#something something 'and they will recognize all the lines of your face / in the face of the daughter (son) of the daughter (son)

[melanchoire]

THE MIDNIGHT DETOUR ──── yu jimin

── ( 🌸 ) the constant jabs and petty games with your nemesis karina reach a boiling point at a party, culminating in a bathroom encounter where heated arguments give way to an even hotter, forbidden connection you never saw coming.

pairing. dom!popular girl!karina x sub!riival!fem reader

warning(s). bitting, degradation, fingering, hate sex???, making out, thigh riding.

word count. 4,8k

author's note. thank you so much for the almost 500 notes on the yujrina fic <3. right now i'm working on eight fics and four requests BUT feel free to keep sending requests or thoughts to my ask box 🙏🏻 i love doing this guys...

the fluorescent lights of the school hallway hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to the daily drama unfolding around you. you gripped your textbooks tighter, the worn covers offering a small comfort as you navigated the crowded space. ot wasn't just the sheer volume of bodies that made it feel like a minefield; it was them. the “ae-girls” as the student body had so aptly nicknamed karina's group. they moved through the corridors like royalty, their beauty a blinding force field that seemed to repel anyone who dared to stray too close.

you'd seen it happen with other groups before, the casual cruelty of popularity. but with karina and her crew, it felt different. more personal, more... calculated. you were no stranger to loud, boisterous friend groups. your own friends were certainly a handful, their humor sometimes landing with a thud outside your inner circle. but karina's group was something else entirely. it was a finely tuned symphony of subtle jabs, barely concealed snickers, and outright antagonism.

the “ae-girls” were a constant, irritating hum in your otherwise relatively quiet existence. you knew, rationally, that cliques and social dynamics were the lifeblood of high school, but you couldn't shake the feeling that they were deliberately, maliciously, targeting you.

ever since the day you'd first bumped into karina —literally, colliding mid-hallway, sending textbooks scattering across the floor— there had been a palpable tension, a current of electricity charged with something you couldn't quite name. it wasn’t just the typical high school drama. it felt as though they were actively trying to burrow under your skin, to find that one loose thread that would unravel you entirely.

the whispers were the first thing you noticed. walking past the ae-girls, you’d catch snippets of conversation, their eyes darting in your direction, their lips twitching with suppressed laughter. it was a performance of complicity, a silent communication that excluded you, that made you feel like the butt of some private joke you could never understand.

then there was winter. her method was more physical, a jarring disruption to your daily routine. you remember the chill of that particular day; the fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed as you walked, heading to math class, minding your own business, reviewing quadratic formulas in your head. she walked with a deliberate swagger, her blonde hair swinging around her face like a halo of mischief and suddenly, a sharp, unexpected impact sent you staggering. winter, all sleek lines and effortless cool, had deliberately slammed her shoulder into yours, a calculated, almost predatory move. you flinched, the force of the blow rattling your teeth.

“watch it.” you’d muttered, more surprised than angered.

winter just smirked, a tiny, almost petulant curve of her lips. “maybe you should be more aware of your surroundings.” her voice was a low, velvety purr, that made you shiver and not in a good way. she barely glanced back as she continued walking, her laughter mingling with giselle and ningning who were on her side.

and then there were giselle and ningning, the twin guardians of silent judgment, their gazes like a brand. you’d learned to recognize their looks, the heavy scrutiny that followed you down the hallway, the air thick with unspoken criticism. it felt like being dissected under a microscope, every movement, every imperfection magnified and analyzed.

you always see them in the mornings when students enter school, clustered near the lockers, bathed in the cold light.

giselle and ningning, their dark eyes flitting over the crowd, scanning for… what? targets? you swallowed, feeling the familiar pinprick of unease as their gazes landed on you, lingered, and then, with a barely perceptible smirk, moved on. it was always like this. they never said anything, but their looks spoke volumes, dissecting you, judging you with a silent, almost telepathic precision that made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

you remember one time, you were heading to the library. your footsteps echoed on the polished floor; the heavy silence was interrupted as you noticed them, they were in the corner talking with their heads down. when you passed by they raised their heads at the same time and stared, giving you a look that would curdle milk.

“what are you staring at?” you’d asked, your voice a little sharper than you’d intended. you stopped right in front of them.

giselle and ningning exchanged a look, a silent conversation that seemed to happen before your very eyes. they said nothing, their expression unchanging, a mask of detached disapproval. then, without another word, they simply turned and walked away, leaving you feeling exposed and foolish.

but karina... she was the epicenter of it all. you saw her, leaning against the lockers, her expression unreadable. she was breathtakingly beautiful, her features sharp and elegant, framed by the dark curtain of her hair. it was an unfair level of beauty, the kind that stopped you in your tracks, that made you forget everything else for a fleeting, agonizing moment. her beauty was a weapon, you thought, sharper and more dangerous than any of the subtle jabs her friends threw your way.

and it wasn't just her looks. it was the way she carried herself, the confidence that radiated from her like a heat wave. it was her voice, low and melodic, with a subtle rasp that sent a shiver down your spine despite yourself. you hated that voice. you hated the way it could draw you in, even as it was dripping with sarcasm and disdain. you hated the way it made you feel.

she was the one who always escalated, who threw herself into the fray, whether it was a confrontation with winter’s casual cruelty or an argument about giselle and ningning's incessant staring. she wasn't just a bystander; she was an active participant, a conductor of the symphony of your discomfort. you had plenty of fights with her, both verbal and physical, though they never quite got violent.

you remembered the first time you had spoken to her. it had been over a misplaced library book, a clumsy misunderstanding that had felt utterly catastrophic at the time. you had tried, stammering and flustered, to explain the situation, but karina had interrupted, her voice cool and laced with barely concealed amusement. “you always make such a mess.” she had said, looking at you with those piercing, dark eyes. “it's almost impressive.” you had been mortified, your cheeks burning with shame and anger. it wasn't just the words, but the way she said them, with a hint of something… else. something that you couldn’t quite place but that made your stomach churn in a way that felt both awful and exhilarating.

or the time when winter bumped into you, you'd been about to yell at winter but karina was there, stepping in front of winter. but instead of offering you a kind look of concern, she followed it with a sharp glance at you, a small, almost imperceptible curve to her lips that made you wonder if she was secretly mocking you even as she appeared to defend you. “you need to watch where you're going, clumsy.” she’d said, her voice laced with a kind of mocking amusement. her gaze was intense, and you found yourself inexplicably drawn to the rich depths of her dark eyes.

“i wasn't the one who bumped into someone!” you retorted, your hands balling into fists.

karina leaned closer, her breath fanning against your cheek. “maybe if you weren't so busy daydreaming, you would have seen her coming.” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. the way she talked to you was so infuriating, but her voice... it was like a melody, a song that somehow wrapped around you and made it difficult for you to think. you could have listened to her speak for hours.

when giselle and ningning’s silent stares became unbearable, and you dared to call them out, it was karina again, her voice cutting through the tension. “leave her alone, girls. don’t waste your time on her.” and again, that look, that strange mix of disdain and something… unreadable.

it was infuriating. it was mesmerizing. and it was, you had to admit, utterly confusing. you hated the way karina's presence could disrupt your carefully constructed world, the way she could make your heart pound in your chest with a mix of anger and... something else you didn't quite understand. it wasn't just that she was beautiful, it was the way she seemed to see you, to pierce through your carefully constructed facade and to see something hidden beneath the surface.

today, as you walked past her, you kept your gaze fixed ahead, trying to pretend she wasn't there, yet you could feel her eyes on you, heavy and intense. you could feel the faint warmth rising to your cheeks, and you hated it. you hated the way she could make you feel like a teenager again, all awkward and flustered. and yet, deep down, nestled within the layers of frustration and anger, there was a different feeling stirring, a confusing flutter that felt dangerously close to... not hate.

you wanted to scream at her, to demand an explanation, to ask her why she treated you this way. but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the strange ache that pulsated beneath your skin. you wanted to hate her. you wanted to erase her from your mind. but you knew, with a certainty that both terrified and excited you, that was impossible. because, beneath the layers of annoyance and antagonism, a strange and unnerving tension had begun to simmer, a tension that felt like a tightrope walk between loathing and something else entirely - something that felt incredibly dangerous. and incredibly, impossibly, alluring.

you wanted to hate her. but you were starting to wonder if you were already too far gone. the way those dark eyes held yours just a little too long, the way her voice wrapped around your name with a subtle rasp… it was starting to feel personal. and that, more than anything else, was terrifying.

the bass thrummed through the floor, vibrating up your legs and into your chest. it was the kind of party where the music was loud enough to drown out thought, where the air hung thick with sweat and the scent of cheap beer. around you, your friends were a cacophony of boisterous laughter and half-finished stories, their words washing over you like meaningless static. you nodded along, offered the occasional ‘yeah’ or ‘no way’ but your attention was elsewhere, a magnetic pull you couldn't quite ignore.

karina.

there she was, across the crowded living room, tucked away in a shadowed corner like a stray star. alone. it was a sight so incongruous with the image you had built of her – surrounded by her ‘ae-girls,’ her loyal pack – that it almost made you stop breathing. she was leaning against the wall, her gaze fixed on something beyond the party, a melancholic air clinging to her like the smoke from a forgotten cigarette.

a smirk played on your lips. this was it. an opportunity, maybe even an invitation, to finally cut through the layers of manufactured arrogance she wore like expensive perfume. you hadn't come here tonight expecting anything more than the usual awkward small talk and forced laughter, but the universe, in its twisted sense of humor, had presented you with this.

you excused yourself from your group, their chatter fading into the background as you navigated the sea of bodies. each step you took felt deliberate, a purposeful march towards a confrontation that you knew, deep down, you craved. when you finally reached her, the space between you felt charged, the air crackling with the unspoken history you shared.

“the queen bee without her hive. playing bad all by yourself, are you?” the words were out of your mouth before you could bite them back, a challenge laced with the bitterness you’d come to associate with her. you stood a few feet away, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected by the way her eyes snapped up and locked with yours. those eyes, you were sure, could freeze hell itself.

karina turned her head slowly, her eyes, sharp and obsidian, locking onto yours. a flicker of something – was it a surprise? – crossed her face before her usual mask of indifference slid back into place. “and you…” she drawled, her voice a low, velvety purr that sent a shiver down your spine despite your best efforts to remain stoic.

a slow, predatory smile bloomed on her face, the kind that promised trouble and the thrill of a dangerous game. “and you’re here, i see. did you forget everyone else, or were you always this obsessed with me?” her voice, the honeyed velvet you secretly adored, sent shivers down your spine, a sensation you would vehemently deny if asked.

"obsessed? please. i just thought you looked a little lonely without your little band of tormentors around to back you up.” you retorted, leaning closer, the scent of her perfume, a heady mix of sandalwood and something dangerously floral, filling your senses. “i just didn’t expect to find you all alone, stripped of your little lapdogs. It’s almost…disarming.” it was a weak jab, you knew it, but it was enough to elicit a low, throaty laugh from her.

her lips curled into a smirk, a flash of white teeth that made your stomach clench. “disarming? honey, you have no idea what kind of power i hold, with or without those girls behind me.” she took a step closer, narrowing the distance between you, the heat rolling off her body like a tangible thing.

“and sweetheart,” she purred, taking a step closer, the gap between you closing, the air crackling between you, “we’re just having a little fun here. you, on the other hand, seem a little… preoccupied.”

the heat in your cheeks had nothing to do with the stifling air. your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. “preoccupied? i’m… i'm just stating facts.”

“are you?” she whispered, moving closer, her breath ghosting over your ear, “or are you just looking for a little attention from someone who can actually handle you?”

a strange, dizzying sensation twisted in your stomach. it wasn't a question, it was a declaration, a challenge thrown down like a gauntlet. “handle me? you think you can handle me? you're all bark and no bite. without giselle's death stares, winter's shoulder bumps, and ningning's silent judgments, you're nothing.”

she didn't answer. instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against your arm, a touch that sent a surge of electricity through your veins. “come with me.” she murmured, her voice a low command that you found yourself strangely compelled to obey.

and just like that, you were following her, weaving through the crowd, away from the music and the noise, towards the back of the house, a place you knew was usually empty, and a strange sense of dread and anticipation began to bubble inside of you.

you found yourselves in a small, dimly lit bathroom. the music was muffled here, the air thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. you leaned against the cold tile wall, the back of your head thudding softly as you tried to catch your breath, and karina stepped inside; she turned and locked the door.

she didn't speak, didn’t even look at you directly for a moment. she just stood there, a few feet away, her eyes watching you like a predator sizing up its prey. you tried to hold her gaze, but the intensity was too much, and your eyes drifted to her lips, the curve of them, the hint of a smirk playing on the corners.

“so…” she drawled, her voice low and husky, “what exactly did you want from me?”

your mind was a blank slate, your carefully constructed arguments dissolving into nothingness. “i— i don't know…” you stammered, hating the way you suddenly felt, small and unsure, completely at her mercy.

karina laughed, a short, sharp sound that was more taunt than amusement. “that’s what i thought.” she moved without warning, closing the distance between you in two quick strides. her hand shot out to grab your chin, tilting your head up so that you were forced to meet her gaze. “ypu're not so tough when it comes to me, are you?���

before you could form a coherent thought, her lips were on yours, a bruising, demanding kiss that stole your breath away. it was everything you had wanted, everything you had never dared to dream of, all wrapped up in one intoxicating moment. you instinctively kissed back, your body responding to hers with a desperate need that shocked you.

her hands roamed, tracing the curve of your jaw, delving into your hair, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. you could feel every inch of her, the heat of her skin pressing against yours, the hard muscle beneath her soft curves.

“you like this, don't you?" she murmured against your lips, her voice laced with a smugness that both infuriated and aroused you. “you like that i’m the one in control. you like that i decide when to kiss you, what to do with you.” she punctuated her words with sharp little bites on your bottom lip, sending shivers of pleasure through you.

her hands began to roam, tracing the curves of your body, sending sparks of desire through your veins. she explored your waist, the curve of your hip, and the small of your back with a boldness that made you breathless. her fingers brushed the edges of your clothes, teasing and taunting you with their delicate touch.

her hands pushed at your shirt, sliding beneath the hem, her cool fingers sending jolts of electricity through you. you whimpered, a mix of protest and surrender. she chuckled, a low rumble against your ear.

her hand slid down lower, finding the waistband of your pants, her fingers teasing you, sending sparks of sensation through your core. “tell me,” she breathed into your ear. “tell me you want this.”

you wanted to deny it, to pull away, to reassert some semblance of control. but the words caught in your throat, replaced by a soft moan as her fingers found their mark, slick heat blooming between your legs. “karina please—”

“you're so easy,” she murmured against your lips, her breath hot and intoxicating. “i could do anything to you right now and you wouldn't stop me.” the words were degrading, a calculated humiliation, but instead of anger, you felt a strange thrill course through you, a sense of surrender that was both terrifying and irresistible.

you pulled back slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps. “you’re so mean.” you whispered, your voice trembling, the truth of her words hitting home with full force.

she laughed, a low, throaty sound that reverberated through your body. “and you love it.” she said, her eyes sparkling with a dangerous glint, pulling you closer once more, the dance of dominance and submission continuing. the kiss was deeper, more passionate, her tongue exploring your mouth with a confident, practiced ease. you were lost in her, drowning in the force of her touch and the intoxicating pull of her personality, the feeling of a strange mix of fear and a longing that you never knew you possessed.

you, completely overtaken with sensation, didn't even realize how long you were in there, or how much her words both insulted and intoxicated you, but as the kiss deepened, and her hands roamed more, the reality that your friends were probably looking for you, and just the whole situation in general, slowly began to cloud the haze of lust.

she takes you out of your thoughts when her deft fingers made quick work of the button on your jeans. karina smirked as she slowly slid her hand into your unzipped jeans, teasingly tracing the lace of your panties. she rubbed your clothed slit with the heel of her palm, applying just enough pressure to make you squirm.

karina's voice was a low, urgent growl in your ear. "fuck, you're so wet already… is all this because of those stupid kisses i just gave you a few moments ago? or have you been this wet all night since you got here because your little head has been thinking about me touching you? dirty slut… getting this turned on in public. i bet you want my fingers buried inside your tight little cunt, don't you?”

karina's nimble fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing along your clothed slit. she rubbed slow, maddening circles over your clothed clit, applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl in your shoes. “that's why you always give attitude, isn't it? is giving dirty looks and a bitchy attitude your way of saying you want me to fuck you silly?” her other hand slid under your shirt, caressing the smooth skin of your tummy before cupping your breast, kneading the supple flesh.

“poor little thing... you must be really desperate, aren't you? karina purred, feeling the dampness seeping through the fabric. she slipped a finger under the waistband and pulled your panties aside, exposing your bare, glistening folds.

karina dragged a single fingertip along your slit, barely grazing your sensitive flesh, from your entrance up to your clit. she circled the throbbing bud with maddening slowness, not quite touching it directly.

“please—”

karina chuckled darkly at your needy plea, relishing the power she held over you. she continued her torturous teasing, now running two fingers slowly up and down your dripping slit, spreading your wetness throughout all your folds and then slipping her finger just barely inside your tight entrance, only to pull it out and circle your clit again.

“please what, baby? say it.” karina demanded, her hot breath washing over your neck. she nipped at your earlobe, tugging it between her teeth. “beg for my fingers like a good little slut.”

“please no, this is embarrassing, i—”

"but you're so wet… i can feel it dripping down your thighs. you want my fingers so badly, don't you slut?” she circled your clit once more, drawing a needy whimper from your lips before finally, mercifully, pressing down on the sensitive nub. “c’mon, baby. tell me how badly you need my fingers buried deep in this hungry cunt. i want to hear you say it.” she rasped, her voice thick with lust and dominance.

karina smirked as she felt your body tremble against hers, your breathing growing ragged. she loved reducing you to this desperate, aching mess. her finger traced maddening circles around your entrance, dipping just the tiniest bit inside before retreating, over and over.

“please, karina... please fuck me.” you gasped out, too far gone to hold back your plea. “i need your fingers so badly. i'm so fucking wet and empty... please fill me up.”

karina let out a low, wicked laugh. “mmmh, good girl. i love when you beg for it.” she purred approvingly. without warning, she plunged two fingers deep into your soaked, clenching heat, pumping them in and out at a brutal pace.

“that's it, take my fingers like the greedy little slut you are.” karina growled, her thumb grinding against your clit. her other hand shoved your bra up and out of the way, allowing her to roughly palm and squeeze your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak.

the bathroom filled with the obscene sound of your wetness, the slap of karina's palm against your pussy, and your desperate, wanton moans.

karina's fingers curled inside you, stroking your g-spot with ruthless precision as she finger-fucked you mercilessly. her thumb rubbed tight circles around your clit, the stimulation overwhelming your senses.

“fuck, baby, your cunt is gripping my fingers so tightly. i can feel you getting close.” karina rasped, her voice heavy with lust. she leaned in, biting and sucking at your neck, determined to leave her mark on your skin.

suddenly, she pulled her fingers out, leaving you empty and aching. before you could protest, she slammed you against the bathroom wall. her lips crashed against yours in a bruising, demanding kiss, her tongue invading your mouth.

karina grabbed your wrists, pinning your hands above your head as she kissed you deeply, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her knee pressed between your thighs, rubbing against your dripping, throbbing clit. she broke the kiss, both of you panting heavily.

she smirked wickedly as she felt you grinding your hips against her thigh, desperate for any friction. karina grabbed your ass, squeezing the firm cheeks as she encouraged your movements.

“that's it, ride my thigh like the needy little slut you are.” karina purred, her voice dripping with dark amusement. she could feel your wetness soaking through her jeans, staining the denim. the bathroom echoed with the obscene sound of your pussy rubbing against her thigh, your panting breaths, and karina's approving moans.

keeping your wrists pinned above you, karina leaned in to attack your neck, biting and sucking at the tender skin. she wanted to mark you, to leave you with bruises and hickies that would remind you of this moment every time you looked in the mirror.

karina roughly palmed your bare breast, rolling and pinching the stiff peak between her fingers. she tugged and plucked at your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

karina could feel your movements growing erratic, your desperation reaching a fever pitch as you rutted against her thigh. she could tell you were teetering on the edge, your body tensing and shaking.

“c’mon baby, cum for me.” karina purred, her voice a sinful whisper against your ear. “i want to feel you gush all over my thigh. go ahead, let go and cum like the dirty girl you are.”

to push you over the precipice, karina pinched your nipple hard, twisting it as she bit down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, breaking the skin. at the same time, she pressed her thigh harder against your clit, grinding against it with ruthless intensity.

the combination of intense sensations overwhelmed you, and you shattered, coming undone against her. your vision went white as your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing and shaking uncontrollably. karina held you tight, not letting you fall as your pussy clenched and spasmed, gushing your release onto her thigh as a scream of ecstasy ripped from your throat.

ehe continued to grind her thigh against your spasming sex, drawing out your climax and making you ride out the waves of pleasure.

when your orgasm finally began to subside, karina captured your lips in a searing, dominating kiss. she plundered your mouth, her tongue stroking and caressing every inch of you, swallowing your whimpers and moans. her hands roamed your body, squeezing and groping your curves possessively.

finally, she pulled back, leaving you gasping and boneless against the wall, your chest heaving. “mmmh, look at the mess you made, you naughty girl…” karina teased, trailing her fingers through the damp patch before bringing them to her mouth. she made a show of licking your juices off, her eyes never leaving yours. “delicious. i knew you'd taste as good as you look.”

her hand slid around your hip, squeezing the curve of your ass as she pressed closer, pinning you neatly between her body and the wall. karina's lips found your neck once more, her mouth hot and open against your skin.

karina pulled back slightly, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and unquenched desire. she glanced at her phone, a smirk playing on her lips. "shit, look at the time. i gotta jet…”

karina cursed under her breath but quickly composed herself, stepping back from you. she smirked as she glanced down at your disheveled appearance; your jeans still unbuttoned, your shirt rumpled, and your hair mussed. the satisfied flush on your cheeks was unmistakable.

“we'll definitely do this again.” she said casually, as if finger-fucking you senseless in a bathroom was an everyday occurrence for her. “but don't think this is over. i'm not done with you yet, not by a long shot."

karina leaned in close, her lips brushing yours teasingly as she whispered. “i'll find you later. maybe tonight, i'll sneak into your dorm room and finish what we started here. wear something easy to take off.” she purred, before stealing a quick, hard kiss and pulling away.

with a final wink, karina turned and sauntered out of the bathroom, leaving you dazed, aroused, and eagerly anticipating her promised nighttime visit. you knew this was only the beginning of your adventures with the infamous queen bee, karina.

[dronningreid]

✧ Part 1: All the times I knew you

A seemingly ordinary case turns into something more when reader returns to Reid's life. Forcing him to tell something that he never told, the beginning of a story that broke his heart fourteen years ago.

change the ending series masterlist

who? Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

category: angst/fluff

warnings/content: reader jealous, reader is a little mean to jj (nothing personal, i love that queen), mentions of maeve, allusion to bullying, special appearance of alex blake, reid is a little mean to reader, very vague mentions of a case and reader and reid appear aged 12, 15 and 31. English is not my first language.

word count: 3.1K

a/n: Hello this is the first part of my series 'Change the ending' I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved writing this. There are a couple of references to the song cardigan (because that is my most personal song and also Spencer's)

14 years, 160 days, 33 minutes and 13 seconds. That was all the time that had passed since Reid last saw you.

It is said that there are always more questions than answers and that has never made more sense than today.

Today's case promised to be average on the Reid scale, of course.

Today promised to be just another day, like the rest. Just an irrelevant Wednesday where he would miss the Sunday of talking to Maeve, which was still fresh in his mind.

As fresh as you, a memory he should have let burn away fourteen years ago. But it wasn't that easy, even without his eidetic memory you attached yourself to his cerebral cortex as if you had been there since the first time he opened his eyes.

If there was one thing he had learned all those years ago, it was that the memories most want to forget are the ones hold on to the most tightly.

"Earth calling Reid." JJ waved her hand in front of his friend's face.

He blinked a few times. “Yeah. What’s up?” He tried to keep his gaze on JJ, but his eyes kept drifting to your shape. So close and so far at the same time... Just like the last time.

Maybe it was a mistake in his mind and it wasn't you, fourteen years had passed. How could he even recognize you? He didn't even know if you were still alive.

Maybe this time it was like when everything ended and he thought he saw you everywhere. In the grocery line, at school, at home...

As if you were a phantom he couldn't get rid of.

He knew those shadows weren't you and yet every time he thought he saw you it was like such a simple activity like breath became complicated out of nowhere. You used to have that effect, honestly you still have it.

Jennifer frowned before turning her gaze to you. But a couple more eyes weren't enough for you realize what was happen. "You know her?" The question caught him off guard.

How should he even answer such a question? Yes, more than anything. No. Of course. Maybe. Neither was a sufficient answer because on the one hand of course he knew you, at least that's how it was before and that's why he didn't know you, at least not now.

He shoved his hands into his pockets before finally looking at JJ. “She looks like someone I used to know.” 100% true? No, but pretty close.

"I was hoping so, it would help us if you met her." Reid frowned. "Bertram is our most viable suspect, if we lose him we're going to hit a wall." JJ explained something that Reid should already know, should.

"And what does that have to do with her?" Reid raised an eyebrow.

JJ was the one who frowned this time. "Spence, she is Bertram's lawyer. Are you okay?"

When he was about to answer, you approached him, increasing his questions, doubts and clumsiness.

"I'm Bertram Harris' lawyer." You introduced yourself before continuing, answering at least one of Spencer's questions. "What is the imaginary evidence against my client? Because if there was real evidence, charges would have already been filed." He knew that harsh tone so well...

"We have 48 hours before we file charges." Reid replied seriously.

"46 hours." You corrected so casually. He recognized you, but you didn't recognize him? Ouch.

"Well, we have a profile-" You didn't let Jennifer finish speaking.

"Profiles." You let out an exaggerated sigh. "I bet a lot of people would fit in your profile, so that's not enough to prove my client guilty in court." You spoke firmly, fierce as a defense lawyer, and you weren't in court yet. And even though he didn't exactly like your attitude, he had to admit that you were good.

Reid crossed his arms. "Out of so many people, it's amazing that the evidence will lead us right to your client. So we'll take advantage of the 46 hours we have left."

You snorted. "Fine, but when time passes and all of you have nothing against my client, he'll be upset about the time you made him waste." You pulled a pen out of your bag. "Give me your names."

JJ and Spencer shared a look before sighing and agreeing to your request. "Jennifer Jareau." You jotted the name down on your palm.

"Spencer Reid." A hint of mockery crept into his serious tone. Yes, you probably didn't remember his face, but his name was something you'd never forget.

You barely wrote the S on your palm and it was like the ink turned to poison when it came into contact with your skin. You immediately rubbed your palm against your trousers before looking up. "Spencer Re...?" The last few letters died in your mouth.

Of course, no one else had those beautiful eyes with hazel colors and golden flecks. So bright, so honest, so innocent. But now in those eyes there was nothing more than severity.

JJ's gaze traveled from Reid to you and back to Reid, using her profiling skills to determine why the air had suddenly become so thick.

"You look... Different." You whispered as he suddenly decided that silence was his best friend.

The wall he had built so long ago was still as strong as the last time you saw him. The last time he saw you he was so serious but this time after fourteen years he made you feel like you were seventeen again.

"You too." Rather than stating the obvious, that sounded like an insult.

JJ cleared her throat. "Spence." He looked away from you. "You know her?" Jennifer whispered in a failed attempt to get you not hear her.

"No." You were surprised at how quickly the letters that came out of his mouth took shape.

"Liar." You pointed out before looking at Jennifer. Though your attention wavered to the ring on her finger. "He knows every inch of me." You lifted your chin.

JJ raised her eyebrows and the way she looked at Reid it seemed more like gossip to her than a tease...

You thought. <<Yeah, maybe she doesn't>>

"Her husband's name is Will. It's not me, she's just my friend." He clarified, though it's not like you were entitled to clarification. At least you hadn't had that right for a long time.

Even when he was just a student he also had that ability to read you like an open book.

"And as for what you said, I'm not a liar." His tone was painfully stern. "I knew you before, fourteen years ago, but that's too long for anyone to remember." That's what he wanted to repeat to himself, because honestly the memories that were about you had no expiration date. "Now and maybe even then I have no idea who you are."

He gave you one last look before turning on his heel and walking off to somewhere where he couldn't sense your presence.

"I'll talk to Bertram about not pressing charges." JJ looked at you in confusion and to be honest even you couldn't believe that a stupid teenage love affair was enough to affect your work. At least you weren't the only one going through something like that.

"And I'm sorry..." A lump formed in your throat. "Maybe I shouldn't even ask you this, but could you deliver something to Spencer?" You then pulled a card out of your bag and handed it to Jennifer.

She studied the black card in her hand for a few seconds, carefully looking at your name and phone number. "Of course, I'll give it to him." She smiled slightly at you.

You gave her an awkward smile before turning away. God, you felt so stupid now for thinking she was his wife. Besides, what would be wrong with him having a wife? Spencer Reid deserved to be happy.

As soon as you left the police station, JJ pulled out his phone. "Penelope, you won't believe what just happened."

∗⋅✧⋅∗

Reid was in a small office going over all the evidence again for a reason he wouldn't admit out loud.

But he had already checked everything three times and had hit a wall all three times. The time it took him to figure things out could vary, but this was different.

What he didn't know was that the answer was there, it's just that his mind was too clouded at the moment to realize it.

And all that mental fog had a name: yours.

He loosened his tie, taking a deep breath to regulate his racing heart. Apparently you still had that effect on him, you, the protagonist of a story so old that it must have already had cobwebs. But unfortunately for him, that wasn't the case...

Spencer gripped the edge of the desk before taking another deep breath.

But his attempts to relax were cut short when his worst enemy: his own memory made him relive the last time he kissed your lips...

The soft skin against each other, the mingled breaths, your hands in his hair and the way he didn't see that those would be the last kisses.

"Another disadvantage of eidetic memory," he told himself. But now that he thought about it, did it have any benefit? Of course it did. But all the tangled threads in his mind didn't allow see the reality.

Someone knocked on the door and he jumped slightly in place before looking towards the door. "Blake..."

Blake smiled slightly at him. "Hi." Her eyes scanned the papers scattered across the desk and then Reid's disheveled appearance. "Is everything okay?"

He nodded quickly, taking his seat back behind the desk. "Yeah." But the way Alex looked at him made him say something else. "Not really."

She sat down in front of him. "Yes, we all know about the pretty lawyer."

"Jennifer..." Reid huffed before running his hands over his face.

"And who is she?" Blake asked in her usual calm tone.

<<Good question>>

A short time ago he was telling her about Maeve, he never thought he would tell Blake about another girl again and not so suddenly... But honestly you weren't another girl, you were THE GIRL.

Reid sighed. "She's nobody." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It must be someone if the smartest guy I know hasn't already given us a big revelation that will help with this case." Blake looked at him with understanding eyes. "Go ahead Reid, talking about it will help."

Reid rubbed his knees with his hands. "Well I can't tell you who she's, but I can tell you who she was."

∗⋅✧⋅∗

Spencer took a deep breath. "I don't even know where to start."

"The beginning is perhaps the easiest." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, encouraging him to continue.

"We had a lot of beginnings, if that's possible." He ran a hand through his hair.

His mind traveled back to the first interaction he had with you, when you were both 12. But before that, something else had to happen for him to get to know you, something very bad.

He was in the library when Harper Hillman approached him.

"Alexa Isben wants to meet you behind the field house." She said.

She was there. So was the entire football team. They stripped him naked and tied him to a goal post. So many kids were there, just watching...

He begged them to, but they just watched. Then finally they got bored and they left.

He had told that story to Morgan years ago, but he had completely erased you from it. Until now.

Alex looked at him with compassion. "It got dark and I thought I would stay there forever. But then she appeared..." He looked away, remembering it as if it were yesterday.

A little twelve-year-old you ran towards the goal post. "Oh my god. Who did this to you?" You kept your eyes fixed on his defeated face.

He had never seen you before, did you even study there? Because you didn't look the same age as the guys he was going to graduate with, the ones who had done this to him...

You looked much younger, like him.

You weren't discouraged by his lack of words, instead you considered how to help him. "Wait here, I'll go get some clothes and some scissors to cut the rope." You didn't wait for an answer, you just ran off to find what you told him.

The cold of the night was beginning to seep through his skin, freezing him. He didn't even think you'd come back, but then. "Be careful with the scissors, if I sting you, let me know." So you put all your effort into cutting the rope, at that moment you regretted not carrying a knife for ease.

Luckily, a single cut was enough to release the rope. You then spread the clothes you had found over him and covered your eyes with your hand.

"I hope it fits, it's my brother's so it might be a little big on you." Spencer took the clothes from your hands.

"Thank you." He whispered as he hurriedly put on each item of clothing. "You can look now." He said once he finished putting on the shirt.

You pulled your hand away from your eyes. “Oh, I forgot the jacket. You must be freezing cold.” You said as you hurriedly unbuttoned your loose black cardigan.

"Oh, you don't have to..." Embarrassment seeped into his words but you still put your cardigan on him.

"It's okay. You need it more than me. By the way, I'm..." Then you told him your name.

He watched as you finished buttoning the cardigan. "Spencer. Spencer Reid."

"You should tell me the names of those who did this to you, then I can tell my mother to expel them. She's the principal." You let your hands fall to your sides.

"It's not that bad..." Yes it was.

"Of course it was!" You exclaimed. "Give me names and I'll beat them up myself. I hate bullies."

Spencer let out a light laugh that quickly disappeared at the bitter feelings bubbling up inside him. "They're the older guys, you can't handle them. Besides, this could have been worse."

"Don't underestimate me." You tried to joke. "Worse? How long have you been tied up there? It's almost midnight" You looked at him with concern.

"Midnight?" His eyes widened. Surely his mother was worried that he hadn't come home.

So you grabbed him by the sleeve of the cardigan and dragged him along. "Come, I'll ask my dad to take you home."

∗⋅✧⋅∗

"So her dad drove you home?" Blake asked.

"Yes. It was like midnight when I got home. My mom didn't even realize I was late. She was having one of her episodes..." He sigh, how could something that had happened so long ago still have such a negative power over him? "I know I shouldn't get into a stranger's car and technically nothing bad happened to me, they helped me. But I did it... Because I felt like I could trust her but maybe it wasn't a good idea from the start."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that to meet her."

Spencer sighed and looked down. "I regret about both."

"Both?" Blake looked at him in confusion.

Reid looked up. "Yeah, what happened that day and meeting her." He replied with a seriousness too cold to be true.

Blake stared at him in silence for a couple of seconds before speaking again. "What happened next?"

"I don't saw her again, it was like she just vanished." He sighed. "Then three years passed and there she was again..."

"I was studying for my first PhD at MIT so I decided that over the holidays I wanted to go home to visit my mother. But instead of taking a flight I decided to travel by train."

It's funny how a single decision can affect our future.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

"The last train to Las Vegas leaves in five minutes." A voice announced through one of the speakers.

"One ticket, please." The woman at the ticket office handed him his ticket once he gave her the money.

Reid was about to board the train when you crashed into it.

"I'm so sorry." you continued to apologize as you helped him up from the floor.

He brushed off his clothes once he was standing again. "It's okay, don't worry."

You tried not to look at him, not after you had thrown him to the floor. But he did look at you which made his heart skip a beat when he recognized you.

He stared in your direction for a couple of seconds before deciding to continue and board the train.

"Oh, I, I had my money here." You patted your jacket pockets. "If you could just help me I'd pay you right away... It's just that it's very important for me to have that ticket because it's the last train to Las Vegas and I really need to go." But the woman at the ticket office didn't take pity on you.

Then Reid came over. "I'll pay for the ticket."

The woman didn't say anything, she just accepted Reid's money and handed you the ticket, which you immediately took.

"Thank you so much, you just saved my life." You followed him to board the train together.

"Okay, we're even now." He smiled slightly at you.

You hadn't planned on sitting next to a complete stranger but you followed him. "We're even?" You asked as he placed his luggage in the compartment.

"I'm Spencer." He hope that will refresh your mind.

You opened your mouth in surprise. "Of course! Spencer Reid, I remember you well." You scanned him from top to bottom. "The answer to where I left my favorite cardigan three years ago." You tried to load your luggage into the compartment but couldn't.

He helped you out, like a true gentleman. "I'm sorry I didn't see you again after that. Do you want it back?" He asked after closing the compartment door.

"You still have it?" You asked in disbelief.

"It's my favorite too." He whispered.

∗⋅✧⋅∗

"I didn't plan on things being like this, but she and I were together the whole trip. Just chatting and-" He looked down as nostalgia washed over him. "Marked me like a blood stain..."

"She seems pretty nice so far." Blake commented. "What went wrong?"

"She was really nice." He sighed. "At that time, nothing bad had happened. In fact, after that incredible trip I lost track of her again and didn't see her again until two years later."

He looked up. "But I didn't really know her until our third beginning, when everything started to go wrong..."

[mssishipi]

CHAPTER 2: mr. panties stealer - enhypen! heesung

PAIRING: broke! rookie panty stealer! heesung x reader, senior panty stealer! jake x reader

SYNOPSIS: When Heesung discovers his roommate Beomgyu's bizarre side hustle-stealing panties for cash in a campus-wide competition-he's appalled. But after hearing about the insane prize money, his moral compass wavers.

Overwhelmed by deadlines and broke from juggling classes and a café job, Heesung finally snaps. Armed with Beomgyu's tips and a growing desperation, Heesung sets out to grab the bag-and maybe a shred of dignity along the way.

chapter includes: profanities, beomgyu and jake being an asshole and a creep, heesung's love for noodles, boys thinks they are smart but reader is smarter, heesung is a softie, "boys will be boys".

chapter 1 - chapter 3

Heesung woke up to the combination of Beomgyu's loud scream and his entire body being shaken like a ragdoll.

"Fuck off!" Heesung groaned, instinctively kicking Beomgyu, who tumbled off the bed with an exaggerated yelp. Heesung buried his face under a pillow, hoping for peace.

"Dude, you need to wake up! It's registration day!" Beomgyu yelled from the floor, climbing back up and shaking Heesung's shoulder.

"Don't care," Heesung grumbled, voice muffled by the pillow. "Let me die in peace."

"Come on, man! Get up! I'm gonna teach you some ways to make bank!" Beomgyu's voice hit a pitch so high that Heesung finally sat up, squinting at him.

Business plans, endless research, and shifts at the café had worn him down. All he wanted was sleep—or maybe a massage that didn't cost an arm and a leg.

"Get up!" Beomgyu practically dragged Heesung out of bed, pulling him by the arm with a strength that shouldn't exist in someone so lean. Heesung, too tired to resist, stumbled along behind him until they reached the bathroom.

"You need to get ready. There's only limited slots," Beomgyu said, practically vibrating with excitement.

Heesung growled something unintelligible and slammed the bathroom door shut. He sat under the shower, staring blankly at the tiles while the water dripped over his head. He debated just going back to bed, but Beomgyu's yelling outside the door made that impossible.

Ten minutes later, Heesung emerged looking dead inside, wearing jeans and a wrinkled sweater he'd found on the floor.

Beomgyu clapped his hands. "Let's go! We gotta catch the bus!"

Too exhausted to argue, Heesung followed. Beomgyu talked nonstop during the ride, but Heesung tuned him out, nodding occasionally to make it seem like he was listening.

When they arrived at their destination—a nondescript building—Heesung's curiosity piqued slightly. But it wasn't until they reached the designated floor that his eyes truly widened.

There was a long line of men, all chatting excitedly, some looking oddly determined. It felt like an unspoken energy of competition lingered in the air.

"Yo, Beomgyu!" A guy with glasses and a buzzcut called out, waving them over. Heesung immediately recognized him—Hyunjin, one of the 00 Liners notorious for hosting wild campus parties.

"Hyunjin! Nice buzzcut, man," Beomgyu greeted, holding out a fist for a bump.

Hyunjin grinned and bumped fists. "Thanks, bro." Hyunjin eyes looked at him. "And you are?"

Beomgyu threw an arm around Heesung's shoulders, pulling him closer. "This is Heesung. I recruited him. He's my rookie!"

"Rookie, huh?" Hyunjin grinned, extending his hand toward Heesung. "I'm Hyunjin, one of the organizers of the game. Welcome to the chaos."

Heesung shook his hand reluctantly, already regretting this.

"So, two weeks from now is the 28th, huh? I'm guessing things are going to get tougher this time?" Hyunjin smirked. "The stakes are higher, and everyone's upping their strategies. Hope you're ready for a challenge."

Beomgyu groaned dramatically. "Pfft, don't listen to him. I'm gonna teach you the ropes. I work smarter, not harder. That's why I ranked so high last month."

"May the odds be in your favor," Hyunjin said with a mock bow, quoting The Hunger Games before turning to greet someone else.

Beomgyu tugged Heesung's arm. "Come on, I'll show you my Upper Ranking from last month. We need to secure our slot."

Heesung sighed but followed him, sidestepping the long line of participants before entering a small, plain room. Inside, he noticed a wooden table, a single chair, and a few guys hunched over laptops, typing furiously.

"All this effort... for a panty competition?" Heesung muttered under his breath, struggling to comprehend what he'd gotten himself into.

His gaze wandered to a cabinet in the corner with rows of labeled drawers, each one featuring a girl's name on a neatly printed sticker.

"What the hell is this?" Heesung asked, frowning.

"That," Beomgyu said, suddenly popping up behind him, "is the owner database. We don't just steal panties at random, rookie. This game is about finesse. We investigate the owner first—get to know their routines, habits, and laundry schedules. It's all about strategy."

Heesung stared at him, mouth slightly open. "You're stalking them?"

"Whoa, whoa. Not stalking. Researching. Big difference," Beomgyu said, wagging a finger like a scolding teacher.

"Right..." Heesung muttered, his gaze drifting back to the cabinet. His eyes locked on a familiar name stuck to one of the drawers.

"Come on," Beomgyu said, yanking his sleeve. "I already registered our names. Pay for registration fee. Let me show you my ways." He winked before dragging Heesung out of the room.

"You know, as a seasoned three-month veteran," Beomgyu started dramatically, gesturing as if he were delivering a TED Talk, "my advice? Be mindful. Don't trust anybody in this game. Not even me! Keep your guard up, because once the game begins..."

He paused for effect, his voice dropping. "It's like a bloodbath."

Heesung blinked at him, unimpressed. "A bloodbath? Dude, we're talking about stealing panties, not battling for some shit."

"Same energy," Beomgyu shot back, pointing at him.

As they walked, Beomgyu continued his overly enthusiastic tutorial. "There are terms and conditions you'll get three days before the event, so I won't bother explaining all that. But let me tell you why guys love targeting the laundry shop. Used panties—those are worth extra points."

Heesung nearly tripped over his own feet. "Used panties? Extra points?!"

"Yup," Beomgyu said, nodding solemnly as if he were explaining a universal truth. "Not-used panties are worth 5 points each, but used panties? Those bad boys are worth 10 points. It's the gold standard of the competition."

"What the actual fuck?" Heesung scoffed, half-laughing and half-gagging. "They have a point system for this?!"

"Of course!" Beomgyu replied cheerfully. "You think we're just running around stealing random undies for no reason? There's strategy, my dude. Artistry."

Heesung stared at him in disbelief, torn between laughing hysterically and calling security at his own. "This is the dumbest—and creepiest—thing I've ever heard."

Beomgyu shrugged, unfazed. "Welcome to the game, rookie."

They ended up at the entrance of the girls' dormitory. Heesung's jaw practically hit the floor as he watched Beomgyu smirking, casually typing on his phone like this was his second home.

"What are we doing here?" Heesung whispered harshly, glancing around nervously.

"Relax, rookie," Beomgyu said, pocketing his phone as they walked down the hallway. "You're about to witness the master's strategy."

Heesung barely had time to respond before Beomgyu stopped in front of door 708 and knocked softly.

The door opened, revealing a girl with long, shiny hair and a pout that could probably get her whatever she wanted.

"Karina! How are you, sweetie?" Beomgyu cooed, opening his arms.

Karina's face lit up, and she threw herself into his embrace, hugging him tightly. "Beomgyu! My panties are missing again!"

Heesung froze mid-step, his brain stuttering to process the scene in front of him. Beomgyu hugged her back, his hand gently patting her shoulder, even leaning down to kiss the top of her head like some doting boyfriend.

"Oh no," Beomgyu said, his voice dripping with concern. "That's awful! I told you to use the laundry service with better security, didn't I?"

Karina buried her face further into his chest, her voice muffled as she cried, "I did! We all did! I told the other girls too, but they just keep disappearing! It's like they're targeting us!"

Beomgyu sighed, holding her a little tighter. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'll help you figure it out, okay? We'll get to the bottom of this."

Karina sniffled, nodding against his chest. "You're always so helpful, Beomgyu..."

He shot a quick wink over her shoulder at Heesung, whose mouth was still hanging open.

Heesung finally snapped out of his daze, glaring at him. This was the strategy he was talking about?

"Oh, who's this, baby?" Karina asked, pulling away from Beomgyu and pointing at Heesung.

"This is Heesung, my roommate I told you about," Beomgyu said smoothly. "We were supposed to go to the grocery store, but then I thought of you since your dorm is so close by."

Karina pouted, leaning her head back against Beomgyu's chest. "Beomgyu, you're so sweet! I definitely needed some comfort right now."

Heesung cringed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he avoided making eye contact.

"Come in! I'm actually making nachos!" Karina said cheerfully, waving them toward the door.

Beomgyu and Heesung exchanged a quick glance. Beomgyu grinned and raised his eyebrows, wiggling them playfully before stepping inside.

"Observe the surroundings," Beomgyu whispered to Heesung as they followed Karina in. "Look for spots where you could enter later."

Heesung's stomach churned, guilt bubbling to the surface. He hesitated near the doorway but reluctantly stepped in.

Karina's dorm room was cozy, adorned with fairy lights and pastel-colored decor. The smell of melted cheese and spices filled the air as she headed toward a small kitchen counter.

"Make yourselves comfortable," Karina said, grabbing a plate of half-assembled nachos. "I'll grab some drinks. Beomgyu, you want soda, right?"

"Yeah, thanks, sweetie," Beomgyu replied, sitting on the couch and gesturing for Heesung to join him.

Heesung plopped down stiffly, his eyes darting around the room. He couldn't help but notice the small basket of laundry in the corner, a few bright fabrics peeking out.

"Don't stare too hard, rookie," Beomgyu muttered under his breath, nudging him with his elbow.

"I feel like a criminal," Heesung whispered back.

"You are a criminal now," Beomgyu said with a smirk, leaning back casually. "Relax. This is part of the game."

Before Heesung could respond, Karina returned, balancing a tray with drinks and a bowl of salsa. She set it on the coffee table and sat down beside Beomgyu, curling up against him.

"Beomgyu, you're so comforting to have around," she said, resting her head on his shoulder.

Heesung shifted his gaze away from the nauseatingly cozy sight of Karina snuggling against Beomgyu and focused on a picture frame sitting on a nearby table. The photo was of Karina and another girl, both smiling brightly.

"Where's your roommate, babe? Haven't seen her around lately," Beomgyu asked casually,

"Oh, she's probably at her man's dorm," Karina said, popping a nacho into her mouth. "I'm here, though, planning some strategy to catch those perverts stealing our panties!"

Heesung stiffened, gripping the soda can in his hand tighter as his eyes flicked toward Beomgyu.

Beomgyu's smirk widened slightly, his voice dropping into an amused tone. "Really? What's the plan, babe?"

Karina leaned forward eagerly, her face lighting up. "Okay, so, I was thinking we could set up decoy panties—like, really cute ones—and then install hidden cameras in like every room. When they try to steal them, BAM! We'll have proof!"

Heesung's heart skipped a beat, his eyes darting to Beomgyu, who remained alarmingly calm.

"Wow, babe, that's genius," Beomgyu said smoothly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're so smart. I bet those perverts won't stand a chance."

Karina beamed, leaning closer to him. "Right? And once we catch them, we'll turn the footage over to the dorm committee! Those losers will never show their faces again."

Heesung gulped, his stomach twisting into knots as Karina cheerfully detailed her plan. Beomgyu, however, seemed completely unbothered, even chuckling softly.

Before Karina could respond, a voice called from the door. "Karina, I bought some ramen from the store."

All three of them turned sharply, eyes wide as you entered the room, holding a plastic bag.

Heesung gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared at you.

You were stunning. The red tank top clung perfectly to your frame, paired with a black leather jacket and denim shorts that showed off long, toned legs. Your hair was tied into a messy bun, and his eyes couldn't help but trail down to the love bites scattered along your neck, disappearing beneath the curve of your collarbone.

Pretty.

"Oh! You're back early," Karina said brightly, hopping up to grab the bag from you. "I thought you were staying over at your boyfriend's dorm?"

Heesung glanced at you, feeling an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy bubbling in his chest.

"Fuck buddy," you corrected casually, striding further into the room. Behind you, a tall man followed, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

"Ouch, babe," the man said, clutching his chest dramatically, his thick accent making the words sound even more exaggerated.

Beomgyu's jaw dropped, his eyes going wide. "Jake?!" he shouted, springing to his feet and pointing directly at the man.

Jake froze mid-step, his expression just as shocked. "Beomgyu?!" he yelled back, pointing at him with equal intensity.

"Man!" They both broke into grins, walking toward each other and exchanging a loud fist bump, jumping around, laughing too loud. 

"You guys know each other?" you asked, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow as you watched them.

Your movement drew Heesung's attention again, and he immediately felt his face heat up. Worse, he became painfully aware of the uncomfortable twitch in his pants. 

"Yeah," Jake said, throwing an arm around Beomgyu's shoulder. "We kinda run in the same circle." He winked at Beomgyu, who immediately winked back, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

Heesung squinted, noticing the subtle exchange. It didn't take much to figure out what they were implying—they had the same strategy.

"This is Heesung, by the way," Karina chirped, pointing toward him. "Beomgyu's roommate. Heesung, that's Y/N!"

Heesung smiled nervously, lifting a hand in a half-wave. "Uh, hey."

You nodded, your piercing gaze briefly locking with his before walking over to join the group. Your confident stride only made him shift his weight more awkwardly, trying to appear calm.

"I was just talking to them about our strategy to catch those perverts," Karina said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Both Jake and Beomgyu froze for a split second before exchanging quick glances. Beomgyu recovered first, plastering an easy smile across his face.

"Oh yeah? What's the plan, Karina?" you asked, crossing your arms and leaning against the counter.

Karina lit up, clapping her hands. "Finally, you're interested! You just need some fucking to get motivated!"

Jake coughed to cover a laugh, while Beomgyu smirked at the comment. Heesung, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Karina launched into her explanation, detailing her idea about decoy panties and hidden cameras with unrelenting enthusiasm. Jake leaned casually against the wall, nodding along as if it were the most genius idea ever. Heesung, however, caught him subtly nudging Beomgyu with his elbow every so often, as if silently communicating.

Heesung barely processed Karina's words. His mind was spinning with the implications of what he'd just witnessed—Jake and Beomgyu, both participants in the panty-stealing competition, both employing their own "strategies," and now standing in the same room with the very girls they were stealing from.

Guilt gnawed at him. Anxiety weighed heavy on his chest. He shifted his gaze to you again, your uninterested sharp eyes and smirk only making him more uneasy. He couldn't help but wonder: Did you know?

-----

You don't trust Jake. Hell, you don't trust that Beomgyu guy either.

Heading to the kitchen, you grab a pot and place it on the stove, filling it with water before turning on the heat.

From the corner of your eye, you see Beomgyu's hand resting on Karina's waist as they laugh at something Jake said. His jokes are lame—he's always been like that—but Karina giggles anyway, leaning into Beomgyu.

Then there's this Heesung guy. He's just nodding along, smiling awkwardly.

Your foot starts tapping against the tiled floor, the rhythm matching the growing tension in your chest. You glance back at the water, watching it begin to steam, but your thoughts are elsewhere.

You want to trust Jake. You've known him since high school, and while he's been a flirt and a bit of a show-off, this? A panty-stealing competition? It feels... beneath him. Or at least you hope it is. If he's really involved, you'll be beyond disappointed.

Karina called your name, making you snap out of your thoughts. You turn to see her looking at you from the couch. "You okay, girl? Need some help?"

You force a smile, shaking your head. "Nah, it's just ramen!" you call back, waving her off.

But even as you stir the pot, your eyes keep drifting to the boys. Something about them feels off. Jake is too relaxed, his laughter too easy. Beomgyu seems confident, maybe a little too confident, and Heesung—well, Heesung is okay. He's quiet, reserved, but you can't tell if it's because he's shy or because he's hiding something.

You tell yourself you're just being cautious, that it's not bad to keep your guard up. After all, with everything happening lately, who could blame you?

What even is this competition? What do they do with the panties they steal? And how the hell do they know how to pick locks so easily?

You shake your head, frustration bubbling inside you. Overthinking is only pissing you off more, but how can you not? 

Chaewon's tearful face flashes in your mind. She'd been terrified after spotting three men lurking near the dorm at 3 AM. When you reviewed the CCTV footage, it was blank. Not a single guy had been caught on camera.

They're smart. Smart enough to avoid the cameras, to know the blind spots, to stay ahead of every security measure you've tried.

"Need a hand?" a soft voice asks behind you, startling you out of your thoughts.

You spin around to see Heesung standing there, staring at you with those wide, innocent doe eyes.

"Uh... sure," you reply, a little flustered. He steps closer, standing beside you as both of you watch the water bubble in the pot.

"You put a lot of water," he points out, reaching for the pot handle. He carefully lifts it off the stove, tips a bit of the water into the sink, and sets it back down.

"I wanted more soup, though," you say, crossing your arms and giving him a look.

He flicks the seasoning packet with ease, tearing it open and pouring it into the pot. "The soup is enough," he says, stirring the broth with care. "If you add more water, it'll taste bland. Trust me."

You raise an eyebrow. "What are you, a ramen expert now?"

He lets out a soft laugh. "Hmm, maybe. You could say that."

As he stirs, you find yourself watching him closely. His eyes glimmer when he talks about something so simple, like making ramen, and it's oddly endearing.

"This brand changed the formulation of their seasoning," he says, holding up the packaging and studying it.

"Oh really?" you reply, quirking a brow. "It tastes the same to me."

His eyes widen slightly at your response, a mix of disbelief and disappointment. "The previous one was better. Still good now, but it had more flavor before."

He continues stirring the noodles, and the faint aroma wafts through the kitchen, making your stomach growl. You glance at the pot and can't help but think how perfectly he's making it. The broth looks rich, the noodles cooked just right.

"You want egg?" he asks, glancing at you.

You nod, watching as he grabs an egg and cracks it into a bowl. The way he whisks it with chopsticks is a little bit funny.

"Watch this," he says with a hint of excitement, pushing the noodles aside in the pot to pour the egg. "It's a cloud egg."

You suppress a laugh at his enthusiasm, but the way he looks at you—so eager to impress—makes your chest feel warm. What a cutie.

"You must really love ramen," you say, leaning against the counter.

He half-smiles, stirring the noodles slowly. "Yeah, ever since I was a kid. And, you know, my college life is broke as hell. Ramen's cheap, but it's comfort food for me."

The way he talks about it makes you smile. "You're really passionate about this, huh? That's so cute."

He glances at you, his ears turning slightly red as he focuses back on the stove.  "It's one of the few things I can make perfectly."

He turns off the stove and ladles the noodles and soup into a bowl, handing it to you. "Try it."

You take the bowl, the steam wafting into your face. Bringing it closer, you take a sip, the rich flavor hitting your tongue immediately.

"Wow," you murmur, slurping some noodles. "This is so good."

Heesung laughs softly, leaning back against the counter. His eyes linger on your face, drawn to the way your lips curl into a faint smile, the way the light catches the curve of your cheek. The longer he stares, the more beautiful you seem to him, as if he's noticing every little detail for the first time.

You glance at him over the rim of the bowl, catching his gaze. "Not bad for an expert," you tease, your grin playful.

"What's your major?" you ask, setting the bowl down for a moment.

"Business Management," he replies with a chuckle. "Expensive as hell. Feels like I'm working just to survive the tuition."

You nod thoughtfully, blowing on your soup before taking another sip. "What about you? Tuition? Course?" he asks, leaning slightly forward, genuinely curious.

"Psychology," you say casually, slurping some noodles. "But I'm a scholar, so tuition's covered."

Heesung freezes for a moment, staring at you as though you've just said something extraordinary. "Scholar?" he echoes, his voice quieter. "Full?"

"Full," you confirm, not thinking much of it as you focus on the soup, savoring the warmth.

Heesung's lips part slightly in awe, his head tilting as he studies you. "That's... amazing," he says softly, his tone filled with genuine admiration.

You glance up, noticing his expression. "What? It's not that big of a deal," you say with a shrug, brushing it off.

But to Heesung, it is a big deal. You're smart, hardworking, and effortlessly pretty—and the more he watches you, the more he feels a pang of jealousy. Not at you, but at the ease with which you seem to carry yourself, so far from his own struggles. He can't help but think about the shameful panty-stealing competition he's about to join just to make ends meet.

He watches you eat noodles, the way you enjoy something so simple with genuine contentment. He's lost in his thoughts when Jake suddenly appears behind you, his arms circling your waist.

"Baby, what took you so long?" Jake asks softly, kissing the top of your head.

Heesung stiffens, quickly straightening his posture. His stomach twists as Jake's dark eyes lock onto his for a split second, a silent challenge glinting in them.

Jake's hand moves to your hair, brushing it gently. "I missed you."

You laugh lightly, holding up the bowl toward him. "Heesung makes the best ramen. You should try it."

Jake's gaze flickers back to Heesung briefly, his jaw tightening before he focuses on you again. "I thought I made the best ramen," he pouts, clearly fishing for reassurance.

You raise an eyebrow at his random comment. "Try it, babe. You'll see," you insist.

Reluctantly, Jake takes the bowl from your hands and sips the soup. His expression remains neutral, though his eye twitches slightly when you glance back at Heesung.

"It's good," Jake mutters, but there's an edge to his voice.

"See? Told you." You grin, clearly unbothered by the awkward tension in the air.

Jake wraps his arm around you tighter, leaning in close. "I still think mine's better," he mumbles, loud enough for Heesung to hear.

You roll your eyes and grab the pot holder, picking up the remaining bowl. "Come on, let's offer this to the others," you say, making your way to the living room.

Jake lingers for a moment, his gaze fixed on Heesung, arms loosely crossed. The room feels heavier as Jake leans slightly closer, his voice low but sharp.

"I know you're in the competition," he says, his tone dripping with warning. "But don't even think about touching her panties, or we'll have a problem."

Heesung stiffens, caught off guard. He nods quickly, unsure how else to respond. "I—I wouldn't," he mumbles, his voice barely audible.

Jake smirks, the expression cold and smug. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

Heesung stays quiet, his stomach twisting. How dare Jake act so possessive while hiding his own motives? Heesung's chest burns with frustration, but he doesn't dare say anything.

The tension between them hangs thick, unspoken words lingering in the air, before Jake finally straightens up.

"Baby, you need help carrying that?" he calls out casually, his tone light and sweet, making Heesung almost rolled his eyes.

You glance over your shoulder, balancing the bowl in your hands. "I've got it!" you reply with a small smile.

Jake turns back to Heesung, his gaze piercing. "Remember what I said," he mutters, his voice just loud enough for Heesung to hear.

You place the bowl onto the table and settle beside Karina, while Jake and Heesung follow from the kitchen. The sofa is too small for everyone, so Jake gently tugs you to your feet. Before you can protest, he takes your spot and pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist possessively.

Heesung shifts awkwardly, coughing softly as he stands nearby, the only one without a partner. His gaze flickers toward you as you sit on Jake's lap, cracking open a soda and taking a sip.

"So, guys," you begin casually, pointing at Karina and Beomgyu with your soda can. "How long have you two been dating?"

Karina's cheeks flush, and she lets out a shy giggle. "Oh, we're not really dating," she says, glancing at Beomgyu, who gives her a sheepish smile. "Just, you know... getting to know each other. Probably two months now?"

You roll your eyes playfully, sipping your soda. "That's sweet," you say, though your mind is elsewhere.

Think, think, think.

Your panties have been missing for six months straight—buckets of them. Most of them used. It's been eating at you, and now, sitting here with Jake, Heesung, Karina, and Beomgyu all together, you can't help but feel the pieces of the puzzle shifting into place.

You tap your fingertips lightly on the can, a rhythmic sound that seems to amplify your thoughts. Then, without warning, you turn to Karina.

"Karina, how many of your panties go missing every month?"

Karina pouts, tilting her head and staring at the ceiling, clearly thinking hard. "I don't know," she says finally. "They started disappearing, like... four months ago? At first, maybe five or six pairs. I bought a lot of new sets since I shower twice a day, but they're still gone so fast. If we're talking now? Probably twenty pairs, at least."

Your eyes flick to Beomgyu for just a moment, and you don't miss the way his expression tightens before he quickly masks it with a casual laugh.

"Twenty?" you echo, pretending to sound surprised, though your suspicions are growing.

Karina nods. "Yeah. Beomgyu even told me to just leave them at the laundry, said it'd be safer there. Isn't that what you said, Beomgyu? Because Sunoo's working there?"

All eyes turn to Beomgyu, and he scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, "Yeah, uh, sorry about that. I really thought the laundry would be safer since my friend Sunoo's working there. Their locks seemed good, you know?"

Heesung stiffens in his seat, his chopsticks pausing midair as he watches the exchange. He notices how your grip on the soda can tightens slightly, but your face betrays nothing.

You hum, biting your lip lightly as your brain pieces things together, but you make no move to show your conclusions. "Hmm, interesting," you say, your tone neutral.

Heesung swallows hard, his heart starting to race. He's not sure if it's the tension or just his nerves as a rookie in the game, but your questioning feels a little too sharp. You seem far too calm, far too observant, and it's making him uneasy.

"So, Sunoo works at the laundry?" you ask Beomgyu, your tone light but probing.

"Yeah," Beomgyu says quickly, nodding. "He's been there for months now. Great guy. Very reliable."

"Reliable?" you echo, tilting your head. "If he's so reliable, why do the panties keep going missing?"

Beomgyu stammers for a second, clearly caught off guard. "Well, uh, maybe the other staff? Or—I don't know—thieves who sneak in late at night?" 

Karina frowns, clearly thinking. "But aren't the cameras at the laundry supposed to catch anyone doing that?"

"Not if they know where the cameras are," you thought , sipping your soda, your eyes flicking briefly to Heesung.

Heesung nearly chokes on his noodles as you stared him, quickly looking down at his bowl. His hand shakes slightly as he continues eating, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

You smile faintly, leaning back against Jake's chest, feeling his arms tighten protectively around you. "You know, Karina, maybe we should start locking our dorm closets too. Just in case."

Karina nods thoughtfully. "That's a good idea. I've been meaning to do that anyway."

Beomgyu looked at Karina, "Yeah, safety first, right?"

You glance at him, your smile soft, sipping on your soda. "Exactly."

You're good at hiding your emotions. Even now, as the pieces click into place, you keep your face neutral. But inside, you're 75% sure you've figured it out.

The game.

It's probably made up of men. Men who target panties, specifically the used ones. You replay the scenarios in your head, each one adding to your suspicions. Buckets of panties, mostly used, gone without a trace.

You glance around the room. Jake, your best friend since Year 7, laughing and leaning into you like nothing's amiss. Beomgyu, Karina's "not really" boyfriend, grinning at her like he's the most harmless guy alive. Then there's Heesung, quietly sipping ramen, his soft features making him look innocent and adorably clueless.

And Sunoo. Sweet, smiley Sunoo, who's always been so helpful at the laundry, cheerfully chatting while folding your clothes.

They all seem so nice. But now?

You don't trust them. Not a single one.

You force yourself into casual conversation, watching their reactions closely. Your gaze flickers to Heesung, who nods and smiles at everything without adding much. His obliviousness makes him seem too soft, too cute to be involved in something shady. But you're not letting anyone off the hook.

When 6 PM rolls around, the dorm curfew kicks in. The boys get up to leave, grumbling about the no-sleepover rule. Jake whines your name like a child, wrapping his arms around you and peppering kisses along your neck and face.

"I'll see you next time we hang," you say, laughing as you push him toward the door.

Outside, Beomgyu and Heesung wait for Jake, the three of them exchanging glances like they're in on some private joke.

"I'll miss you," Jake whispers, pulling you closer for a lingering kiss.

You glance over his shoulder, catching sight of Heesung biting his lips and looking away, his shoulders stiff.

"Go, before the dorm committee catches you," you say, nudging Jake out the door.

Karina kisses Beomgyu goodbye, and you follow suit with Jake before casually hugging the others.

When you hug Heesung, he freezes, his entire body going rigid as you brush your cheek against his. The faint scent of your perfume makes his breath hitch, and he barely suppresses a groan. God, when was the last time he'd been hugged like this? He's so touch-starved it's almost embarrassing.

"Take care, Heesung," you say softly, your voice warm.

He stammers something incoherent before you pull back, laughing lightly. You and Karina wave goodbye as the boys walk away, their laughter fading as they disappear down the hall.

The smile slips from your face the moment the door shuts. You lock it, your expression sharpening as you grab your phone.

"Karina," you say firmly, turning to her. "Set a meeting right now in the lobby. 8 PM. Tell the girls not to mention it to anyone outside the dorm. Not even their boyfriend or closest guy friends."

Karina blinks, confused. "W-what? Why so sudden? What's going on?"

"Just do it," you reply, already typing on your phone.

Karina hesitates but nods, pulling out her own phone to start calling the girls from each room.

You walk to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly to peek outside. From your second-floor vantage point, you spot Jake, Beomgyu, and Heesung standing near the building's entrance, their heads close together as they laugh and talk.

Your gaze sharpens. Their body language seems too comfortable, too knowing.

You let the curtain fall back into place.

"We're being infiltrated," you mutter under your breath, your jaw tightening. 

[theinfinitedivides]

runs in the family

[snekdood]

me, on the one hand: its weird to gatekeep people identifying with characters just bc they don't share their same race

also me, upon watching a video of someone wanting the saiyans to be in ssj form 24/7: you just want them to be blonde with blue eyes all the time bc you're mad that otherwise you can't project on to them since they're likely asian 🙄

[nezuscribe]

(slightly suggestive)

another little drabble for arranged marriage!gojo but imagine a moment before he confessed but something was looming over the two of you. it was crossing the line of friends, not necessarily husband and wife, but two people desperately in love and didn't know how to say it.

you were in one of your late-night frenzies, your brain so muddled with every thought that you decided to do what you knew best: bake.

you often find yourself in this situation as of late, but it truly seems to be the only thing that helps. you wanted to tell gojo how you were feeling, but it was too far in, so you decided something simple and sugary would help you in the moment.

at this point, the walk to the kitchens was something you could do blind, and considering how many times you did this, you already knew where all the ingredients were.

you set out your sugar and flower, and go rummaging in the cold cellar for some butter and eggs. you try not to think about how at dinner gojo slid closer to you, your arms touching as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. or how a couple days ago he had found you in the library, reading next to a windowsill, cozying up next to you as he read the book over your shoulder.

you're so lost in your head with sifting the ingredients that you fail to realize that the very man himself had come up secretly behind you, curiously watching you in your element.

(he'd never admit that he'd first gone to your room, and only came down here after he realized you were gone).

but, unlike the last couple of times, you'd gotten used to his stealthy ways. he was quiet, sure, but you could recognize him by his slight breath alone, or the way he smelled faintly of cloves.

you try not to let your breathing hitch, or let a smile grow on your face as you decide to break the silence.

"if you try to scare me while i'm baking you better rethink your choices," you warn him and hear gojo snicker quietly behind you.

gojo moves from where he was standing, and he leans his back against the counter next to you, craning his neck to look over at your bowl.

your eyes dart to the side, to the way his arms are resting behind him as he balances himself back on them (or the way his arms bulge and veins pop).

"what's on your mind tonight?" gojo asks, knowing you only do this now whenever you're stressed out.

"not much," you mutter, despite wanting to say you, you're on my mind.

he tsks, not buying your lie as he leans in a little close, his head blocking your view of your mixing bowl as he tries to get a little taste with his fingers.

"hey!" you cry, smacking him lightly on the back of his neck, "your hands are all grimy!"

you watch as he peers at you from the corner of his eyes, glaring at your offensive remark as he retracts away, a small pout on his face as you grin in slight victory.

"my hands are clean," you hear him mumble petulantly and you chuckle, rolling your eyes at his antics. the closer the two of you got, the more you found out that his closed-off and aloof demeanor was just a facade for a dramatic, grouchy man-child.

there's a comfortable silence for a moment, one where you're mixing and one where he watches you mix. you don't really notice the quiet anymore, just another added sound when you and gojo grow more comfortable together.

"how was your day?" he finally asks, a simple question, but you know he's using it as a mask to find out what was wrong with you.

"good," you say with a shrug, starting to gently fold in your wet mixture with your dry one, "you weren't at dinner so i was actually able to eat in peace," you add, trying to sound indifferent when really it's what spurred this entire thing on. how, when you realized that you missed seeing him, talking to him, being near him, you were really, really, missing him. and that's not how friends are supposed to act. or, at least, from what you've heard.

gojo smiles, a soft look on his face. you're trying to be sarcastic, he knows that, but there's something...deeper behind your words, something that he too feels.

"the eastern tribe took up more time than i thought they would," he explains, his blue eyes glowing when he notices the way you slightly relax, "i tried telling them that my wife was waiting for me, but apparently peace negotiations can't be postponed."

you bite your lips, trying to hold back your giddy smile at his words. you know he's probably teasing you, using the phrase my wife as a way to get out of a boring meeting, but you love it nonetheless.

he knows you do.

"those bastards," you murmur teasingly, hearing his loud laugh as he lightly shoves you with the point of his boot.

"yeah, well, they don't have wives back home," he crosses his arms over his chest, pressing his lips into a thin line, "so they don't know the feeling."

you swallow thickly, not looking over at him when he says that.

there's another silence as you continue to fold the batter, sensing that same feeling wash over the two of you.

"let me grab a..." you turn around, head craning to look for a spoon to dip in the batter, needing to make sure the sweetness wasn't too overbearing (and because you liked tasting the batter before it was sent off to be baked thoroughly), but stop when gojo pulls the bowl in closer to him.

you watch as he glides his finger across the sides, not letting it touch the actual bulk of the mixture, and brings it forth towards your lips.

his brows cock upwards, as if he was waiting for you to try it.

you give him a look, nose slightly wrinkled.

"i swear my hands are clean," he promises, crossing one hand over his chest as a sort of pledge, but that's not what holding you back, shouldn't he know that?

your mind is working to beat the thrill of your heart, the one that's pulling you towards him like a magnet, the one that desperately wants to have his finger in your mouth.

you bite your cheek for a second, eyes flickering up from his to his finger, and some sort of heat in you takes control as one hand gently grabs his wrist, pulling his hand closer to your parted lips.

your tongue darts out, your mouth closing over the digit as you taste the sugary batter coating your tongue. you feel dizzy, your stomach twisting, a heat taking over your body as your tongue swipes over it, licking it clean.

it's nothing overexaggerated, nothing too crazy. you lick his finger the way you'd like your own, but fuck, this isn't your own finger and gojo's looking at you with his pupils blown wide, the blacks overtaking the blue in his eyes.

your hand is still holding his wrist, your lips gliding over it as you pull away, breathing slightly less when you glance up at him.

gojo swallows thickly, hoping you don't see the bulge that's growing in his pants.

"good?" he chokes out, his voice thick in his throat.

"yeah," you mutter, the batter still lingering on your tastebuds, "it's perfect."

fuck, you're both screwed.

[fairy-angel222]

Pornstar Dream ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

—in which your friends help you make something other than solo porn for your onlyfans (with a week full of dick appointments of course).

—nanami, choso, sukuna, toji, gojo n geto

—cw: smut, daddy kink, overstimulation, mommy kink, passing out, bondage, gagging, threesome, choking, pussy eating, degradation, praise, breeding, pussy/clit slapping, double penetration, cervix fucking, belly bulge, mask kink, a lot more.

—repost from @/fairyhub

Nanami. Monday 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.

Hearing the ring of your doorbell, you smiled. Jogging down the stairs in just a sexy black robe to swing open the door. Nanami’s cheeks tinted red as he greeted you.

“Hi Kento!” you grinned, embracing him into a hug, “thank you so much for agreeing to this.”

Clearing his throat, Nanami half hugged you back with a short nod. Trying his hardest to keep his eyes off of you. “Yeah, no problem.”

Pulling away, you grabbed the man’s hand and pulled him into your home. Leading him upstairs into the massive guest bedroom where you filmed.

“Okay,” you started, picking up a pitch black ski mask and handing it to him. “The camera won’t be picking up your face, but you can put this one if you’d like.”

Nanami shook his head, “No it’s fine.”

“Great! Well let’s get started kay?”

Nanami found himself sat on your bed as you climbed onto his lap. His head straight forward to avoid falling into the camera’s line of sight. Despite you being able to crop him out.

He groaned when you brought yourself down on his cock. Letting out a soft mewl as your pussy took him all the way it. “Hmm,” you moaned, beginning to bounce up and down slowly while grinding your hips. “Fuck.. daddy,”

Nanami’s eyes widened, his cock throbbing against your walls as his grip on your hips tightened. Helping you speed up your pace to begin fucking yourself on his cock. The man let out a string of deep grunts, the sight of you whimpering while rutting yourself on his cock was almost enough for him.

“Nngh— so good daddy,” you breathed, “sooo fucking good, ahh.” Your lip between your teeth as you gripped his shoulders. Rocking your hips back and forth at a fast pace, your clit rubbing against his base region with each movement.

Your head fell back with your lips parted, your eyes closing as you clenched down on him. “O-oh—” Nanami noticing the way your movements got sloppy before gripping your ass. Fucking up into you at an almost inhuman pace. “F-fuckk—“ you cried out. A silent scream falling past your lips as your eyes rolled back. Allowing Nanami to do the work while you simply moaned and cried, his veiny hand curling around your neck.

“Shit- that’s it doll.“ the man cursed, his breathing getting heavy as your wetness coated his cock. Blunt tip bumping into your g spot each time it grazed your walls.

“D-daddy.. feels so good,” you let out a high pitched mewl, “‘m so close.”

Nanami’s cock fucking up into you making your stomach fill with heat, a coil building up as you were engulfed in pleasure. You could feel your head becoming dizzy as you neared your orgasm, your body trembling as your noises increased in volume.

Your toes curled with a chant of daddy’s. Your nails piercing past the muscular man’s skin. Nanami trying to keep his words limited incase someone recognized him, letting out a low husky string of curses while watching his cock disappear within your sopping cunt.

“F-fuck,” you let out your final cry, a shiver raking through your body before you were cumming on his cock. Drenching him in your clear liquid with a choked whimper.

Nanami groaned, his fingers squeezing into your ass and around your neck as he buried himself deep. Pumping ropes of thick cum onto your slippery walls.

You hummed in content, turning your body in his lap when he pulled out. Using your fingers to spread your folds for his cum to spurt out lewdly.

When you were done you ran to turn off all cameras. Grinning at Nanami before pressing a kiss to his lips, “Thank you again Kento.”

Choso. Tuesday 1:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.

Choso was nervous when you had asked him to be in your video, but agreed nonetheless. Walking up shyly to your door before ringing the bell.

Running his hand through his hair to fluff it right before the door swung open. The man swallowing hard as he saw your robe clad frame. “Choso! you made it.” you smiled. And he only nodded while handing you a mini bouquet of flowers. “Y-yeah. And i uh.. i got you these.”

You cooed, pulling him in for a hug making his face burn red. He’d seen your solo content, so it was very hard for him to look at you without thinking back to all the loads he’d blown to the sight.

You led Choso upstairs after getting a vase for the flowers. Pulling him into your recording room while breaking down what would be happening.

“So you can put this on to hide your face.” you offered, holding out a black ski mask which Choso took with no protest. Putting it on after peeling his clothes off of him.

You sat him down of a chair instead of your bed. Tying his hands behind him and kneeling in between his legs. The cameras already rolling, “Ready?”

Choso nodded, “Mhm.”

Choso whimpered as you began stroking his cock slowly. Your touch soft on his skin as you teasingly circled your wrist on his tip. Spreading his precum and using it to fist his cock. Your lip in between your teeth as you smiled to the camera. Choso’s mewls loud and whiny as his body jerked.

“Aww, you like that baby?” you teased, “Like when mommy fist fucks your pretty cock?”

He nodded with a moan, his back arching as you sped up your movements, his cock throbbing when you raked a nail up his distinct vein. “Nngh— l-love ittt, o-oh fuck, love it mommy.”

You hummed, your face seductive as you switched between teasing his aching red tip and stroking down his length. The man tugging at the ropes in an attempt to rut his hips upward into your fist.

“Nngh— more- ahh, please m-more.”

You squeezed down on his base, his head falling back with a needy whimper as his breathing sped.

“You take what i give you okay baby?”

He let out a cry, his chest rising and falling heavily as you continued to tease him. “Nngh- m-mommy..” Choso’s back arched when you placed a kiss to his tip. Swirling your tongue around the glistening mushroom head.

Choso let out a string of moans, his hips thrusting up when you took his cock past your lips. Letting out a long shaky breath as you bobbed your head. Taking him all the way into your throat with a tiny gag.

His abs glistened with sweat as you sucked him off. Adorable noises filling the room as you brought him to his release. “F-fuck mommy- ‘m cumming. Nngh ‘m cumming mommy.” his voice cracked as it got high pitched.

Choso let out a broken whine when you stepped all movements. “N-no.. why?” you could hear the tears forming in his eyes.

“Shh baby, mommy’s gonna give you something even better.” climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock. “There we go.. good boy.” His cries of pleasure even louder than before as you fucked him with your tightness.

His mewls and whimpers making you even more wet as you lifted yourself off and back onto his cock. Your ass flush on his lap every time you bottomed down.

Your moans mixed with his. Hands secure on his shoulders as you rocked yourself back and forth, his cock prodding your g spot each time. “Fuck, does that feel good baby?”

“Uh huh,” Choso choked out, “s-so good, haah.”

You could feel his cock twitching against your walls. Your head falling back and your lips parting in soft mewls. “Gonna cum baby? Gonna let it out f’ me.”

Choso nodded, “yeah,” he breathed, “‘m there mommy.”

“Cum in me okay? Fill my pussy with your cum.” your demanded, grinding your hips quickly as you approached your own orgasm. Drenching Choso’s cock with a cry before he was doing the same. Pumping you full of his cum with a whimper.

When you were both finished you panted heavily. Momentarily turning to the camera and thrusting two fingers into you for Choso’s cum to run out.

Eventually untying him and pulling off his mask with a giggle. His face fucked out and flushed as he looked up at you.

“Thanks Cho,” pressing a kiss to his lips.

Sukuna. Wednesday 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Sukuna didn’t even knock when he got to your house. Waltzing in like he owned the place and making his way straight up to your recording room.

You let out a yelp when you saw the man by the door, a smirk on his face as he took in all the technology. “So you’re a full time slut huh?” He scoffed jokingly. Opening his arms for you to jump into. Wrapping your arms around his neck with a grin. “Hi Kuna.”

“Hi princess, i see you’re pretty much all set up.” You nodded with your lips between your teeth, clad in nothing but your black robe as Sukuna hummed. Allowing you to lead him to the bed while explaining everything.

“Handcuffs, ropes, gag..” Sukuna listed with a grin, “I like it.” Peeling off his shirt to reveal a litter of tattoos on his pale skin and a half sleeve full. His muscles prominent as he stretched. “Gonna do this pussy real good.”

You found yourself on your bed. Your hands handcuffed to the headboard and your feet tied in their spread out position. You whimpered as Sukuna placed a blindfold on your eyes. Getting ready to gag you next. “K-Kuna? You sure you wanna let your face show?”

“They’ve gotta know who’s making you scream somehow, and if you blur out my face i’m spanking that ass red.”

You nodded shakily, Sukuna strapping the ball between your lips before biting your neck softly. Trailing hot kisses down your chest with a groan. “Fuck.. wish you had called me for this earlier. Could’ve made a fortune outta this.” he mumbled lowly.

Your breath hitched when you no longer felt Sukuna against you. You shivered when his touch was replaced by a sharp nail raking up your chest. Circling each one of your breasts before tracing the sides of your waists. He was silent, keeping you breathing heavily in anticipation as a smirk graced his features.

Your back arched with a muffled mewl when Sukuna’s hand came down hard on one of your tits. The stinging sensation sending wetness straight to your pussy. Your chest rose and fell as Sukuna continued trailing your chest. Pressing his lips to your stomach before his hand came down on your other one.

Pulling another muffled cry from you with a hum. He twisted your nipples between his fingers as he kissed down to your cunt. Teasingly kissing everywhere else but where you craved to feel him. When he finally reached your pussy he groaned. “So fucking wet f’me.” Kissing your clit while his finger ran between your folds.

You could only moan behind the gag when he licked a stripe up your slit. Making out with your clit before dragging his tongue back down into your wetness. Your body jerked with a broken whimper when Sukuna’s hand laded directly on your clit. The sensitive bud throbbing at the contact.

You mewled, tugging at your restraints when Sukuna began lapping at your wetness. His tongue darting out to collect your sweetness with his mouth latched onto your pussy.

Another jerk passing through your body with a cry when his hand came down even harder. His tongue still working wonders as it dipped into you, his fingers pinching at your clit before coming down in two more consecutive hits.

Your eyes grew teary under the fabric. The blinking camera picking up the way your breaths became heavier by the time Sukuna had swapped his tongue and fingers. Curling the long digits into your walls while he tongued the rest of you.

Your body was filled with heat when Sukuna gripped your hip. Not being able to see the way he looked darkly at your trembling body. Basking in your incoherent noises as he feasted, feeling his cock grow hard underneath him.

The coil in your stomach grew stronger and. stronger. Unable to voice your release as you clenched down on his fingers with a silent scream, pussy gushing onto his hand and chin making him grunt into you. “Fuck, that’s it.” Replacing his fingers with his mouth to swallow down your juices.

Sukuna’s cock was collecting your wetness before you knew it. Roughly thrusting into you with a deep breath. His thick cock stretching you almost painfully as he bottomed out.

You mewled when he began fucking into you. His pace immediately hard and fast as his massive girth rammed into your tightness. You let out a string of loud cries, Sukuna’s hand wrapping around your neck as he glanced to the camera right in front of him. Giving it a grin before focusing his attention back onto you.

“Shit, taking me so well. Pretty little slut, fuckk.” he groaned, his tip hammering into your g spot making your back arch. Both your hands and legs pulling at their ties at the immense pleasure.

Drool ran past your lips as your body was rocked back and forth with Sukuna’s harsh thrusts. Tears staining your cheeks as he pierced deep into you. His hips holding no mercy as he moved.

Sukuna reached up to wipe your chin with his thumb. His deep voice sending shivers down your spine when he teased, “So messy,” using his hand to spread to spit all over your face before landing his palm on your cheek.

A loud cry leaving you at the burning sensation in your face. Only to have your head turned to the side when he landed another one. “So fucking pretty like this.” Tightening his grip on your neck to allow him to drill into your cunt.

Short screams matching his brutal thrusts as his cock fucked past your cervix entrance. Grazing your gummy walls perfectly on its way in and out.

You clenched down on him hard, letting out a series of muffled noises as you came. Soaking the sheets while you creamed Sukuna’s cock. The man letting out a deep groan with sped up breaths, “Fuck, can i cum in you?” Cursing out when you nodded, his head falling back as he stilled. Spilling ropes if his warm sticky cum deep into you.

“Shit..” he breathed, panting as he pulled out. The camera behind him picking up the way the liquid seeped out of you.

Sukuna untied you before removing the gag and blindfold. Watching as you sleepily blinked up at him through wet lashes. He helped you up, chucking at your messy face before kissing your nose. “Lemme help you get cleaned up yeah? You’ll worry about the cameras afterwards.” Knowing that you had tons of editing to do anyways, meaning that you could just cut the last part out.

Toji. Thursday 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

When you opened the door for Toji, he smirked widely. His hands on your waist forcing you to the tips of your toes to kiss you. “You look so fucking hot in that robe. Just wanna rip it off you already.”

You giggled, doing a little spin for him and listening to the way he groaned. Pulling you into him for a hug. His nose buried in your neck while he groped your ass in hiss large hand. “Fuck.. we haven’t even started and i’m hard.”

When you bring him up to your room, you explain how things would be going. Toji barely paying attention as he scanned the room. “Can i wear my own mask?” he cut you off, finally turning his attention to you as pulled a ghost face mask out of his pocket.

“It’s a bit late for halloween Toji.”

“But it’s never too late to make a pretty little slut like you squirm.” His deep voice spoke lowly, stalking towards you with the mask on his face. His head tilted as you were backed into your bed. Falling into a sitting position with Toji standing over you, his fingers gripping your chin to make you look up at him. “Hmm, that’s exactly what i’m talking about,” running his thumb over your bottom lip after seeing the way your thighs clenched.

“F-fine.. you can wear the mask,” you grumbled.

“Was gonna wear it either way but thanks sweetheart.” he chuckled shortly, his demeanor going serious when he sighed, “Now, when do i get to ruin that tight cunt of yours?” His eyes darkening with lust as he watched your breathing speed up.

“Y-yeah.. uh l-let me just set up the c-cameras and we’re good to go.” you stuttered, wetness pooling between your legs as you went to set up.

Toji began fucking into you like a mad man. First fingering you to stretch you out before he was full on hammering into your pussy. The blinking camera capturing the way his muscular body flexed with each slam of his hips.

Your eyes were teary as you moaned and cried out. Your body rocking back and forth with every bruising thrust. Toji grunted on top of you, his hand holding tightly onto your neck as he bullied his fat cock even deeper.

Your noises increasing in volume as you turned to look at the camera to let them see how good you were getting fucked. Your tits bouncing wildly as Toji’s force shook the entire bed.

“Fucking look at me.” he growled out, and you whimpered as he tightened his grip on you. “These fucks get to see your dumbed out face all the time, it’s my turn.” Letting out a groan before his hips took an inhuman pace.

You could not see his face, only the image of ghostface looking down at you making you moan loudly. Your back arching as you clenched down on Toji. “Nngh— o-oh f-uckk.. so good- ahh— so g-good.” you cried. Feeling yourself grow closer to orgasm.

“A-ahh, fuck— To- nngh,” you caught your almost slip up, eyes rolling back in a string of shaky mewls when Toji’s other hand pinned your wrists above your head. Masked face coming down to your ear in a deep husk, “Ya like that you little slut? Being fucked in front of a camera for hundreds to see. Such a dirty fucking girl.”

Toji’s smirk widened under his mask, “Let’s give these idiots a show.”

After you came once, he roughly twisted and turned your body into his desired position. Your face in the sheets and your ass in the air. His hand on the back of your neck forcing you to stay down while he bounced himself off your ass.

A dragged out cry leaving your mouth each time his cock rammed deep into you. Threatening to push past your cervix when he sped up his movements.

Your toes curled, drool soaking the sheets as Toji fucked you dumb. Your puffy clit throbbing from the harsh hits of Toji’s heavy balls. “Nnh— ‘s so deep.” you mewled, getting nothing in return but a hard slap to your ass. “Yeah? Better fucking take it.” Toji grunted, his tip kissing your g spot meanly before poking against the skin of your stomach. Creating a visible bulge for everyone to see.

Toji’s head fell back with a groan, his other hand on your hip pulling you onto his cock to match his thrusting pace.

Your brain was foggy. Dizzy even. Your vision clouding as you approached yet another orgasm. Toji’s hand on your neck forcing your head up to face the main camera. “That’s it, show them how good this dick is fucking you. Wanna hear you say it.”

You let out a scream like moan, your stomach burning with heat as your back arched. “F-fuckk— feels so good. Your cock is fucking me soooo good.” you mewled.

“Good girl. Now make a fucking mess.”

You came with a cry, squirting messily onto Toji’s cock and the bed below. Your body trembling and your eyes closing as you were fucked through your high.

In the next few hours Toji had fucked you in all kinds of positions. Your bottom half on the bed while your hands support med your frame on the floor. Toji at the end of the bed lowering his hips onto your sopping cunt. Your cries whiny at the overstimulation.

“Look at you, taking my cock like a fucking champ, bet those men must be wishing to get a feel of that pussy while jerking off.”

“Nngh— you’re not supposed to say that.” you let out a broken whine. Toji’s cock fucking down hard into you as gravity forced your wetness to run down your torso.

“Shit- it’s true. Pussy feels like fucking heaven, i’d want a feel if i was in their place.” He rasped, his breathing getting heavy as his cock twitched. Bringing you to another orgasm before manhandling you some more.

Fucking you in full nelson as you sobbed from all the pleasure. “I can’t— nngh, i can’t.. ‘s too much.” Sweat covering his body as he breathed into your ear. “You can take it. Fuck- just give me two more yeah?”

Holding you directly in the camera’s sight when your pussy gushed. Streams of the clear liquid spraying messily into the air. Toji whistling lowly at the distance it reached.

Then he was bouncing you on his cock, your body falling limp into his chest as he moved your hips. Incoherent babbles falling past your lips as you drenched his thighs. An accidental daddy slipping past your lips as you began to rock back and forth weakly.

“Shit, call me that again.”

“Nngh— d-daddy,” you mewled loudly, your noises high pitched as your clit bumped against his pelvic region.

Toji groaned, “Fuck- you’re driving me crazy. Who’s your daddy baby? Who’s fucking this slutty pussy so good?”

Your legs quivered, clenching down hard as your head fell onto his shoulders. “Y-you. Haah.. you are.” Letting out a short choked scream as your orgasm washed over you painfully. Creaming his cock with a shaky string of whimpers.

Toji letting out a deep chant of curses as he finally allowed himself to release. “Shit- can i cum in ya sweetheart?” Only to look down to find you gone. Passed out against him as your chest rose and fell softly. “Fucking hell.” His voice cracking ever so slightly as he pumped endless amounts of cum into you. Stuffing your cunt to the brim in the thick white substance.

Lifting you off his cock for the camera to see your pussy flutter, his cum running lewdly out of your in spurts.

“Shit.. really fucked ya hard didn’t i,” Toji bit his lip from under his mask. Pulling it off his face to wink at the camera with a short wave and a smirk. “Hey there.” Laying you down onto the bed and placing a kiss to your lips with a sigh. “Let’s see if i can find anything in this big ass place.”

Walking away to find a warm rag or something to clean you up. Leaving the camera running not only because he didn’t know how to use it. But to at least show these people what even the slightest aftercare looked like.

If you decided to keep that part in, that was.

Gojo n Geto. Friday 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m.

When you asked Gojo and Geto, the two insisted that they tag teamed you. And you were more than willing to try.

You greeted the two at the door with a smile, being embraced on both sides by the towering men. Gojo smirked, “hi baby,” while Geto placed a kiss to your neck, “hello princess.”

“Hey guys.”

Gojo whistled, “You look so fucking hot in that robe baby, can’t wait to take it off ya.” You giggled, grabbing their hands and pulling them up to the room. “So this is what fucking yourself for some horny men gets you..” Geto laughed.

“So you guys have two options, i can crop and blur out your faces or you can wear these.” Holding up two masks for which both men shook their heads. Geto grinned, “Fuck.. i’m hard just thinking about what we’re going to do to you.”

You found yourself on your hands and knees, Geto fucking roughly into while Gojo fucked your face. Your moans and cries muffled as you were rocked back and forth.

“Shit,” Geto grunted, kneading at the soft flesh of your ass before landing a hard smack, “pussy’s so fucking tight.” You mewled onto Gojo’s cock, gagging and sputtering slightly at his length as he mercilessly slammed into your throat. Heavy balls slapping your chin with each movement.

Your eyes became teary, the feeling of Geto’s cock hammering your g spot making your head feel fuzzy as you whimpered. Your back arching with a string of cries and your breathing speeding up.

The two men watched as your body trembled, your tits shaking lewdly as squelching noises filled the air. Gojo groaned, his hand on your head forcing you to bob up and down his cock even faster as tears stained your cheeks.

The angled camera picking up the way you were destroyed on both ends. Your pussy clenching on Geto’s cock as a thick creamy ring formed at his base. You let out a short moan each time Geto’s cock bullied its way deeper.

Your words incoherent as you shakily announced that you were close. Your hand reaching down to rub at your clit with a high pitched cry.

“That’s it pretty girl. Fucking cum for us.” Gojo groaned, his head falling back as he approached his own release. Your eyes rolled back as you came messily, squirting uncontrollably onto the bed and Geto’s thighs. The black haired man only grunting deeply at the force. “Good fucking girl.. making a mess just like a little slut.”

“Think you can take both of us at once?” Gojo questioned, and you swallowed hard when he pulled out of your mouth. His cock dripping sloppily with your spit. His fingers reached under your chin, lifting your head to look up at him. “What do you say baby?”

You whimpered, “O-okay.” Making both males grin.

Gojo grabbed the black mask, hurriedly putting it over his head before throwing one to Geto, the other man putting his on as well before getting themselves in place.

Geto sat at the edge of the bed with you on his lap, his lips on your ear as he whispered, “If it hurts too much at any point i will stop okay?” You nodded in agreement, shivering as Geto used your wetness as lube.

His cock prodding at your ass before lowering you down slowly. You’d used toys for anal before, so it wasn’t bad apart from the small sting from his girth.

You moaned softly, your back on Geto’s chest with your front facing the main camera. The side camera picking up the way Gojo came up in front of you, Geto holding your legs up for his best friend to line up with your tightness.

You mewled loudly when Gojo thrusted into you. Your chest rising and falling rapidly at the fullness. You could feel both their cocks pushing against each other as they went deeper. Feeling them all the way in your stomach as you allowed yourself to get used to it.

You gave a nod signaling you were ready, your head resting on Geto’s shoulder while your nails dug into his biceps. Moaning loudly when they wasted no time in simultaneously fucking into you.

Matching each other’s rhythm until you were crying out shakily, small tears staining your cheek as you clenched down in both ends. The two men grunting as they relentlessly drilled both your holes. Geto pulling out when Gojo thrusted in and Gojo pulling out when Geto thrusted in.

The two worked to find a pace that drove you over the edge, your mouth hung open in non stop cries as a coil built in your stomach. “Nngh— ‘m close.. feels so good.” You moaned, your vision blurring as your toes curled.

Gojo’s thumb swiped across your bottom lip, “Yeah? Is our little baby gonna cum for us again?” He cooed, pushing his thumb past your lips for you to swirl your tongue around. A hum sounding in his throat before his palm connected with your cheek. A small yelp leaving you before your mouth was stuffed by his fingers again.

“Look at you taking both of us so well. Little fucking slut.” Geto gritted before groaning deeply, “If ya keep squeezing me like that sweetheart, i’m gonna cum.”

You barely processed his words, your own high washing over you as you came. Your body shaking as you slobbered all over Gojo’s hand. Moaning out loudly while creaming his cock.

“Shit— there we go.” Geto breathed. Both he and Gojo husking out a curse as they both stilled. Pumping you full of cum from both ends. You swore you could feel your stomach swell when they finished.

You whimpered when Gojo slipped out of you first, his cum seeping out your pussy in spurts before Geto followed suit. Pulling out of your ass and allowing his cum to run out of the small gape.

Lifting you up and bending your folded body back. Revealing your leaking cunt and ass to the camera while you batted your lashes.

When you were done, both men fixed their hair from the mask. Gojo smirking widely as he panted, “Fuck baby, should’ve let us fuck you like this way sooner.”

Geto nodding in agreement, “Yeah, if i knew you could take cock so well i’d be dicking you down more often.”

Your cheeks heated, the two chuckling as you led them into your master bathroom for a group shower.. and more.

[prythianpages]

Beautiful Stranger | Azriel

Azriel x Reader | Azriel gets injured while on a mission and meets someone he never thought he would. aka you finding an injured Az and the mating bond snapping.

warnings: mentions injuries and blood; other than that, this is light & fluff

word count: 4,342

a/n: I love Halsey's Finally//Beautiful Stranger & when it came on my shuffle while driving, this fic played out in my mind.

Humming quietly to yourself to keep your thoughts occupied, you allow the glow of the moon and fireflies to guide you back to the village. Dawn Court was your home, but after the fall of Spring, you had volunteered to help its fae, creatures, and land heal from the devastation left by Hybern’s attacks.

Though the damage to Spring was immense, its beauty still endured. The air still held a lingering heaviness but the flowers had begun to bloom once more with promise and hope of a better future. Your task today had been to gather healing herbs, yet when you stumbled upon a field of dandelions in full bloom, you couldn’t resist the urge to stop and admire the scenery. It was why you were returning late at night, long past the sunset you had promised to return by.

As you made your way along the path, the gentle breeze grew colder and sharper. It rustled the leaves on the trees and made the branches creak, its eerie sound halting your steps and silencing your humming. A chill of unease prickled your skin and your muscles tensed in alarm. 

Then you saw them. 

Shadows, darker than the night itself, swirling around you.

These were not the shadows you were used to seeing at night. No, these shadows felt alive and with purpose. 

You should’ve turned back. But there was something in the way they moved, fluid and insistent, that made you follow. With every step, they guided you away from the familiar moonlit path and deeper into the forest, pulling you toward the river that ran through the heart of the woods.

A flicker of blue light was coming from just beyond the tree line, catching your eye. Curiosity tugged at you, drawing you closer. The shadows slithered toward the faint glow, vanishing into the darkness by the water’s edge.

When you finally reached the riverbank, your breath hitched at the sight before you.

A male lay sprawled on the shore, half-submerged in the water, his blood mingling with the river’s water. Blinking your eyes, you saw the shadows that led you to him, clinging to his battered form and limp wings. They pulsed in a protective manner. It’s then that you recognized the source of the blue light. It was coming from the gems attached to the leathers he wore. 

Siphons. He must be Illyrian…but what was an Illyrian from the Night Court doing in Spring? Alone?

It didn’t matter. You immediately rushed and knelt beside him, your healer’s instincts snapping into action. Your finger’s pressed against his neck, mind racing with worry and dread as his skin felt cold against yours. He must’ve been out for awhile now. The nerves eased slightly when you felt a pulse. 

Weak but present. 

You slipped your arms beneath him, the shadows aiding you as they wrapped around his arms, helping you turn him over to his side. His dark hair clung to his face, your hand reaching up to brush it back.

Your eyes finally met the face of the fallen warrior and something snapped. 

So piercing and electrifying, it had your heart fluttering from the intensity. All at once, the golden threads of the bond you’d only heard stories about unraveled in your chest. They weaved between your rib cage, pulling you tight toward him. A pull so strong it left you breathless and in shock.

Fate and shadows had brought him to you. Your mate.

But the exhilaration of it all was soon smothered by panic, the golden threads beginning to quiver. His blood, too much of it, stained the riverbank. His body was limp in your arms, his breathing shallow.

You had found your mate and already, you were on the verge of losing him before you could even learn his name.

**

Azriel wakes to the sound of singing, a nice and sweet sound, and he catches faintly to the words. He’s never felt so warm, so relaxed. His senses are dulled by grogginess, his body sluggish, but something feels… different. Lighter, somehow. 

Beside him, his shadows stir, the familiar weight of their presence grounding him. But there's also something else— different from the cool and light caresses of his shadows. Firmer. Warmer. The pressure is foreign but comforting.

As his senses slowly return, the scent of herbs and incense reach him before his eyes flutter open. Where am I? He thinks, finally blinking his eyes to clear his vision.

The first thing he sees is you, the source of the beautiful singing.

Light streams into the room, casting a golden halo around you. It strikes him hard, stealing his breath and sending a shock through his chest. He doesn’t know who you are, what you are. But you’re beautiful, so beautiful that his brows furrow in bewildered awe. There’s no way, he thinks. I don’t belong here…

He wills his dry lips to part, his voice is rough and barely audible. “Am I…dead?”

Your eyes widen and your singing comes to a sudden stop, startled by his sudden words. The warmth he felt vanishes as you pull your hand back, and only then does he realize it had been your touch on his face earlier. Your hand hovers between you, glowing faintly with a bronze light, like the first rays of dawn, before you settle it into your lap.

“No,” you finally answer. “You’re not dead.”

Azriel tears his gaze from your face, even though some part of him protests. His eyes wander around the small room, taking in the sparse furniture, the wooden desk cluttered with jars and vials. The sunlight continues to stream through the single window, the curtain hanging doing little to dull the brightness thanks to the Spring breeze. It blinds him when it catches his eyes and he winces, looking away. 

His attention is inevitably drawn back to you. You’re seated beside him, perched on a small stool that does not look comfortable by the bed. His shadows, the loyal dark tendrils that always remain by his side, are dancing around you. Their movement is playful, loving almost and you don’t seem bothered by it. As if they’ve done this before. 

The sight stirs an unfamiliar flutter in his chest.

The flutter is cut short when one of his wings, too big for the bed he’s in, twitches and knocks into the bedside table. A vial tumbles to the floor, the sound of shattering glass jerking his body forward, and in an instant, the memories come rushing back.

He remembers the mission. Rhysand had sent him to the wall separating the mortal lands from Prythian. He had met with Jurian, the encounter brief, and then he was on his way back—flying over the Spring Court when he was ambushed. His mind aches as he tries to remember more but all he remembers is being struck by poisoned arrows and falling through trees. Multiple trees.

Hot, searing pain stabs through him at the sudden movement and your hands fly to his bandaged chest, gently urging him to sit back. “You’re safe,” you reassure him. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Azriel shouldn’t feel comforted by your words, not when he barely knows you. However, he finds your voice soothing. He listens, allowing himself to slowly lean back against the pillows, despite his mind screaming at him that you’re a stranger. Your hands remain on his chest, glowing again with that soft bronze light, and the sharp pain in his body begins to ebb away, fading into a dull ache. Much more bearable.

His shadows return to him, sighing with relief as they nestle close. Azriel watches you, keen hazel eyes taking in more of your features. The curve of your lips, the softness of your eyes. They draw him in, and he finds himself unable to look away. Had it not been for the pain that shot through him moments ago, he would’ve thought you lied to him about not being dead. Because surely you weren’t from this world to have him in a daze like this…

“Who are you?”

“I’m…,” you hesitate, uncertainty crossing your features. He watches with bated breath, waiting but the words seem to catch in your throat. You swallow, clearing your throat before speaking again. “I’m just a healer.”

“And here I thought you were an angel from above.”

A quiet laugh escapes you, and the tension in your posture melts away. The corner of your lips tug up into a faint smile, one that Azriel surprisingly finds himself mirroring. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He doesn’t think. The words spill from him before he can stop them. “I didn’t say I was disappointed.”

The flush that dawns across your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed. You turn your head, trying to hide the reaction. It’s too late. Azriel already saw it and even if he hadn’t, his shadows are happily gushing over it. Some, the ones not distracted by your beauty, curled around his ear and whispered about the emotion lingering on your face, in your eyes.

There was more you meant to say. Words left unsaid and he wants to know, the curiosity and yearning bordering on desperate. His gaze assesses you again, searching for an answer. For a hint. His shadows continue to whisper. Good, they say reassuringly, sensing no danger or malintent in you. We found her for you!

She saved master's life. Master was out for three days and she stayed by master’s side. She’s–

“What’s your name?” You ask, pulling him from the silent conversation with his shadows.

Azriel is not one to give his name so easily, often going by what he was–a Shadowsinger– rather than who he was. He’s also not one to dwell in places he’s unfamiliar with longer than necessary. But you saved his life and for some strange reason, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you. They seem to trust you and therefore, so does he.

“Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeat and his shadows shudder in response, as though they, too, are captivated by the sound of it on your lips. His stomach flutters in time with their movement.

“What about yours?”

“Y/n.”

“Y/n,” he says, repeating your name the same way you had his. His shadows dance in the air around you both.

**

It’s late morning, as you pick up the empty plate from him, that he feels the familiar sensation of talons scraping against his mind. Azriel?? Rhysand’s voice is urgent, the frantic panic of it making him wince. Your head immediately turns in concern and Azriel brushes it off with a small shake of his head.

I’m alive. Azriel responds, his answer curt as he’s once again distracted by your presence.

Thank The Mother, Rhysand breathes a sigh of relief. Where are you? Are you somewhere safe? Do you need me to–

I’m fine. I was attacked while flying through Spring. 

Who? Rhysand demands.

Given the fact that whoever ambushed me has made no move to find me and finish the job, I’d say no one of importance. Azriel replies, lips curving into a small frown at the thought of being caught off guard and attacked. It rarely happened, his shadows always keeping him one step ahead of anyone and anything. Had they been distracted…?

He turns his head, searching for the shadows in question. Some remained with him, choosing to burrow under the blankets. The others, however, were hovering at your side and helping you clean up from breakfast. One even opens the door for you and he hears you murmur a small thanks as you leave the room.

Azriel had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He didn’t want to, not liking the idea of being in such a vulnerable state with someone he barely knew. It’s not that he suspected you’d harm him or had bad intentions–you literally saved his life for Cauldron’s sake! It was just a feeling he was not used to. To be able to sleep safe and sound.

When he woke up again, it was a brand new day. He realized the bandages on his chest and arm had been changed. He was slowly gathering his strength back. One of his shadows must’ve given him away because shortly after he woke, you had walked in with a friend. 

“Wow,” the dark haired fae murmured, her steps faltering. Her eyes had widened in wonder, taking in the large expanse of his wings that made the bed look ridiculously small. “The Cauldron truly favors you.”

Azriel’s gaze couldn’t help but narrow. Those words had been directed at you, not him. 

You’d introduced her as Poppy, explaining she was your friend, another healer whose family had taken you in. Poppy had left shortly after setting a steaming bowl of stew on the table right next to the bed. She had been adamant on letting him know her mother had made it and not you, which he found odd.

Azriel was surprised to learn this was your room and you’d given it up for him. He tried to protest, offering to sleep on the couch or floor. Of course, you had refused and he was even more surprised to learn you were more stubborn than he was. 

Where are you in Spring? Rhysand’s presence in his mind pulls him back to the present. He hopes he hadn’t accidentally projected his memory to his friend, wanting to keep it to himself for now. I can send Cassian, if you’re unable to fly. 

No. Azriel responds immediately and he can feel Rhysand’s confusion. I’m alive and safe. I just need more time to recover. 

And without waiting for a response, Azriel brings up his mental shields again, shutting Rhysand out. He can only hope he doesn’t send Feyre knocking on his mind next. Or worse, actually send Cassian to Spring, despite him saying not to.

He should’ve said yes, and accepted the help. The Spring Court was among the least favorite of his courts, in tie with the Autumn Court. He had a strong distaste for the High Lord, who remained wandering through his forests like a beast. 

As you return to the room, Azriel catches sight of a faint glow wrapped around your wrist. He hadn’t seen it before, the glow of your magic outshining the gold ink etched there. A sun, cradled by a crescent moon, and below the moon, a fine lined star glimmers, connecting the two celestial bodies with its ray of starshine. 

“You’re far from home.” Azriel comments, nodding toward the tattoo.

“So are you,” you answer, lips turning up at the slight flush that takes over Azriel. You then glance down at the tattoo on your wrist. The insignia of your Court with the added touch of your healing gift. The tattoo was an honor, a testimony of the oath you had taken after mastering your magic. “I came to Spring to help after the war.”

“Will you go back home after?” He asks, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. His shadows snicker beside him in a knowing manner. “Or will you stay here?”

“I’ll stay here as long as I’m needed.”

He doesn’t understand why but a part of him feels relieved that you’re not attached to this court. 

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need,” you then add. 

He feels an odd sense of relief, and his shadows give a little wiggle in excitement. He sends them a glare, and they sheepishly return to hiding under the covers. Though one brave shadow lingers by his side long enough to whisper, you'll find out soon Master.

“They’re cute," your voice pulls him from questioning his teasing shadow.

Azriel lets out a snort, the effort making his chest and stomach ache. Cute. His shadows had been called many things—strange, unnerving, even unsettling—but never cute. They typically clung to him, weaving around his form quietly, careful not to disturb anyone. Unless he sent them on a mission of their own or they had a mission of their own.

Occasionally, they’d make an exception for Cassian, creeping up behind him just to tap his shoulder and bask in his exasperation when he turned to find nothing there. They’d even tried their luck with Rhysand once, though he was never fooled. Yet, for reasons Azriel couldn’t fathom, his shadows had taken an immediate liking to you, drifting toward you whenever they could.

The said shadows peek out from under the covers, almost shyly. If they could blush, he’s sure they would be at this moment. They're never going to forget this moment.

“I wouldn’t call them cute,” Azriel replies, ignoring their indignant hisses.

Conversation flows easily between you two from there, Azriel giving into his curiosity to know and learn more about you. Much to his surprise, Azriel indulged you in your questions, telling you about his shadows and things about himself he rarely told others. They were small, trivial things such as his exact favorite shade of blue and his biggest pet peeve. Yet you held onto every word, every detail and it felt strangely comforting.

Two more days passed, Azriel’s body still healing. Slowly but surely. You had been able to recover one of the arrows that had shot him. Not that it mattered. Azriel was now, unfortunately, familiar with the effects of faebane. It hindered his healing and though it was frustrating, there was one upside to it all–the friendship blossoming between you and Azriel.

There’s a knock on the door as you mix Azriel’s concoction for pain. “Yes?” You call out.

Poppy peeks her head in. “I was just checking to see if I had given you enough spearmint for the pain tonic and also to let you know that we’ll be out most of the day. If you wanted to take out your ma—male for a walk or something without being bothered by the little ones.”

You freeze and a sheepish look takes over your features, tainting your cheeks. “Poppy,” you say her name again in what sounds like a warning. “He has a name, you know. And he doesn’t need to be taken on a walk.”

“Oh, right, Azriel,” she says, giving him a cheery wave. “Hello again!”

“Hello,” Azriel replies, shifting in the bed, despite the protests of his muscles. He’s not at all offended by Poppy, her aura too bright and cheery to be bothered. He flashes you a grin that has your grasp on the mixer faltering. “I think a walk would be nice actually.”

“Told you!” Poppy replies. “Anyway, we’ll see you for dinner. Send a butterfly if you need me.”

When the door closes, you let out a small sigh, shaking your head with a small, sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry about her.”

Azriel brushes off your concern, his eyes shining bright when he looks back at you. “How about that walk?”

**

Azriel grunts as he pushes to stand, his wings trembling as he shifts his weight, unused to bearing himself after days of bedrest. He stumbles right into your arms, his usually steady form swaying. You quickly catch him, your arms coming around one of his sides. His shadows dart toward his other side, helping you hold him upright. 

“I’ve got you,” you say softly, your hold surprisingly firm. 

He can't help it. He lets out a low, amused breath. 

“What?” You ask.

“Usually, I’m the one saying that.”

Your lips quirk into a smile, a gleam in your eye, as you help him find his balance. “Well, even the best need someone to lean on sometimes, right?”

Azriel stares at you. Something in his chest tightens–a weird but comforting sensation. It’s similar, if not the same, to what he had felt when he first saw you. Warm and painfully sweet. The feeling reassures him that, though you were strangers mere days ago, you’re someone he can lean on.

“Come on,” you murmur, nodding toward the door. 

Azriel lets you guide him through the house and out onto the porch. You settle there together, cutting the walk very short. You're mindful not to push him too far when he's still recovering. Azriel doesn't mind, the fresh air enough for him. He knows he isn’t at full strength to protect you should anything arise. Even though you most likely know these forests better than himself.

His hands drift to the porch railing as he leans forward for support, fingers curling around the edge. The sunlight glances off his scarred hands, each ridge and mark stark against his skin. He’d kept them hidden beneath the covers and out of your view while bedridden, hiding them instinctively, unable to forget the pitying glances they’d drawn in the past. Though he’s sure you must've seen them when you rescued him.

Now, as he feels your gaze slide toward them, a familiar discomfort tugs at him. He starts to withdraw his hands, wanting to tuck them closer to himself.

But you reach out. Your hand hovers, brushing slightly over his. There’s a slight hesitation—an uncertainty in whether to bridge the space or leave it. In the end, you let your hand rest gently beside his.

Azriel hesitates, unused to this vulnerability, yet unable to move away. He glances up to meet your eyes and his guarded expression softens slightly. “They’re… not easy to look at,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know they’re not.”

“I’m familiar with scars, you know. They don’t make you less of who you are.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens, his gaze dropping where your hands are barely brushing against one another. His throat feels tight, an ache he’s kept buried resurfacing.

“Not to me,” you continue. “I don’t see you any differently because of them.” 

He searches your face and he sees something in your eyes that helps him slowly relax. His gaze returns to your hand, fingers hovering now over his. This time, there’s no hesitation as you gently lay your hand over his, holding it as if the scars didn’t exist at all.

It’s such a simple gesture, yet it speaks volumes. 

His shadows slither down his arm and toward where your hands connect. For the first time, Azriel feels no urge to hide, no shame from the past that has long haunted him.

A silence drifts down between the two of you, settling like a blanket over the conversation. There’s no need to fill it, no awkwardness there. Just a gentle, shared peace, stretching softly around you both. He turns his head, shifting his gaze forward and takes a deep breath. 

He closes his eyes and a breeze rolls in, brushing against his skin and stirring his hair. His shadows begin to whisper excitedly. He basks in the sun’s warmth, and lets the scent of spring fill his senses from the fresh earth to the blooming flowers and the faint sweetness of pollen. It brings forth a tickle in his nose, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. His body groans in response, wings shuddering.

“Bless you,” you say, but he notices the way your mouth quirks as if you’re holding back a laugh.

“What?” he asks, brows furrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you giggle, your free hand rising to stifle it. “It’s just… you have such a fatherly sneeze.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a rare, amused smile creeping onto his face. “Fatherly sneeze?” He echoes. He has never heard the expression before yet he somehow understands it. If you thought his sneeze was “fatherly,” he’s curious to see your reaction to one of Cassian’s sneezes. That thought is enough to make him laugh outright.

It's so silly but the sound is so contagious that you laugh too. His shadows began to flutter around you, as if joining in on the laughter. Azriel’s gaze then drifts down, watching the way your lips curve in laughter, how your eyes crinkle at the corners, how effortlessly you draw light into his heart.

And there it is again—that rush of warmth. It’s mixed in with joy, so pure and intense it has to be coming from you. His heart stirs, his pulse quickens, his mind clears, and in a single, life-altering instant, he knows.

“You’re my mate.”

Your smile falters, replaced by a moment of hesitation. Some shadows travel to you, brushing softly against your arms as if in a reassuring manner. He can't help but watch them, realization dawning on him.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit quietly.

“How—when…” His voice catches, unable to form the words.

“I was walking through the forest when your shadows came to me. They led me to you, by the river. You were unconscious and bleeding. And then… the bond snapped for me the moment I saw your face. You were so cold and--and…,” your face tightens, eyes glistening at the memory and Azriel can feel the panic you must’ve felt then. “I’d just found what so many only dream of and you were already slipping away...I thought I’d never get to know your name…”

Azriel feels a pang deep in his chest as he absorbs every word. His chest feels tight again and he swallows thickly. “And when I woke up, why didn’t you tell me?”

Your gaze falls, fingers twisting together. “I wanted you to heal, to feel better. That’s all that mattered.”

“I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe me anything. I would’ve saved you, mate or not.”

Azriel searches your face, touched beyond words at the sincerity in your tone. It made sense why he felt so drawn to you since the moment he saw you, why his shadows took a sudden liking to you and kept whispering "we found her, we found her!" They had known all this time, been able to sense it before he even could.

Looking back, Poppy being the one to bring him food and water and not you was not as strange as he originally thought. You were being mindful, not wanting to accidentally accept the bond without his knowledge. He felt an overwhelming gratitude for how gentle and considerate you've been with him all along. He couldn’t help but wonder how he had gotten so lucky to be bound to someone like you.

“And would you have sung to me, mate or not?” Azriel asks, his mind drifting back to the exact moment he'd first woken up.

Your cheeks flush, and you glance away toward the gardens, suddenly refusing to meet his eyes. “What?” You let out a small huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 “What did I hear?” Azriel’s tone borders on teasing, his expression shifting into one of exaggerated contemplation. “Something like… ‘Beautiful stranger, here you are…’”

“That’s enough!” You interrupt, your face turning into an even deeper shade of pink, caught somewhere between mortification and laughter. 

This time, it’s Azriel holding back a chuckle. His lips curl into a small smirk, seeing the blush that lights up your face. He quite likes that shade on you—likes being the one to bring it out even more. “So…”

You keep your gaze straight ahead. “So…?”

Azriel leans in, his voice low and warm, making your stomach flutter. “Do you sing that song for just anyone too?”

“No,” you let out a laugh, your hands cup your face but there’s no hiding the blush there.  “I’m afraid that song was just for you.”

“Good,” he murmurs.

You turn to look at him, realizing his gaze had never left you. Your hands drop back to the porch railing.  “Yeah?” you whisper, your own heart pounding, not sure what it was you were asking.

But Azriel seems to understand anyway. He can feel what you’re feeling, now fully aware and attentive to the bond humming between you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, his smirk softening into a genuine smile, his heart finally at ease. 

A gentle warmth surges through the bond, reaching every shadowed corner of his heart and wrapping around his soul. It’s a feeling he could get used to, one he’s spent centuries longing and yearning for. It’s a feeling he’s searched for in all the wrong places, enduring the heavy weight of heartbreak after heartbreak.

But now, with you, he feels the weight begin to lift. After all the empty falls and broken promises, it’s finally, finally safe for him to fall.

a/n: you can't tell me Az & Cas don't have dad sneezes lol. Anyway, I really wanted to write a fic where Az finally feels safe with someone because he deserves to. I hope you enjoyed this <3

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith

[bi-writes]

ok but soulmate au with ghost but it's the fucking opposite of rainbows and sunshine. (18+)

you share his trauma. his stress. his anxiety. you do not know who he is, and yet you know the pain of a thousand punches because it's the only feeling he has ever given you. you know the grueling ache of abandonment and the terrible neglect of abuse and the disgusting amalgamation of all your worst nightmares before you even turn 20. everything that he gives you feels aggressive, like it burns, and he only ever gives you reprieve for so long until you just feel it all over again.

it makes you tired. it makes you sick. at first, as a girl, all you wanted to do was comfort him. you wanted to know who he was so you could kiss the cigarette burns that you feel and soak up the blood you know he bleeds.

but as you age, you begin to hate him. you hate him because he does this to you, he hurts you, doesn't he know that he's hurting you? doesn't he know that everything he feels, you feel tenfold, doesn't he know that the terror and the horror of everything he witnesses weighs down your chest, makes you feel like you're drowning over and over and over again?

for a few years into your adulthood, everything is quiet. you feel little except the ache in his back he never tends to, the creak of his knee joints that he refuses to stretch out. you wish you knew him so you could scold him for it, but you curse at a ghost. sometimes you think about doing something to get back at him--you think about carving a FUCK YOU into your arm, about throwing yourself in front of a bus just so he can fucking understand that his entire life is one fucked-up cycle of pain and misery and horror, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

you can't hurt him. you just can't.

and then, the real pain begins. it brings you to your knees, this pain. you scream, you wail, because it feels like you're being carved from the inside-out. your face burns. your chest heaves. you feel like your ribs are breaking, you can't breathe, you claw at the invisible wounds that your soulmate must be wearing, and you beg him to stop, you beg him to let me go--just fucking die already--please, please, please--

those weeks haunt you. the torture he endures, it is branded to you. you wear no scars, and you never lost any blood, but the phantom flesh that you know is gone follows you in your sleep and never shuts up. it talks, it snarls, it eats at your insides. even when he heals, you are never the same. you wake up from nightmares that you know you share with him. you look over your shoulder for the predators you know he has encountered, and you cry yourself to sleep over the loss of something that you can't even decipher because you have no idea who he is or what he buried to feel this way inside.

he's sick. he's twisted. he's a walking corpse, he has no redeemable qualities, he is selfish and mean and cruel, and you hate him, and if it wasn't for the pain that you would feel, the first thing you would do when you saw him is drive something right through his heart to finally stop the undying infection he spreads to everything that he touches.

you know it is him when you finally meet him. you would know him anywhere; you’d know him just by the scars alone who he is because you remember what it felt like when he got them. when you eye the sleeve of tattoos along his left arm--the fucked, shitty, sunburnt art that made it impossible for you to finish your university exams. the faded, grey circles that line the other, ones you recognize being from the burning cigarettes that you would smell when you closed your eyes. and when he removes his mask briefly, you recognize the scar that cuts above his lip and strikes through his eye--that one left you reeling on the bathroom floor particularly loudly. you thought he might be blind if it wasn't for seeing the darkness of both of his eyes.

you start to cry. you start to cry because as soon as he realizes who you are, as soon as you see that flicker of knowing flash across his eyes, all of the hatred and the anger and the poison that plagued you for all this time vanishes. everything you fought so hard to feel, all the misery you wanted to bestow upon him for making your life a living hell, it's gone.

because the universe is cruel, the universe has done what it has done, and it has made this singular person just for you, and against everything you believe, you know that you love him, and you hate yourself for it, and you hate the universe, too.

you have endured. but maybe you endured so he didn't have to. maybe you endured so that he could have this, the feeling that he feels right now, that feeling of sudden relief.

he slides a large hand over his chest, flinching slightly. he blinks, understanding suddenly that he's feeling your joy, your elation. when you shuffle your way over to him, breaching the conversation the men around him are having, you ignore their confused stares as you fling yourself into his chest.

ghost forces you against him, trapping you to him. he practically chokes, tangling a gloved hand into your hair, and you sob into the warm skin of his neck as he hoists you into his arms, into his lap. you don't pay attention to the curious voices around you, you just bury yourself into him and cry. his body is the evidence of all that has happened to him, and you aren't angry anymore because you're relieved.

he's real. he's alive. he's here. he's okay.

when you pull back to look up at him, you blink away the tears that are falling fast down your face. he stares down equally as intensely, drinking in the sight of those big, wet eyes. when he smooths a big hand down your face, he grumbles when he realizes what you are, how you know him.

he never realized this was what he and his soulmate shared. you in your life had never felt pain like he had--he had no idea what he was doing to you. he had no idea what you were surviving at the same time.

he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours, and your lips tremble as you cup his cheeks and hold him close.

it feels wrong to feel this kind of comfort, but he does anyways. he thinks, maybe, that perhaps the only reason he survived was because of you.

because there was someone else, far away, that loved him enough to keep him breathing. even when he thought it was over.

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[ddejavvu]

Helloo!! Sooo I have a picture of mgg as my lock screen but his face isn’t in the picture and I was wonderinggg if you could write about the girls at the bau seeing your background of your phone and it’s some guy but they don’t know it’s spencer and they ask all these questions about this mysterious secret boyfriend you have and asking to meet him and r is just like maybeeee idk knowing that they have in fact met him and maybe spencer is near by and hearing all this and is just all shy and flustered. If you do write this THANK YOUUU you’re writing it phenomenal, one of a kind, it’s so good!!! <333

"Woah, hubba hubba," JJ's eyes bug out at your phone screen, and Emily, forever on JJ's wavelength, snatches it out of your hands before you can properly dim the screen.

"Who is that?" Emily asks everyone's burning question, and one of Penelope's hands squeezes yours, with nails, to emphasize her urgency.

Your lock screen is a picture of Spencer's bare chest clad only in a blazer, the front open in a lewd V that showcases the dark pink kiss marks you'd spread across the smattering of wiry curls he's grown. It's not something you'd meant to flash your coworkers with, and Spencer chokes on his water while Derek hoots and hollers at it.

"There are some things that should be kept private," Rossi drawls, eyes wide and haunted as he stands, "I'm going to get Aaron and myself another refill, just in case any worse pictures get shown around the table."

Hotch laughs at the older man, amusement lining his features handsomely as the group continues to tease you.

"So, when are you bringing this guy around? Not that we'd recognize him anyways, unless he showed up shirtless with lipstick all over him."

"Derek, you-" You barely stop yourself from saying, 'you have met him', instead swerving into an easy insult, "You're the last person I want to introduce him to. You'll never let us live this down."

"None of us will." Prentiss promises, her grin wolfish, "You'll be lucky if Garcia doesn't manage to track him down using nipple-recognition software."

Your technical analyst cackles into her drink, and Spencer makes a hasty getaway.

"I need the bathroom," He paws with burning cheeks at Derek's leg, ushering the man out of his way so that he can speed-walk to the bathroom. You watch him go, hearing Hotch let out a rare laugh at his urgency.

"Poor Spence," JJ croons, "Did you see how red his face was?"

"That kid's almost thirty and I bet he can't even say the word 'sex' without blushing." Derek scoffs.

"He can't. I've seen it." Garcia confirms, "It's pathetic."

"Pathetic," You snort, but what your team hears as agreement, you mean as contradiction. Spencer was nothing close to pathetic that night- sweet and tender, yes, but pathetic, no. He'd cupped your face while you'd spread a smattering of sticky kisses across his chest, and he'd stared into your eyes when you'd taken the picture, a smile on his face even though he'd known his grin wouldn't be in frame.

"Well get all of it out now," Hotch advises, a teasing tone in his voice, "Spencer won't come back if we're still talking about it."

"I'm happy for you." Dave states, setting his and Aaron's drinks down, "But so help me, Y/N, if I ever see your boyfriend's naked torso again, I'll kill myself."

You refrain from telling Rossi he had just seen your boyfriend's bare torso, last week when Spencer had needed to be stripped of his cold, wet clothes, and thrust into a heated blanket for warmth. No one had batted an eye at his brief nudity, and neither had you, because you'd memorized every inch of his skin. You didn't need to ogle him; you could recall his body from memory.

"I'll keep that in mind." You nod at Rossi sagely, "Just don't go through the rest of my camera roll." You see Spencer exit the bathroom, peering cautiously at your table to see if he can predict the conversation before returning, "Or you'll find a lot worse than his chest."

[pedrasacorn]

Pairings: Jason x fem!reader

Warnings: mentions of blood, violence, head injury

Summary: self indulgent,

“Hood—” your broken voice cuts through his adrenaline rush, echoing through the dark, damp alleyway.

He holsters his guns quickly, “Hey hey hey—hey sweetheart. Look at me.” He brushes the blood stained hair away from your eyes, “There she is…I gotchu sweet thing.” His voice feels so distant, morphed by the modulator in his helmet into something you don’t recognize.

Your eyes start to wander to the mess of blood. He blocks your sight with his body, “No…You of all people, don’t need to see that,” He cups your cheek, tilting your face up, “That’s not for you okay? You keep those eyes on me.”

He removes his gloves. Although his bare hands are clean, the blood is always there.

His fingertips barely touch your cheek, just enough to ground you.

The red of his helmet warps as tears blur your vision. He quickly swipes them away. “That scumbag is not worth your tears.”

His eyes follow your tears as they mix with the blood on your face. Not your blood. He grimaces.

God nothing bad should ever get the chance to touch you. Yet here he was with his palm cradling your face. He, is a hypocrite.

“I’m taking you to my safe house, s’that okay?”

Your throat feels too raw to speak. So you nod.

The world around you tilts, before strong arms wrap around your shoulders, “Easy there sweets, I gotcha.”

He scoops you up. This man who you’ve seen toss full grown men like rag dolls—still surprises you because you weigh nothing. You feel like you weigh nothing, but you’re not holding yourself. Wait he weighs…you to him weigh…you weigh to him like…which one of you weighs nothing?

“Jay I don’ feel good.” You croak.

“Shh I know sweetheart, I know. Almost home.”

You barely register being set down on the bathroom counter.

He unclips his helmet, and tosses it to the floor. Something stirs within when his green eyes meet yours.

“I saw it,” Your voice trembles as unshed tears choke you, “the blood.”

His brows are furrowed with concern, his full bottom lip is almost a pout. Angels above he has never looked softer. It helps sooth every bit of reluctance now that you can see his face again.

Your eyes feel heavy.

His thumb brushes over your brow, “Open those eyes f’me. Please…” You squint at him as he brings a small flashlight to your eye line.

You knew this one, you’d watched asmr videos of it.

“Concoction.”

He huffs through his nose, a smile lilting his mouth, pulling at the scar above his lip. “Concussion sweetness. Follow the light.”

You do so halfheartedly, not much of an overachiever right now. “S’con-cuntion?” Your tongue feels heavy, clumsy in your mouth.

“Yeah…s’okay though I’ve had plenty of my own. You’re staying here tonight.”

The cotton filling your brain makes your nod feel weightless.

A warm washcloth is brought your cheek, you lean into it happily letting it melt the bite of the cold alley still clinging to your skin. God you can’t remember the last time someone touched you like this.

“You with me pretty girl?” He croons, as he wipes the dried blood from your brow, and cheeks.

You nod, almost dazed.

Tears blur your vision, but he doesn’t try to stop you from crying, just patiently wipes them away with the cloth.

Contently closing your eyes you whisper, “Your hands are soft.”

He is careful not to wear his heart anywhere near his sleeve, and somehow you’ve coaxed him into wearing it on his face. “You’re soft.” He murmurs.

The blood is finally gone.

He sets you down on his bed, keeping you propped up on the bedpost, “Don’t lay down yet.” He coaxes.

You focus on the coolness of the wood, until the bed dips next to you.

“I’m gonna help you get dressed, in the least mortifying way for you possible. I’m so sorry but also…” his eyes rake over you, “I’m not letting you catch the disease that killed the dinosaurs.”

Touché. Who knows what Gotham has cooked up in her petri dish.

“S’okay, m’clothes feel gross.”

He nods curtly before oh so gently lifting your sweater over your head, quickly swapping it for his tshirt.

It smells good—like spring—but you wish he’d given you one off his back. It’d smell like him.

You hold up the shirt to keep it out of contact with your pants. As careful as diffusing a bomb he unbuttons them. “Lift your hips f’me.” He holds you steady, one hand on your hip as the other tugs them down your legs. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck as you lean your body weight against him.

“Ya good like this? I have pants they’re just…large.”

You let the shirt back down, it thankfully falls past your hips. “M’okay.”

You’re weightless again as he lifts you, gently laying you on the mass of pillows.

“Oh hallelujah.” You sigh.

Something brushes your nose, you pry your eyes open to be met with his.

“Swallow these.” You wash the pills down with the bottle of water he presses against your lips.

“You’re gonna hate me for the next 24 hours.” He gently brushes the hair out of your eyes with his thumb.

“S’okay ’cause I love you even when I hate you.”

He huffs amusedly. It’s not the same love he feels for you, it can’t be.

“Yeah…I love ya too.”

———

A/n: I stayed up way too late so the concussion yapping is just me trying to figure out what I’m trying to say

[gloomwitchwrites]

Hello, hope you're a having a good day

Could you write something about 141 x reader where the sparring session turns a little too not your usual sparring (if you know what I mean). The reader and them being all sweaty and shit and like the sexual tension that's been there for a while. This idea has been plaguing my mind since forever. Thank youuuu

Haha! Yes! Omg, I love it. Okay, for this, I didn't go full smut. When someone mentions sexual tension, I tend to hyperfocus on that and want to bathe in it. Give me naughty thoughts and flirting-maybe even some actual physical contact that borders on dangerous territory. Give me the yearning! I want to giggle and kick my feet and think about what might happen later.

So, I indulged in that regard! I had lots of fun with this. Thank you so much for sending it in!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x TF141!Female Reader

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): swearing, suggestive themes, knife play, grinding, rough kissing, caught in the act, training, naughty thoughts, mutual yearning

Word Count: 2.4k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John "Soap" MacTavish

“Come on. Come at me.”

Soap rolls his shoulders and then brings his fists up in a fighting stance. He makes a “go on” gestured with his hands.

Every muscle in your body is sore. Tired doesn’t even begin to describe how you’re feeling. But you want to best Soap. He’s been on your ass for weeks now—insisting that the two of you should spar together. It’s not the sparring that makes you warm and tingly but the way he suggests it.

Always leaning in. Standing far too close. Bumping your shoulder with his.

Soap waits, but you’re not sure how to proceed. So far, you’ve been completely unsuccessful. As if knowing all your moves, Soap has dodged each blow and kick, effortlessly taking you down to the mat every time you thinking you’ve ensnared him.

Stealth is more your thing. Creeping around in the shadows. Taking out opponents from afar. A sniper scope is your friend. Hand-to-hand isn’t.

You lunge for him and Soap steps back. Fist missing him, you sidestep and go for a jab in the stomach. Soap slaps your hand away, and you want to yell in frustration.

“Sloppy today,” chides Soap, grinning like this amuses him.

It probably does. He’s one for a good laugh.

This time you feign, and Soap takes it, moving in. You’re ready for him, turning out of his swing to duck beneath and then aim for the face. Soap rises to block, and opens a clear line to his groin.

Fucking beautiful.

Lifting your foot, you don’t tap him hard, just enough for his cheeks to go pink. Soap grunts, and you chuckle.

“Shouldn’t have left yourself—”

With an oof, your back smacks against the tumble mat beneath you. Soaps snags your wrists and pins them above your head. You go to kick out at him, but Soap’s knees are between your legs. He shoves them wider.

You’re completely trapped beneath him.

And in a completely inappropriate position.

From where you’re pinned, you notice the small beads of sweat on his brow and how a few pieces of hair stick to his skin. Though his chest is covered by a shirt, it’s snug, with every muscle on display. Those powerful thighs of his press against yours in such a way that you’re imagining nothing between your bodies.

Would he feel this powerful over you if the two of you were elsewhere? Perhaps, somewhere more private. Somewhere without a tumble mat. Somewhere with a bed.

“Can’t harm the goods, love,” says Soap, his voice husky. You’re not sure if it’s from the close contact or from the tap you gave his crotch.

“Then don’t leave them vulnerable,” you reply, almost not recognizing the sound of your own voice. It too is husky as if dipped in desire.

The middle of Soap’s brow scrunches slightly. His gaze travels downward to linger on your lips and then further still until you sense him admiring more than he is observing.

“Soap—”

His gaze snaps upward. “Johnny,” he corrects. “Think we’re on closer terms.”

“Are we?” you ask, as his hips start to relax.

The press of him against you is apparent, and the hardness there is poking at you. Insistent. And you don’t want to ignore it.

Instead, you press upward, grinding against him.

Soap—no—Johnny, makes a sound in his throat.

One moment you’re under him and then you’re in his lap, the two of you sitting up, staring into each other’s eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, and your hands fists the front of his shirt.

“You—”

“Are we interrupting something?”

You and Johnny turn just as Ghost and Gaz enter the gym. Gaz has a towel draped over his shoulder. The water bottle he holds it half-way towards his mouth before he freezes, gaze locked on you and Johnny.

Ghost cocks his head, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re speechless. Lost. Your mind hasn’t caught up.

But Johnny’s has.

With a twist, Johnny rolls and then lightly tosses you off him as if the two of you were simply practicing and not staring into each other’s eyes.

“You want a go, Lt?” asks Johnny.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“You up for another round?” asks Kyle.

The man is grinning like he could do this all day. You’re sore everywhere—ready to collapse from exhaustion. Hand-to-hand combat is not your thing which is why you’re here in the training room with Kyle.

Yes, you need practice, but you’ve also had your eye on him, admiring him when you think no one is looking. It’s an excuse for some alone time.

“I’d rather eat glass,” you mutter, snatching up your water bottle and drinking the last of it.

“Hate me that much?” he teases.

“So much so that I wanted to spend the afternoon beating your ass.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. He snatches the water bottle out of your hand and aims it at you, squeezing. There’s nothing in it. A few measly drops hit your face and then you lunge for him. Kyle jumps back and extends his arms outward.

“One more round.” He winks. “Come on, love.”

He’s being cheeky, and your blood is pumping.

Kyle tosses your water bottle to the side as you stride forward. His arms go up, and then the two of you are nothing but flying fists and feet. He’s faster, blocking every blow you send his way.

Sweat accumulates on your brow and on the back of your neck, dripping down your spine. You lick your lips, taste the salt from the sweat.

You duck. Swing. Kyle snatches your wrist and twists, pinning your arm behind you. With a sharp jab of your elbow, you nail Kyle in the stomach, freeing yourself.

As you spin to lash out, Kyle is right there, in your space, blocking all movement. You try to step back, to allow space in your next strike, but Kyle rushes in. The two of you are twisted up. Falling. Slamming into the mat on the floor.

You shove and Kyle resists, his strength outmatching yours. With cheek pressed into the mat, you have nowhere to go. You’re completely on your stomach, and all of Kyle’s weight is on you. He breathes heavily, chest heaving. You feel his breath against your skin, and the contact only sends your skin into a shiver.

Your mind drifts, lingering in places it shouldn’t. Worse—Kyle is aroused. His hardness pokes at your ass. But whether he notices or not is unclear.

“You’re improving,” he says.

“I have a good teacher.”

Kyle makes a noise that sounds like agreement. Every muscle is tense, and even Kyle’s hold on you seems laced with something harsh. But then it eases. Softens. His grip loosens enough that you roll onto your side, glancing up at him.

He is so goddamn close. Just a gentle tilt of the head and your lips would meet his. It wouldn’t be that hard. He’s right there.

Kyle blinks, and then his gaze trails downward, lingering on your lips.

“We,” he begins. “We shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

His thumb traces along the side of your throat, and your eyelids flutter with contentment. A little moan escapes you, and you hear Kyle’s sharp inhale.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck it.”

His thumb becomes his whole hand. Holding you in place, Kyle goes all in, claiming your lips with his. It is dominating, and you happily give in to him.

John Price

Your back hits the tumble mat with a sharp slap. The exposed portions of your shoulders and back sting from the contact.

"Again."

Groaning, you push up to a seated position. "We've been at this for hours."

"And you need practice," counters Price.

He's hatless. And shirtless. Only in cargo pants and boots, Captain Price's bare skin glistens with sweat. You won't pretend that the sight of him like this doesn't intrigue you. For months now you've been observing Captain Price in more than just a professional manner. It's hard not to, and the sweat-drenched man before you isn't helping things.

Captain Price runs his fingers through his hair, taking a step back. The casualness to the movement causes your stomach to twist with desire. Your body betrays you, and you have no idea if these feelings are entirely one-sided. Sometimes you think you might gleam a notion of his thoughts, but it always manages to slip through your grasp.

Price offers his hand, and an idea forms.

You extend yours, but don't close the distance. Price is the one that leans forward to do so. It's the perfect opportunity. When your fingers close around his, you tug back, throwing him off balance.

Price tips forward, and you turn to the side as he crashes down to the mat. In one fluid movement, you roll Price onto his back and straddle his stomach.

"Never let your guard down. That's what you always say."

Price's eyes widen slightly before softening. The corner of his mouth twitches into a hint of amusement. It immediately sends heat flaring through you.

"I do," he replies, and it's nearly a coo.

That smirk of his widens into an actual smile, and then it's you on your back and Price straddling. You strike out with an elbow but Price catches your swing, trapping your arms above your head. He bends forward a bit, and it is then that you feel the stiffness against your stomach.

Price makes no move to hide it, and you don’t dare glance downward.

"You need to do better-"

"Captain."

Price immediately recoils, sitting up and releasing your arms. You twist to look behind you, only to find Ghost and Soap standing nearby. Ghost is ever the silent observer, but Soap's head is slightly tilted to the side, the middle of his brow pinched like he's not sure what's happening.

"Meeting starts in five,” says Soap. “Came to find you."

Price coughs and then he's off you, kneeling and offering you a hand again. You don't try to knock him down.

"Just going over some pointers,” replies Price.

"Pointers?" deadpans Ghost and you shoot him a look. He shrugs at you, gaze lingering before moving to his captain.

"Give me ten minutes. Shower. Then I'll be there."

Captain Price gives you a quick glance before walking off with Soap. Ghost crosses his arms over his chest and just stares.

“What?" you snap

"Pointers," he repeats.

"Oh, fuck off, Simon."

He chuckles and turns to follow the two out of the training room.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

"Your posture is terrible."

"That's very helpful, Lieutenant,” you deadpan.

"Are you sassing me?"

"No."

Simon shakes his head and sighs. “Can’t throw a knife accurately if you’re hunched like a goblin.”

“Goblin,” you mutter under your breath. “Asshole.”

“What was that?”

You clear your throat. “Seems easy, Lieutenant. You just throw the pointy end at the enemy.”

Simon grunts and then grabs your raised arm. "You won't hit anything standing like that."

You resist his pull but you're outmatch when it comes to strength. With one hand on your arm and one on your waist, Simon shifts you into position.

"Like this," he instructs, bringing your arm back. "Firm grip. Feet pointed forward." Simon releases your arm but his hand on your waist remains. "Throw. At the target."

You let the knife fly. It strikes just right of the bullseye.

"Again,” nods Simon.

"Really?"

Simon slowly drops his hand from your waist, the tips of fingers lingering a second longer than necessary.

Removing a knife from his boot, Simon flips it end over end. "We could hone your skills a different way."

"What way?"

“Grab your knife and find out.”

Stalking toward the bullseyes, you yank out the knife, joining Simon in the sparring ring. He bends at the knee, crouching into a fight stance. You mimic the movement.

Simon lunges first and you sidestep. But he's quick for such a large man. He moves around and behind you so fast he's almost a blur.

Grabbing your wrist, Simon lightly twists and pins you against his front, the knife tip pointed at your throat.

"Again,” he growls.

Simon lightly shoves you away. You spin. Striking out. He slaps your arm down and raises his own, the knife tip pointed at your throat for a second time.

"Again."

Showing your teeth, you charge at him, barreling into him at the middle. Simon staggers but doesn't faulter. He attempts to toss you off him, but you remain firm, grabbing hold.

This unloads him, his weight toppling with you. The two of you go down. Simon rolls you onto your back, his body pressed to yours, knife at your throat again.

"Better,” he says. “Still needs improvement."

You go to shove him off, but Simon doesn't budge. He remains where he is, and every point of contact is like an electrical spark. Even his face is close, balaclava nearly scratching against your skin. There is not part of him you’re not touching.

Awareness settles in.

Simon is all hardness over you.

"Have any tips you can give me?" you reply.

His gaze slowly lowers to your lips. His hips shift slightly, something stiff poking against your inner thigh.

“I have one,” he murmurs.

Bet I can guess.

“How do you want it?” he continues.

"You're the expert," you reply softly, hooking your leg over the back of his.

It's an invitation, one you aren't sure he'll take.

There’s a brief pause, and then Simon hums in agreement. It’s a pleased sound, one that instantly makes you shiver. Without taking the knife from your throat, he closes the distance, lips pressing against yours through the balaclava.

Heat erupts, the knife in your hand forgotten on the floor as you grab at him, fingers digging in.

It's only a tease. You want the real thing.

"What's the tip?" you ask once he breaks the connection.

Simon answers by grinding his hips against yours.

That one. Got it.

“We should—”

A door slams from somewhere down the hall. Simon’s head snaps up. The knife disappears, and then Simon is pushing himself away, kneeling beside you. His head is turned toward the main doors, but no one enters.

“It’s late,” you say. No one should be coming this way.

He turns back to you. “Your knife skills are shit.”

You groan. “I know. Goblin hunch. Got it.”

Simon snorts, and offers his hand. You take it, and he pulls you into a seated position. “Just a few more rounds,” he says, and then with a husky twinge to his tone, “and then I’ll go make sure the locker room is clear.”

taglist:

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[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 6: Where…?

The first thing out of your mouth when you wake is a low, discontent groan as your hands fist the blankets around you. Your head and eyes throb. For a good several minutes, you remain completely still - no motivation to move from your semi-comfortable position. You really can’t drink like you used to, huh?

Eventually you work up the courage to crack your eyes open. At least the curtains are closed. The room takes a minute to focus, and the first thing you notice are the incorrectly colored sheets - lacking the usual floral print. You frown, grunting as you sit up. The second thing you notice is the t-shirt and sweatpants you’re currently wearing - not yours and easily a couple sizes too big. They have to belong to someone wide and tall to not be fitted on you. You don’t remember going home with anyone…

You take a moment to look around. It’s a decently sized room with minimal decor. A few art prints line the walls and the closet is in perfect order - separated by type and color. Though, most of it appears to be black. The bed is huge. Tall, too, you realize as you slowly slip your way out of it, nearly tripping on the long fabric of the sweatpants you’ve been dressed in. Glancing at yourself in the small mirror on the wall, you realize your makeup is gone and your hair is braided. There’s a dark wooden dresser and a matching desk with a laptop and sketchbook neatly placed on top. You wander over nosily, squinting down at the book. Oh shit! Oh shit, that’s Simon’s sketchbook. You’d recognize that collection of skull pattered stickers anywhere.

The sound of clinking pans and the scent of bacon slowly registers. Did… did you somehow end up going home with him? There’s no way, right? You remember asking him to dance, you remember him being surprisingly good and… and… that’s about it. On top of the dresser is your outfit from the night before, neatly folded with your bra tucked underneath. Your face heats and you cover your chest.

After a quick self inspection (and a nervous check for condoms in the trash) you decide you’re pretty sure you didn’t fuck anyone. Probably. Hopefully. What happens if you did? Would Simon tell John? Should you tell John? Will it make things awkward? Will he fire you? Oh, you really don’t want to lose this job. It’s the best you’ve ever had and you really, truly love all your boys so much. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes both to soothe the ache in them and to bite back tears.

You’ve always been such a stupid girl.

After giving yourself a few minutes to sit on the bed and properly freak out, flapping your hands in an attempt to get that nervous energy out of your system, you decide it’s time to face the music.

You slip your bralette back on before slowly cracking open the bedroom door. The short hall is mostly shadowed, lights off and the sun drifting in from what you assume is the living room. The door across from you is closed and to your left is a rather nice, spotless bathroom.

You peak your head out into the living room. It’s large and open, flowing into the kitchen as hardwood becomes tile and an island with stools between the two. Simon is the source of the clinking, apparently, moving around the stove like it’s second nature. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised he can cook - he’s a grown man - but there’s something about the way he arranges the plates, the from-scratch ingredients, that tells you he does actively enjoys it.

It’s cute.

Johnny and Kyle sit on a well loved couch just a few feet from you, both focused on some TV show you don’t recognize. A slow frown forms on your face, turning into shock as the door beside you opens. You nearly jump out of your skin as John appears beside you in a robe and plaid pajama pants.

A soft smile splits his face. “Mornin’, dove.”

“Och, she’s awake!” Johnny grins, throwing an arm over the back of the couch as he turns to face you.

You blink dumbly, head pounding and gut churning as you step closer to stand beside the couch. Without thinking you blurt, “You all… live together?”

“Course.” Kyle pipes up, looking at you as well. As if you were supposed to have known that already.

You melt to the floor in a hungover heap. “Oh, thank god!”

Johnny laughs. “Why thank god?”

“I was so scared I did something stupid…” Your voice cracks as you press your cheek to the cool hardwood. You didn’t fuck anyone, you didn’t embarrass yourself, you were simply taken care of. The relief alone almost makes you want to cry. Though, that’s probably the hangover more than anything.

“Oh, love.” Kyle reaches down to soothe a hand over your hair. “We wouldn’t have done anything like that, yeah?”

You nod.

“Sorry it scared you.” John murmurs, crouching to set a mug of coffee on the floor beside your head. “We didn’t feel comfortable sendin’ y’home alone.”

You nod again, slowly pushing yourself up to grab the mug. The bitter taste of black coffee makes you cringe, but it wakes your system up and seems to push your hangover down to a tolerable level.

“I should go home…” You sigh, not moving a single muscle off the floor where you currently sit.

“Not before you eat somethin’.” Simon calls from the kitchen.

You take the opportunity to look around the living room. The sun has been mostly blocked out by barely cracked curtains. There’s a little bit of each of them in it - artwork scattered across the walls. A few photos - one of John and Simon that looks like the opening of the shop. The leather pride flag sticker stuck on what looks like a toolbox doesn’t escape your notice. Probably John’s. You’ve never seen another man with such well cared for boots and leather coats. Maybe that’s assumptive. There’s a game boy and a PS5 behind the 4K television. Your eyes follow the rather extensive sound system to a massive CD organizer. There’s a short hall on the opposite side of the apartment where you assume the other two rooms are. Everything is so… homey. Comfortable.

“Wait, who’s clothes are these?” You ask suddenly, staring down at the oversized t-shirt and tightly tied sweatpants that pool at your feet awkwardly.

“Mine.” Simon shrugs, setting a plate on the coffee table for you before handing two more off to Johnny and Kyle.

“Comfy.” You hum, eyes zeroing in on the large breakfast in front of you - plate piled high with bacon, sausage, and waffles.

“Ye can sit up here wit’ us.” Johnny pats the empty couch beside him.

You think for a moment before shaking your still aching head. “Don’t think I should stand up yet.”

The food is even better than it looks. For a Brit Simon actually knows how to handle his flavors.

You groan as a particular rough throb stabs at your temple. “I don’t remember drinking enough to be this hungover…”

“Johnny can be very convincing.” Simon rumbles, stabbing a piece of sausage.

“What do you remember?” Kyle leans forward a bit to reach for his coffee.

You shrug. “I remember dancing. That’s kind of where it stops.”

“At least you got to skip the part of the night where Johnny starts rantin’ about chemistry math.” Kyle rolls his eyes.

“Och! Ye love my chemistry talk! It’s the structure of the universe! It’s-“

“Yap yap yap.” Kyle opens and closes his hand in a mocking ‘blah blah blah’ motion.

Kyle helps Simon clean up. You try to insist to let you help as well, but they won’t hear of it. John offers to let you stay the day and sleep off your hangover but you shake your head, wanting nothing more than to take a burning hot shower in your own bathroom - as fun as hanging around with them all day sounds. So, you slip into Simon’s room to change back into your own clothes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kyle rest a hand on Simon’s lower back. A light touch, but solid. You don’t have the wherewithal to think about it.

You peel off Simon’s clothes and put yours back on with a wrinkled nose. There’s something so gross about it, not that you’re clean right now anyway. Thank god you had the foresight to not wear underwire. You order yourself a car on your mostly dead phone as you wander back out to the living room. Your skirt suddenly feels far too exposing for the daylight.

You chew your lip. “My driver’s five minutes out… so, I’ll see you guys Wednesday?”

“I’ll walk you down.” John grunts, pulling himself up out of the arm chair.

“Oh, you don’t have to-” You pause when he gives you that look you’ve come to recognize as ‘don’t argue, I’m doing it anyway.’

You give a round of goodbyes to the others who make no movement to get off the couch, fully sunken in. Johnny has sprawled over the L part of the couch with an arm over his eyes and a water bottle in hand.

“Thanks for letting me stay over. Sorry if I got too, uh, sloppy or whatever.” You murmur as the elevator makes for the lobby.

John chuckles. “No more than Johnny ever does. I’m glad you came. Lookin’ forward to the next one.”

You heart skips as you nod. “Me too.”

John leans forward just as your driver pulls up, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. Your back stiffens and your stomach flutters - face hot as he pulls away.

“See you at the shop.” He nods, sauntering back into the building like he didn’t just give you a heart attack.

Bonus:

“No, ye need an oil cleanser first.” Johnny slurs. “Tha’s how ye get the - hic - the makeup off.”

“Don’t act like I didn’t teach you everythin’ you know about skin care y’muppet.” Kyle snipes back as he digs through the drawers under the counter.

“Workin’ on yer John impersonation, I see.” Johnny snickers. Kyle bats at his arm.

You just giggle, seated on the toilet in Kyle and Johnny’s shared bathroom and swaying back and forth. Simon leans in the doorway, watching as the two drunkenly try to help you get your makeup off. All three of you bursting out into another fit of giggles when Kyle squeezes your round cheeks to make a fish face. It occurs to him that he’s never seen you bare faced. None of them have. Not that you come in everyday with a full beat but even so, there’s something intimate about it. To him, at least. Something about you perched in their apartment, in his clothes, having Johnny smudge moisturizer over your face while Kyle braids your hair to keep it from tangling overnight.

The three of you fit together so well…

John puts on a stupid action movie. Something to distract everyone as you wind down and sober up before bed. You snuggle up to Johnny, unsurprisingly, tucking yourself under his arm with your head on his chest. He’s practically Pavlov’d you into constantly touching each other. Just like he did with the rest of them. He jumps a bit when you press your socked feet to his thigh, humming comfortably. There’s a stupid grin plastered across your face.

“Alright, off to bed with you.” John chuckles as you snore comfortably on Johnny’s chest. The Scot is equally asleep, your chests rising and falling in an asynchronous rhythm. John loops his arms under your back and knees, just as strong as he’s always been, carefully cradling you against his chest as he takes you to Simon’s room.

Simon follows, glancing sideways at your clothes in his dresser. You groan as John lowers you but don’t wake up - well and truly passed out.

Simon pauses for a moment before following John out, staring down at you. He’s no better than the others, the alcohol numbing his inhibitions. So, he reaches down, and swipes a thumb over your slightly parted lips. Just as soft as he thought…

He settles into John’s bed, the frame creaking under their combined weight. Neither of them are particularly slight, after all.

“Glad y’danced tonight.” John mutters, reaching over to turn off his lamp.

Simon just grunts.

“She’s good for you.”

“She’s good for us.” He blurts, immediately wanting to shove the words back down his throat.

To his surprise, John just nods, turning to sling an arm over Simon’s waist. “She is.”

A/N: Thank you all so much for enjoying this series with me, it means a ton! I’m sorry I’m not very good at responding to replies/asks but I really do love and appreciate you all!

Hope you’re pumped for the next part bc I am

[yvesette]

BUZZCUT. | ── [ j.jh ]

── ⭒ staring .ᐟ ౨ৎ  jaehyun x afab!reader

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀　 　₊　˙　✃ ⋆　 † ⠀๋⠀₊ -

SUMMARY: ── in a bittersweet farewell, the night before your close childhood friend jaehyun leaves for military service you both take a walk along the han river as well as navigate your complicated feelings for each other.

GENRE: friends to lovers, SMUT (18+, mdni), angst, fluff, idol!jaehyun CW/TAGS: dom!jaehyun, sub!reader, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv sex, spanking, hair pulling, reader is refered to as a girl, praising, bigdick!jaehyun WORDS | 6.8k A/N | this is in honor of jaehyun's enlistment - enjoy !!

‪　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ♡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓈒 ◌ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

── the night is cool against your skin, a gentle breeze wrapping around you as you walk down the narrow streets, winding your way toward the river. your steps are deliberate, even though your heart thunders against your chest. you’re thinking too much, and you know it, letting each thought flicker and fold over the last like waves, endless and unknowable, churning somewhere deep inside you.

it’s been a long time, you think. a long time since you first saw him, all easy smiles and casual charm. a long time since you first felt that jolt of something you didn’t yet have a name for but that, in hindsight, you recognize as love. you’ve never told him, not once—not in all these years of close calls and almosts, of lingering touches and moments that you always held on to longer than you should have.

you inhale deeply, trying to slow the pace of your thoughts, but each step closer only winds you tighter. the han river glimmers faintly in the distance, a line of silver beneath the night sky. and there, by the water’s edge, is jaehyun. he’s leaning against the railing, looking out at the river, his face partially shadowed but somehow softer, framed by the quiet of the night. the sight of him, so familiar yet distant, almost pulls you to a stop.

there’s something about him tonight—a weight you hadn’t noticed before. it’s as if he, too, is looking to hold on to everything here, everything he’s about to leave behind. and yet, he doesn’t turn to look at you until you’re almost right next to him, his gaze steady as he catches your eye.

“you made it,” he says, that soft, reassuring warmth in his voice. his smile, though, is smaller than usual, like there’s something unsaid between you both, lingering just below the surface.

“i made it,” you answer, and you try to keep your tone light, but it comes out quiet, touched by an edge you didn’t mean to reveal. you’ve imagined this moment—this last chance to see him—over and over in your head, each version of it different. and yet, standing here now, everything you thought you might say seems to slip through your fingers.

he watches you carefully, that subtle intensity in his gaze, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you look, standing there in the glow of the distant city lights.

he clears his throat, breaking the silence as you both start walking along the path that follows the river's edge. “how’ve you been?” he asks, giving you a sidelong glance. it’s a simple question, and yet the softness of his tone makes it feel like he’s asking for something more, like he’s trying to make up for all the times he’s missed out on in the last few months.

you smile, shrugging lightly. “same old, same old. work, school—nothing too exciting. but you, mr. idol, you’ve been busy.” jaehyun chuckles, the sound low and warm, as he brushes his hair back with one hand. “yeah, i guess that’s one way to put it.” he looks down at his shoes for a moment before meeting your gaze again. “we were doing concerts. that’s why i’ve been, you know… hard to reach.”

you nod, already knowing. his life has been moving at a different pace—one that has taken him across oceans, into arenas filled with fans chanting his name. it’s a reality you’ve grown used to, but still, there’s a tiny ache whenever you remember how separate his world can sometimes feel from yours. but tonight, it’s as if none of that matters. tonight, he’s here, and there’s only the two of you.

“still can’t believe that’s real,” you say, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “remember when you wouldn’t even sing in front of me?”

jaehyun laughs, shaking his head. “i was terrible back then. don’t lie to me.”

“no, i’m serious!” you grin, holding up your hands in mock surrender. “all those late nights, trying to get you to sing while we were ‘studying’ for exams. it was tragic—”

“oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad,” he interrupts, nudging you back with a smile that’s both embarrassed and pleased. “you’re making me sound hopeless.”

“hopeless? maybe a little,” you tease, watching his face light up in a way that feels achingly familiar, like something you want to freeze in time. “but i guess you’ve come a long way, huh?”

he nods, a soft hum in his voice. “feels like forever ago, though. remember the first time we stayed out all night? trying to find that coffee shop you swore was ‘just around the corner’?”

you laugh, covering your mouth at the memory. “and we got so lost! i was ready to give up, but you…” you trail off, looking at him with that same warmth, thinking of the way he had insisted on keeping on, even when you both had practically wandered into the outskirts of the city.

“i wasn’t about to let you down,” he finishes, a hint of pride in his voice.

the two of you continue walking, memories spilling out as naturally as the river flowing beside you. nights spent at convenience stores with cheap ramyeon and cola; that one time he convinced you to go to karaoke and made up for years of not singing; all the secrets you whispered between laughter and yawns, half-asleep in the early morning light.

and yet, despite the familiarity, tonight is different. the laughter dies down quicker, and each memory feels like a bittersweet treasure, something you’re both afraid to hold too tightly for fear it will slip away. you’re acutely aware of every step, every glance, every brush of his shoulder against yours. it’s all slipping through your fingers, each second a reminder that you’re both on the brink of a sort-of goodbye.

the quiet stretches out between you as you walk, and though his hand rests loosely in his pocket, jaehyun’s other hand rises to press his fingertips to his mouth, lost in thought. his gaze wanders out over the river, his usual warmth dimming, replaced by something heavier. it lingers in the air around him, that tension, that uncertainty—like the night itself is waiting to exhale.

“honestly… i don’t know what to expect.” his voice is lower now, almost a whisper that the wind could easily snatch away. “everyone says you just get through it. that it’s over before you know it. but…” he trails off, his words floating into the dark like something fragile and fleeting. “it’s strange, thinking that life just… pauses. for two years.”

you walk a few more paces, silent, each step a reminder of time slipping by too fast. you look at him out of the corner of your eye, trying to hold onto the image: the faint furrow of his brow, the set of his jaw, that expression he wears when he’s trying to seem brave but doesn’t quite manage it. and your own heart twists at the sight of him—of jaehyun, here with you, with all the things you’ve never said pressing against your chest. but you push it down, that ache, until it’s tucked somewhere deep inside you. instead, you reach out, letting your hand rest on his arm, feeling the warmth of him under your fingertips.

“you’ll be okay yuno,” you say quietly, feeling the words reverberate through you, anchoring you to this moment. “you’ve always found a way to be.”

he looks at you then, really looks at you, like he’s seeing something for the first time. there’s a hint of disbelief in his eyes, almost as if he wants to question what you’ve just said, even using his real name - to pick it apart. but he doesn’t. he just nods, a faint, grateful smile tracing his lips.

“sometimes i think you believe in me more than i do,” he murmurs. “like you’ve always known something i haven’t.”

you want to say something to that, to answer, to reach through all these walls of silence that have built up between you over the years, but you don’t. instead, you only look back at him, holding your smile steady, letting the quiet carry all the things you can’t say.

after a moment, you find a bench tucked away at the edge of the path, overlooking the river’s glimmering surface. the world around you fades into the background, and for a brief moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended in this fragile stillness. as you sit, jaehyun turns toward you, his fingers brushing against yours before he takes your hand fully, squeezing it gently.

“i don’t know what i’d do without you,” he admits, his voice steady but low, a hint of vulnerability hidden beneath the surface.

your heart races at the contact, warmth spreading through you like a soft glow. you’re on the verge of confessing everything—the weight of your feelings that you’ve kept hidden, the love that has thrived in the silence between you. but you hold back, unwilling to add any more emotional weight to a goodbye that’s already too heavy. instead, you meet his gaze, trying to capture this moment, every detail of him etched in your mind—his soft features, the way his eyes reflect the shimmering river, the gentle press of his hand against yours.

jaehyun clears his throat, breaking the quiet between you. “it’s getting cold,” he says, his voice soft, almost reluctant. “i’ll walk you home.”

you nod, and without another word, you both stand, falling into step beside each other. the silence between you now is thick, layered with the things neither of you have said, and each step you take feels heavier, like the night itself is pressing down, reminding you that this is the last time—for a good while—that you’ll have him beside you like this.

the streets are emptier now, just the distant glow of streetlights casting long shadows as you walk side by side. you can feel the tension building, each step drawing you closer to the inevitable. your hand brushes his once, and though neither of you speaks, there’s a quiet comfort in that brief, familiar contact. when you finally reach your apartment, you stop, and jaehyun does too. he stands there, looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read—something mingling with the sadness in his eyes, a softness, a question, maybe. and he hesitates, his hand hovering just beside yours as if he wants to reach for you, as if he’s searching for something in your face that he’s not sure he’ll find.

jaehyun’s gaze flickers, lingering on you as if he’s committing every detail to memory. he rubs the back of his neck, breaking eye contact for a second before looking back at you.

“so…” he begins, his voice barely above a whisper, carrying the weight of all the unspoken words between you. “guess this is it, huh?” you force a smile, nodding even though it feels like your chest is tightening. “yeah. tomorrow.”

he bites his lip, his eyes searching yours, like he’s waiting for you to say something, anything to make this moment last longer. “it’s just… i don’t know. doesn’t feel real yet.”

you swallow, the words caught in your throat. “it doesn’t,” you reply softly, your voice barely steady. “we’ll still call and text all the time…and if you want we can hang out every other weekend or something.”

jaehyun’s expression softens, the corners of his mouth twitching into a small, sad smile. “you’ve been there for everything,” he says, his voice quiet, almost as if he’s admitting a secret. “since we were kids. it’s hard to think of… going through something without you around.”

your heart races at his words, and you force yourself to hold his gaze, even though every instinct tells you to look away, to hide what you’re feeling. “i’ll still be here,” you say, and the promise feels fragile, yet unbreakable, hanging in the space between you.

he lets out a small breath, his hand lifting as if on instinct, brushing your cheek, his fingers barely grazing your skin. “i know you will.” his voice catches, and for a moment, you see something raw in his eyes—a tenderness that feels almost too much to bear.

you stand there, suspended in the silence that follows, the weight of everything unsaid filling the space between you. and before you can second-guess yourself, before you can think of all the reasons not to, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his. his hand slips around to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, as if grounding you both in this moment, and he kisses you back, slow and unhurried, like he, too, is trying to capture everything he feels in this one breath, this one touch. the kiss starts softly, a gentle brush of lips that feels almost tentative, as if you’re both testing the waters of this new territory. but as the world around you fades, that initial hesitation melts away. the warmth of his hand cradling your neck sends a shiver down your spine, igniting something deep within you that has long been simmering beneath the surface.

jaehyun's lips are sweet, tinged with the warmth of honey and a hint of smoky undertones from the cigarette he smoked earlier. his lips move against yours with increasing urgency, a mix of longing and a bittersweet awareness that time is slipping away. you lean into him, feeling the solid weight of him against you, and it’s as if every memory, every unspoken word, pours into that moment—every shared glance, every moment of laughter—colliding in time.

jaehyun deepens the kiss, tilting his head slightly, and you feel his breath against your skin, warm and inviting, igniting a fire that spreads through you. it’s a heady mix of sweetness and heat, and you find yourself responding instinctively, matching his intensity, losing yourself in the sensation of him.

your heart races as you feel his fingers slide into your hair, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him as if he fears letting go. the world around you blurs, the distant sounds of the city fading into a dull hum, leaving only the two of you, caught in this fragile moment that feels both infinite and fleeting.

breathless, you pull away just enough to rest your forehead against his, the warmth of his skin lingering. your eyes meet, and in that charged silence, a shared understanding pulses between you—fragile yet undeniable. with a shaky breath, you fumble for your keys, the metal cool against your palm as you unlock the door, hands trembling. jaehyun steps in behind you, his presence a comforting weight, solid and unwavering in the dim light.

the moment the door closes, he's there, pulling you close again. his lips find yours in the dim light of your apartment, urgent and needy. you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he walks you backwards toward the couch. the familiar scent of his cologne envelops you, a heady mix of leather and lillies that makes your head spin. your legs hit the edge of the couch, and jaehyun gently lowers you onto the soft cushions. he follows, his body a comforting weight above you as he settles on top of you.

“god, i’ll miss this,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw. then, without another word, he kisses down your neck, his lips trailing warmth that ignites every nerve in your body. you gasp softly, feeling the heat radiate from him, his touch igniting a fire deep within you.

“jaehyun…” you breathe, your voice a mixture of longing and urgency. “i wanna remember this.”

his kisses trail back to your lips, deepening as he pours everything he feels into the moment, as if to make sure you both carry it with you, etched into your hearts. “are you sure?” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin, “that you want this.”

you nod, your eyes locked with his. "i promise," you whisper back, “i’ve thought about this for so long.”

jaehyun’s eyes soften, a blend of tenderness and desire flickering within their depths. he shifts slightly, fingers finding the hem of his shirt, and you hold your breath as he pulls it over his head, revealing the smooth contours of his chest and abs. the dim light from the street outside casts shadows that accentuate every curve, transforming him into a living, breathing sculpture.

without thinking, your hands reach out, tracing the lines of his torso as if drawn by an invisible thread. his skin is warm beneath your fingertips, a tangible warmth that makes your heart race. you marvel at the firmness of his abdomen, the subtle ridges etched from countless hours of dance practice and grueling workouts.

a soft hitch escapes jaehyun’s breath at your touch, his gaze darkening with desire as he watches you explore. hesitantly, you reach for the hem of your sweater. jaehyun's eyes follow your movements as you slowly pull it up and over your head, revealing the delicate lace of your bra underneath. the cool air of the apartment raises goosebumps on your skin.

jaehyun's gaze is reverent as he takes in the sight of you. his fingertips ghost along your collarbone, tracing a feather-light path down to the swell of your breasts. you shiver at his touch.

“is this okay?” he asks softly, his hands hovering at the clasp of your bra, the question hanging in the air like a fragile promise. you nod, unable to find your voice, the weight of his gaze anchoring you as he leans closer, a whisper of breath brushing against your skin.

with gentle fingers, jaehyun unhooks your bra, his touch reverent as he slides the straps down your shoulders. the fabric falls away, revealing your breasts to his gaze. his eyes darken with desire as he takes in the sight of you, vulnerable yet unafraid beneath him.

"so fucking pretty," he murmurs, voice husky with emotion. he lowers his head, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. his lips trail downward, leaving a path of warmth across your collarbone. when he reaches your breast, he pauses, his breath hot against your skin. then his mouth closes around your nipple, drawing a gasp from your lips.

his tongue swirls patterns as he sucks gently, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. one hand cups your other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak. you arch into him, a gasp escaping your lips. one of his hands kneads your other breast as he lavishes attention on the first. the dual sensations make your head spin. jaehyun releases your tit with a soft pop, his eyes meeting yours as he begins to trail kisses down your body. his lips brush against your sternum, then trace a path down the center of your abdomen. each touch is feather-light yet charged, sending shivers cascading through you.

he takes his time, mapping the landscape of your skin with worshipful attention. his tongue dips into the hollow of your navel, eliciting a soft gasp. you feel the curve of his smile against your skin as he continues lower, his teeth lightly scraping your sensitive flesh.

jaehyun's fingers trace along the waistband of your skirt, his touch light as a whisper. he looks up at you, eyes dark with desire but still seeking permission. "can i take this off?" he asks softly, his voice low and loving.

you nod, breath catching in your throat as he slowly unzips your skirt. he slides it down your legs, his hands caressing your thighs as he goes. the cool air raises goosebumps on your newly exposed skin.

jaehyun's gaze travels over you reverently, taking in every curve and dip of your body. his fingers ghost along the lace edge of your panties, barely touching. "you're so beautiful," he murmurs, “let me take care of you baby.”

he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. then another, slightly higher. his lips trail a path of fire up your limbs and when he reaches the edge of your panties, he pauses, looking up at you with dark, desire-filled eyes. "god, you're so wet," he murmurs, his voice low and cursing. "fucking soaked, all for me.."

his fingers trace along the damp lace, barely ghosting over your most sensitive areas. even that faint touch sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you. you squirm slightly, desperate for more contact and whimper.

"such pretty noises," he purrs. "i wonder how you'll sound when i really touch you."

"please," you whimper, not even caring how needy you sound.

a slow smile spreads across jaehyun's face. "please what?" he asks, his tone commanding. "tell me what you want, baby."

"touch me," you gasp. "please, i need you to touch me."

your breath catches as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. with agonizing slowness, he slides them down your legs, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake. the fabric clings to your damp skin as he peels it away, exposing you fully to his hungry gaze.

jaehyun's eyes roam over you, drinking in every detail. his hands caress your thigh, “perfect fucking pussy, better than i ever imagined..” he praises, before his tongue finally makes contact with your folds, you gasp at the sensation. he starts with long, slow licks, savoring your taste as he explores every inch. his hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works.

jaehyun's tongue swirls around your clit before sucking gently, sending waves of pleasure through you. he alternates between broad strokes and focused attention, building your arousal steadily higher. you thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him where you need him most.

jaehyun holds your trembling thighs firmly apart, his strong hands steady and warm against your skin. his touch is gentle yet insistent, opening you up to his hungry gaze. jaehyun's tongue delves deeper, parting your folds and exploring every sensitive ridge and valley. he hums softly against you, the vibrations sending shivers through your core. his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, anchoring you as pleasure builds within you.

you feel the heat of his breath against your most intimate places as he works, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on your clit. each pass sends sparks of sensation coursing through you. your hips begin to rock involuntarily, seeking more friction.

"such a good girl," jaehyun murmurs against you, his voice low and husky. "i love how you taste."

he slides one finger inside you, curling it upwards as his tongue continues to lavish attention on your clit. the dual sensations make you gasp, your back arching off the couch and you curse.

jaehyun slides one hand up your body to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. the added stimulation heightens every sensation, making you gasp and writhe beneath him. your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as your hips begin to move of their own accord.

you arch your back, grinding against his mouth as the tension mounts. soft whimpers and gasps fall from your lips, growing more desperate as you climb higher. jaehyun redoubles his efforts, sucking your clit between his lips as he slides another finger inside you. the dual stimulation has you seeing stars. his fingers curl, finding that perfect spot inside you as his tongue lashes your clit. you cry out, your hips bucking against his face as the first waves of orgasm crash over you. jaehyun doesn’t stop, only slows his efforts as you come down from your high. after you catch your breath, he moves his head from your thighs and moves up over you to kiss you.

jaehyun's lips meet yours in a deep, sensual kiss that is almost like a thank-you from you. you taste yourself on his tongue - tangy and sweet with a hint of musk. as he presses his body closer, you feel the hard length of his cock through his sweatpants, hot and insistent against your thigh. the thin fabric does little to conceal his arousal. the heat of him sears into your skin, igniting a fresh wave of desire low in your belly. your hands roam over the planes of his back, tracing the lean muscles there. his skin is fever-warm, and you pull back from kissing him to look down at the print of him through his pants. you make eye contact, and there’s a question hanging in the air along with the heavy breathing of you both.

you break the beat of silence, “i want to,” you say, giving him the permission that he needed.

jaehyun pulls away slightly, his eyes still locked on yours, the heat of the moment lingering in the air. with a quick, decisive movement, he gets up from the couch, the dim light casting soft shadows over his form.

“condom?” he asks.

“it’s in my bedside table,” you reply, watching him as he nods and strides toward the bedroom.

as he disappears from view, the atmosphere shifts. you stare up at the ceiling, feeling the room spin slightly, an unexpected loneliness settling in without his presence. the faint sounds of the city outside filter in, but they feel distant and hollow compared to the warmth he brought just moments before.

a part of you aches for him, for that connection you’ve both been dancing around for so long. time stretches as you wait, heart pounding in your chest, your thoughts swirling with anticipation and uncertainty.

finally, he returns, the confident smile back on his lips, and in his hand is the small foil wrapper. the moment he steps into the light, the heaviness in the air dissipates, replaced by a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. you sit up as he slips down his sweatpants and boxers.

as jaehyun's sweatpants fall away, your breath catches in your throat. his cock springs free, thick and hard, jutting proudly from a nest of dark curls. your eyes widen, taking in the impressive sight before you. he's long - longer than you expected - and girthy, the shaft curved slightly upward. the head is flushed a deep pink, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. the sight of him, fully aroused and wanting you, sends a fresh wave of heat through your core.

you swallow hard, a mix of desire and nervousness fluttering in your stomach as he gives it a few pumps, wrapping his veiny hands around his length and then slipping the condom on.

you lay back against the arm of the couch, heart pounding as jaehyun moves over you. his eyes are dark with desire as he positions himself between your spread legs. you feel exposed yet safe under his gaze.

jaehyun braces one hand beside your head, using the other to guide his cock to your entrance. the latex-covered tip brushes against your sensitive folds, making you gasp. he runs it up and down your slit, coating himself in your wetness. when he reaches your clit, he circles it slowly, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.

jaehyun's eyes lock with yours, his gaze intense and full of longing. the air between you is charged, buzzed with anticipation. he runs the tip of his cock along your folds once more, coating himself in your slick heat.

"god, you're so wet for me," he murmurs, his voice rough. "such a good fucking girl, all ready to take my cock.”

his praise sends a shiver down your spine, arousal pooling low in your belly. your breath catches in your throat as he begins to push forward, stretching you slowly inch by delicious inch. you gasp at the fullness, your body adjusting to accommodate his impressive girth. he moves with careful control, giving you time to adjust. when he's fully sheathed inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to his size. his breath is ragged against your neck, his body trembling slightly with the effort of holding still. his breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. "that's it, baby," he praises, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "take me in. you're doing so well."

you whimper softly, rocking your hips to encourage him to move. jaehyun takes the hint, slowly withdrawing before thrusting back in. he sets a steady rhythm, each stroke long and deep.

"fuck, you're so tight," he groans, his voice low and husky in your ear. "such a perfect little pussy, taking my cock just right."

jaehyun's thrusts become faster and more urgent, his hips snapping against yours with each movement. your bodies move together in a perfect rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

"yuno," you moan, your hands gripping onto his shoulders as he pounds into you, “feels so good, oh my god.” he leans down to capture your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth as he continues to move inside you.

jaehyun's thrusts grow more powerful, driving deep into your core with each movement. the couch creaks softly beneath you as he picks up the pace. you feel every inch of him sliding in and out, the delicious friction sending waves of pleasure through your body.

his hands grip your hips tightly, angling you to hit that perfect spot inside. you cry out as he brushes against it, sparks of sensation radiating outward. jaehyun groans in response, the sound low and primal.

you can feel the tension building in your lower belly, a coiling heat that threatens to consume you. jaehyun must sense it too, because he redoubles his efforts. his hips snap against yours forcefully, driving into you with renewed vigor.

just as you're teetering on the edge, jaehyun slows his movements, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in torturously slowly. you whimper at the change of pace, your body aching for more. he repeats the motion several times, drawing out each thrust until you're writhing beneath him.

"please," you gasp, "i need more."

jaehyun kisses you deeply before pulling out completely. "turn around for me, baby," he murmurs, his voice insistent. you listen, adjusting your position until you’re on your hands and knees and he’s behind you.

jaehyun's hands grip your hips firmly as he positions himself behind you. you feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing you. he runs it along your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal.

the anticipation builds as he lines himself up, the tip just barely breaching you. before you can respond, jaehyun snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust. you cry out at the sudden fullness, your fingers gripping the couch cushions tightly. he gives you only a moment to adjust before pulling back and slamming in again.

jaehyun sets a punishing pace, his hips pistoning against you. the new angle allows him to hit spots deep inside that make you see stars. jaehyun's hands grip your hips tightly as he pounds into you from behind, his movements growing more frenzied. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your breathless moans and his low grunts.

"god, you feel so fucking good," he groans, his voice rough with desire. "my perfect baby, s-so fucking tight."

his praise sends shivers down your spine, arousal pooling low in your belly. you arch your back, pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts. the new angle allows him to hit even deeper, brushing against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. suddenly, jaehyun's hand comes down on your ass with a sharp crack. the sting blooms across your skin, quickly followed by a wave of heat. you arch your back, changing the angle slightly, and cry out as he hits that perfect spot deep inside you. jaehyun notices your reaction and adjusts his movements to hit that same spot with each thrust.

jaehyun's hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair. he grips it firmly, tugging your head back as he continues to thrust into you. the slight pain mingles with pleasure, heightening every sensation. you gasp at the new angle, feeling him even deeper inside you.

"that's it, baby," he growls, his voice low and husky. "take it all for me." his hips snap against yours with renewed vigor, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. the couch creaks beneath you, the sound barely audible over your breathless moans and the slap of skin on skin.

jaehyun's grip on your hair tightens, pulling your head back further. “gonna c-come,” you manage to get out. the arch in your spine deepens, changing the angle just enough to hit that perfect spot inside you with every stroke.

“be a good fucking girl and come for me baby,” he says, leaning against your ear. stars explode behind your eyes as waves of pleasure crash over and you scream his name. jaehyun's grunts become more urgent as he continues to thrust into you, riding out your orgasm. he can feel you clenching tightly around him, milking him for all he's worth. with a loud groan, he follows you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you.

jaehyun carefully pulls out, both of you wincing slightly at the loss of contact. he sits up, running a hand through his tousled hair as he catches his breath. the dim light from the street outside casts a soft glow on his skin, highlighting the sheen of sweat on his chest.

with a quiet grunt, he stands and makes his way to the small trash can beside the couch. you watch the play of muscles in his back and legs as he moves, admiring the lean strength of his body. he removes the condom and ties it off before tossing it in the bin.

jaehyun turns back to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. his hair is a mess, sticking up in wild tufts where you ran your fingers through it. he ruffles it absently, making it even more chaotic. you run a hand through his hair and scowl playfully when you feel how sweaty he is.

"gross," you tease, wiping your hand on his shirt. "you're all sticky."

jaehyun's smile widens, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "you weren't complaining a few minutes ago," he quips, his voice low, “and say goodbye to my hair - i’m shaving it tomorrow.”

you feel a blush creep up your neck, remembering the heated moments that led to his current disheveled state, and then a sadness rushes over you - that he’s leaving tomorrow. jaehyun notices your reaction and chuckles softly, pulling you closer. his arms wrap around your waist, and you can feel the warmth radiating from his body as he grabs a blanket from the other side of the couch and places it over you both.

"what's on your mind, beautiful?" he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. you hesitate, not wanting to ruin the moment with your woeful thoughts.

"it's nothing," you reply, forcing a smile. but jaehyun knows you too well. his fingers gently tilt your chin up, brown eyes searching yours.

"tell me," he insists softly.

you sigh, your defenses crumbling under his gaze. "i just… i can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow. it feels too soon."

his expression shifts, the teasing glimmer fading as he brushes a thumb across your cheek. "yeah, i get it. it’s not easy."

"but what if things change?" you murmur, your heart tightening at the thought.

jaehyun raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "change? as in me forgetting you? not a chance. you think i could forget the girl who drove me crazy for all these years?"

you roll your eyes, but there’s a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. "well, you’re going to be busy with training and everything else."

he leans closer, his breath warm against your skin. "busy? sure. but you think i’ll be able to focus when all i can think about is you? not a chance."

your heart skips a beat, and you can’t help but tease back. "is that your way of saying you’ll miss me?"

jaehyun chuckles softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "it’s my way of saying you better miss me too. because i’m about to confess something."

you lean in, curiosity piqued. "what’s that?"

jaehyun's expression shifts, becoming more serious as he searches your eyes. "i’m in love with you. like, really in love with you. i think about you all the time—when i'm practicing, when i'm on stage, even when i'm just hanging out with the guys. it’s like you're always there in the back of my mind."

your breath catches, the weight of his words settling around you. "but… why didn’t you say anything before?"

he runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’ve come to know well. "i didn’t want to ruin what we have. i thought maybe it was better to keep it as friends. but now? i want to try things with you. i want to see where this goes."

the confession hangs in the air between you, charged with possibility. you can feel your pulse quickening, excitement mingling with uncertainty. "and what if it doesn’t work out? the timing of this is just-"

jaehyun shakes his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "i don’t care about timing. what matters is how i feel, and i can’t let that go without saying something. i want you in my life, no matter how far apart we are."

you raise an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. "you make it sound so easy. you do realize i’m not just some object you can claim when you feel like it, right?"

he chuckles, leaning closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "oh, i’m fully aware. that’s why i’m trying to make my move before someone else scoops you up."

you laugh lightly, shaking your head. "good luck with that. i’m pretty sure no one else would bother trying."

"yeah? you think i’m the only one?" he teases, raising an eyebrow. "you must have a whole line of admirers waiting."

"right, because i’m just so irresistible," you reply, a smirk on your lips. "but let’s be real. you’re the only one who’s actually putting in the work."

jaehyun’s smile fades just a little as he leans back, studying you. "look, i know this isn’t easy. but i don’t want to just be some random fling. i want to be in your life, no matter where we are."

you take a breath, weighing his words. "and if things get complicated? you know they will."

he shrugs, unfazed. "shit’s always complicated. but i’d rather deal with that than let this slip away. you’re worth the trouble."

you meet his gaze, feeling the sincerity behind his words. "okay, i get it. but don’t think i’m going to make this easy for you."

he smirks, the challenge evident in his eyes. "i wouldn’t want it any other way."

-

the morning light filters in through the window, casting a soft glow on the cluttered room, and you find yourself perched on a stool, an electric razor in your hand, staring at jaehyun’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. he sits in a chair, a towel draped around his shoulders, looking slightly apprehensive but oddly amused by the situation.

“are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, a teasing lilt in his voice that doesn’t quite mask the tension beneath. you grip the razor tighter, suddenly aware of how little you know about haircuts.

“i kinda have to,” jaehyun replies, a hint of seriousness creeping into his tone, “no long hair.”

you nod and take a deep breath, bringing the razor closer. with a gentle buzz, the razor hums to life, and you press it against his scalp. the sound is oddly satisfying, a gentle roar that fills the small space, and you watch as a tuft of hair falls away, landing softly on the towel draped around his shoulders.

“oh my god!” you squeal, barely able to contain your dumbfoundedness. you can’t help but laugh at the sight of jaehyun’s shocked expression, a blend of surprise and amusement. you can’t stop the laughter bubbling up as you buzz away the rest of his hair, the once dark locks falling in tufts around him. each pass of the razor reveals more of his scalp, and soon he’s left with a clean, smooth surface that glints in the morning light.

jaehyun tilts his head, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “so, how do i look? sexy?”

the question hangs in the air, and without thinking, you lean in and press a soft kiss to his lips, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips sending a rush of warmth through you. his surprise melts into a smile, and you pull away slightly, a grin still playing on your lips as you meet his gaze.

　　 　˳ 　 　౨౿　　⁺　　༄　　　༝　 　 end.

copywrite @yvesette 2024

[vaguely-concerned]

I understand and agree with a lot of the frustrations about the shortcomings of Inquisition as a story. but sometimes when I hear people complain about the chosen one narrative in it I do want to just be like... you know it's a deconstruction of the concept more than anything, right. the inquisitor isn't actually chosen by anything except stumbling into the wrong (right?) room at the right (wrong?) time because they like, heard a noise or whatever. or if you think they are chosen, as many do in-universe, that's something you have to take on faith, the maker-or-whoever moves in mysterious ways indeed-style. the Inquisitor isn't actually a Destined Chosen One, they're a Just Some Guy in a fancy hat, self-delusions of grandeur to taste as you'd prefer.

a running thread that goes through all of the personal quests of the companions is the concept of a comforting lie vs. an uncomfortable truth, upholding old corrupt structures vs. disrupting them, and the role of faith in navigating that. (blackwall the warden vs. thom rainier the liar and murderer. hissrad vs. the iron bull, or is that the other way around? cassandra and the seekers -- do we tell the truth about what we find, even if it means dismantling the old order of the world? and so on.) and your inquisitor IS at the same time a comforting lie (a necessary one, in dark times? the game seems to ask) and an uncomfortable truth (we are the result of random fickle chance, no protective hand is held over the universe, it's on us to make a better world because the maker sure as hell won't lift a divine finger to help anyone, should he against all odds exist). faith wielded for political power... where's the point that it crosses the line into ugliness? is it before it even begins? what's the alternative? will anyone listen to the truth, if you tell it?

interesting how you also get a mix of companion agency in this -- you have characters like dorian who ALWAYS choose one side of the comforting lie vs. uncomfortable truth dichotomy. he will always make up his own mind to go back to tevinter and try to dismantle the corruption of the old system no matter what you say, or how you try to influence him. meanwhile iron bull is on the complete opposite side of the spectrum -- so psychologically trapped and mangled, caught in an impossible spiritual catch-22, that his sense of identity is left entirely to you and your mercy. you cannot change dorian in any way that matters; you can be his friend or not, support him or not, but he is whole no matter what. you are given incredible and potentially destructive-to-him power over bull's soul. it's really cool (and heartbreaking) to think about.

this is a game about how history will eat you even while you're still alive, and shape you into whatever image it pleases to serve it, and for all your incredible power right now you are powerless in the face of the gravitational force of time -- of more than time, of History. you won't recognize yourself in what History will make of you, because you belong to it now. you don't belong to yourself anymore and you never will again. the further you were from what it needs from you to begin with, the more you will find yourself distorted in its funhouse mirror. (why hello there inquisitor ameridan, same hat!)

and to me this is so much the core of what Dragon Age is about right from the Origins days -- how and by whom history gets written, the inherent unreliable narration of it all. I hope you like stories, Inquisitor. You are one now.

I do think it's probably still the weakest of the games narratively, and it's hampered by its structure and bloated systems. but I also find it disingenous to say that there's nothing deeper or actually interesting going on with it, thematically. if you're willing to engage with it there is Some Real Shit going on under the high fantasy-tinted surface.