... so hard you can't tell if you love it or hate it... and you panic? What do you say?"

"Red!"

"And if you want to fucking leave?"

"Red, Harry, red!"

He pulls back finally, still watching you, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths.

"You don't ever sit there like a dumb little doll and hope I notice," he says, voice cold and cutting. "If you feel it, anything, you say it. If you even think about feeling it, you say it. Got it?"

"Yes, Harry," you breathe.

His hand cups your cheek roughly, thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth until you open obediently for him. His face softens, barely, the smallest flicker of reassurance in his gaze.

"Good girl," he mutters. "That's better."

He doesn't touch you right away, just sits there, watching you through hooded eyes, the heat of his body wrapping around you like a heavy blanket. Your chest is still heaving, nerves buzzing just under your skin, but you force yourself to stay still, to breathe. You've earned that tiny nod of approval, the glint of something warmer in his expression. You don't want to lose it now.

"Lie back," he says finally, voice low but not sharp anymore. You obey immediately, heart hammering, limbs trembling a little with the aftershocks of your panic and the brutal interrogation that followed. But he doesn't punish you for it. He doesn't mock you or push. Instead, his hands slide over your thighs, slow and steady, coaxing them apart with a patience that makes your breath hitch.

The first touch of his fingers is almost unbearably gentle, just the barest ghost of contact over your folds, tracing the wetness there like he's reacquainting himself with you. His thumb brushes your clit so lightly you barely feel it, and a broken sound escapes your throat.

"Shh," he murmurs, voice soothing. "We go slow. Yeah?"

You nod, desperate to be good, to show him you can handle it, and he rewards you by pressing a little more firmly, circling your clit in those slow, devastating spirals that make your hips twitch off the bed. His free hand anchors your thigh down, keeping you open, keeping you grounded.

He works you open with maddening care, two fingers sliding in eventually, curling shallowly inside you, his palm keeping constant pressure against your clit. Every movement feels deliberate, measured, for you, not for him. There's none of the bruising pace from before, none of the overwhelming force. Just the steady building of heat, the way your body starts to bloom under his touch.

At one point, you feel his mouth replace his hand, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thigh, the warm flick of his tongue over your clit making you whimper. He's thorough, almost clinical about it, not showy or indulgent, just focused, relentless, coaxing you higher and higher until your body locks up, shuddering through a release so gentle it almost feels like floating. He licks you through it, slow and steady, until you're gasping and twitching under him, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He pulls back then, finally, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looks at you, really looks at you, like he's checking that you're still whole.

"You did good," he says quietly as your eyes flutter closed. You feel the mattress shift when he gets up.

You barely register him moving around the room, but when you blink open your heavy eyes, there's a cold bottle of water being pressed into your hand. You clutch it gratefully, gulping it down while he disappears into the ensuite. A few minutes later, he comes back, tosses a towel onto the bed without a word, and jerks his chin toward the open bathroom door.

"Shower's yours."

You stumble toward it on shaky legs, grateful for the excuse to hide your face. His bathroom is ridiculously luxurious, heated floors, fluffy towels, expensive soaps that smell like cedarwood and spice. You take your time, letting the water wash away the sticky remnants of your anxiety, trying to piece yourself back together.

When you return to the bedroom, he's already under the covers, scrolling lazily through his phone like he hasn't just shattered you and stitched you back together in the same hour.

You hesitate for a moment, but he flicks the blanket up wordlessly, making room for you. Your heart swells a little, and you slip in beside him, careful not to touch him unless he invites it.

For a long moment, there's only the soft sounds coming from his phone, the quiet hum of the city outside his window.

But you can't help yourself. The questions bubble up, tentative and trembling, before you can think better of it.

"Harry?" you whisper.

"Hm?"

You pick at the edge of the blanket, voice barely audible. "Are you... seeing other people?"

He doesn't look at you. Just scrolls once more, then locks his phone and sets it on the nightstand. He turns his head toward you.

"No, baby," he says simply. "I told you this arrangement is exclusive. You're the only one."

Your breath catches.

"And... and how often would I... I mean, how often would you want to... see me?"

"Couple times a week. More, if you're okay with that."

"And... the payment?"

He smirks slightly. "We'll work that out. Money. Gifts. You can have whatever you like."

You chew your lip, heart pounding. "And if I... if there's something I can't do? Or I... I can't—"

"You say no," he interrupts bluntly. His voice is firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "You use your fucking words. I don't want your obedience unless you're giving it to me freely. Understand?"

You nod quickly, throat tight.

He watches you for a long moment, something shifting in his expression, almost imperceptible. And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says:

"Don't like when people fake things with me. Had enough of that for a lifetime."

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. You don't know the story behind those words. But you know it's not a conversation you're meant to push. Not tonight.

So you just murmur a soft "Okay", and burrow a little closer under the covers.

He doesn't touch you. But he stays close, close enough that the heat of him soaks into your skin, close enough that when you finally drift off, you swear you feel the edge of his pinky finger brush against yours, the smallest, secret tether.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502

...

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Hi there! First, I just want to say I love your blog and your writing! You are seriously so talented! I have a request for Bucky that I would be cute! (I don't think you've written anything similar but if so, I'm sorry for sending in a duplicate).

I saw a writing prompt thing on Pinterest and the prompt was "I can walk." The guy then looks at her and sasy "I thought you were dead. I need to f*ckin hold you."

And I immediately thought of Bucky! I kind of pictured you getting hurt on a mission or something like that and Bucky just being super touchy and wanting to hold you after because he was scared that he had lost you.

I'll let you fill in the rest with your amazing creativity!

Almost Lost You » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Agent!Female Reader

Summary: You get shot during a mission and all Bucky wants to do is hold you.

Warnings: Fluff, language, coworkers to lovers (is that a thing?), blood, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵 I immediately thought of Thunderbolts when I seen this🥰

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

It’s no secret that Bucky has feelings for you. He has had feelings on you for a while. Most of the time you two get partnered up for missions, but sometimes it calls for individual work. Like this one.

Bucky was stopping a truck from hitting someone with his vibranium arm. You were chasing and shooting at the targets you were assigned to do. The rest of the team was doing their parts as well.

You were chasing one of the targets you were assigned to take down. You jumped on him to knock him to the ground, in which he did. He made a groaning noise as he fell to the ground. He grabbed his knife to try to stab you, but you smacked it out of his hand before you could.

“You need some back up, Y/N?” Bucky asks you through his ear piece.

“No, I’m good, Bucky.” You replied.

As soon as you said that, the guy you were trying to take down pulled out a gun. Before you could smack it out of his hand, he shot you in the side. You cried out in pain as he pushed you off of him and ran away. You managed to Army crawl your way off to the side and lean against a wall. You held your hand over where you were shot, feeling blood trickling down your side.

Bucky looked over at where you were supposed to be, but didn’t see you. He walked around to look for you. He found you leaning against a wall with your eyes closed. His eyes widened and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He ran over to you to check on you.

“Please be alive.” Bucky whispers to himself.

He put his fingers against your neck to feel for your pulse. He felt relieved when he felt it.

“What are you doing?” You asked, opening your eyes to see Bucky crouched down in front of you.

“I was just checking on you. You look injured.” Bucky says. “Are you ok?” He asks.

You knew he’d figure out one way or another to see if you’re injured or not. You lifted your shirt, showing him where you got shot. Bucky’s eyes went wide when he seen it. He put his hand over it and applied pressure. You yelped in pain.

“I know it hurts, but you’re going to be ok.” He says softly.

All you could do is nod. You tried to stand up, but the pain got the best of you.

“Let me help you.” Bucky says.

Bucky lifted you to your feet and then went to pick you up, but you stopped him by putting your hand on his chest to stop him.

“I can walk.” You say.

“I thought you were dead. I need to fucking hold you.” He says.

You were in too much pain to argue with him so you just nodded. Bucky picked you up bridal style and went to get you help. Luckily for you, there was an ambulance not too far from where you two were.

“What happened?” Yelena asks when she seen Bucky walk past her with you in his arms.

“Some asshole shot her.” Bucky tells her.

The paramedics saw Bucky carrying you and got a stretcher out of the aid car, rolling it over to you. Bucky gently laid you on it and explained what happened to you to the paramedics. You grabbed Bucky’s arm and looked up at him.

“Please stay with me.” You said in almost a whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere, doll.” Bucky says softly, gently caressing your cheek.

The paramedics took you to the hospital and Bucky stayed with you the whole time, except when he was told to go to the waiting room. Bucky sat in the waiting room with his nerves through the roof. He was bouncing one of his legs, trying to keep his nerves in control. All he wants to do is be with you.

“Bucky.” He hears Yelena’s voice.

Bucky looks up to see Yelena, Alexi, John, and Ava walking towards him.

“How is she?” Ava asks.

“They said the bullet didn’t hit anything major and they took her to surgery just to make sure.” Bucky tells them.

“She’ll be out before you know it.” Alexi says, trying to stay positive.

Bucky smiles softly and nods. That’s when the doctor walked in the waiting room. He practically jumped up from his seat.

“Y/N is out of surgery and she’ll be fine. She needs to take it easy for a while. You can see her now if you want.” The doctor says.

Bucky let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He’s even more relieved to know that you’re fine.

“We’ll be out here if either of you need anything.” Yelena says.

Bucky smiles and went to your hospital room. You were just waking up when he walked in the room. You turned your head towards the door, smiling when you saw him.

“You stayed.” You say.

“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.” Bucky says with a smile.

Bucky sat down in the chair next to the hospital bed. He gently picked up your hand and kissed it, making you blush.

“You really know how to make a girl blush, James.” You say with a soft giggle.

“That’s part of my charm, doll face.” He says with a smile.

You giggled again, but then winced in pain.

“Be careful, doll. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He says.

You smiled at him.

“Did you really think I was dead?” You asked.

“Yes and it scared me. One of my worst fears is losing you.” He says.

“One of your worst fears is losing me?” You asked, making sure you heard him right.

“Yes and it’s only because I’m in love with you.” He admits.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. You have always knew that Bucky had a crush on you from the way he acts around you, but at the same time, you weren’t sure. His love confession confirmed it for you.

“You’re in love with me?” You asked in almost a whisper.

“I have been since I met you.” Bucky says.

You smiled at him and lifted your hand to caress his cheek, rubbing your thumb against his beard.

“Wanna know something?” You asked.

Bucky nods.

“I’m in love with you too.” You confessed. “That’s why I always played hard to get every time you flirt with me.” You say.

Bucky smiles widely. He leaned over and kissed you passionately. Your hand continued to caress his cheek. He then pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours, looking deep in your eyes.

“Was that kiss your way of asking me to be your doll?” You asked in a whisper.

“Only if you want to be. I don’t want to pressure you in any way.” He says.

“I would love to be your doll.” You say softly.

Bucky smiles and kisses you again. The kiss was short lived when the team walked in the room.

“I didn’t know hospitals provided this kind of treatment.” Yelena jokes, making you and Bucky laugh.

You and Bucky pulled away from each other. You looked at the team and smiled at them.

“How are you feeling?” Ava asks.

“Other than the little bit of pain, I’m fine.” You say.

As the team was visiting you, they noticed how touchy Bucky was being with you. They couldn’t tell if it was from almost losing you or having a crush on you. Maybe it’s a mix of both.

“Are you two a thing now?” John asks.

“Yes.” Bucky answers immediately.

Everyone smiled and congratulated you two on finally making it official. They visited a little bit longer before leaving so you and Bucky can be alone together.

“You’re so beautiful.” Bucky almost whispers.

“Even in a hospital gown?” You asked with a small giggle.

“It adds more to your beauty.” He says with a smile.

You smiled at him and gazed deeply in his eyes.

“I’m never letting you go.” He whispers.

You scooted over in the hospital bed, wanting Bucky to lay down next to you and cuddle you. You winced in pain when you moved.

“Cuddle me.” You murmured.

Bucky smiles and lays down next to you, wrapping his arms around you, being careful to not accidentally bump your wound.

“You’re coming home with me when you get released from here.” Bucky says.

“I would love that.” You whispered, smiling at him.

Bucky pecks your lips softly a few times and looks deep in your eyes.

“I don’t want to experience almost losing you again.” He says softly, his voice cracking.

“You won’t. I promise I’ll be more careful and ask for back up next time.” You promised.

“I love you so much, babydoll.” He whispers, kissing you sweetly and softly.

“I love you too, baby.” You say, smiling up at him.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll