#time to sharpen up your game

[tenshiharmonia]

To be fair, Blitz did say in Seeing Stars that his dick is good ; he never said anything about his tongue…

[presiding]

you'll never guess which level we're up to in this dishonored 2 rewrite

[reasonsforhope]

By the way, you can improve your executive function. You can literally build it like a muscle.

Yes, even if you're neurodivergent. I don't have ADHD, but it is allegedly a thing with ADHD as well. And I am autistic, and after a bunch of nerve damage (severe enough that I was basically housebound for 6 months), I had to completely rebuild my ability to get my brain to Do Things from what felt like nearly scratch.

This is specifically from ADDitude magazine, so written specifically for ADHD (and while focused in large part on kids, also definitely includes adults and adult activities):

Here's a link on this for autism (though as an editor wow did that title need an editor lol):

Resources on this aren't great because they're mainly aimed at neurotypical therapists or parents of neurdivergent children. There's worksheets you can do that help a lot too or thought work you can do to sort of build the neuro-infrastructure for tasks.

But a lot of the stuff is just like. fun. Pulling from both the first article and my own experience:

Play games or video games where you have to make a lot of decisions. Literally go make a ton of picrews or do online dress-up dolls if you like. It helped me.

Art, especially forms of art that require patience, planning ahead, or in contrast improvisation

Listening to longform storytelling without visuals, e.g. just listening regularly to audiobooks or narrative podcasts, etc.

Meditation

Martial arts

Sports in general

Board games like chess or Catan (I actually found a big list of what board games are good for building what executive functioning skills here)

Woodworking

Cooking

If you're bad at time management play games or video games with a bunch of timers

Things can be easier. You might always have a disability around this (I certainly always will), but it can be easier. You do not have to be this stuck forever.

[cbeargyu]

the one he waited for

summary: when you’re finally forced to confront the simmering attraction between you and jungwon, your brother’s best friend, the result is unexpected. one late-night encounter, charged with tension, ends up crossing a line neither of you thought you’d dare. what started as a playful game turns into something deeper and more intense, and now there’s no going back.

pairing: jungwon x noona!reader

genre: smut, romance, age-gap, angst, forbidden love, emotional tension.

warnings: age gap (reader 4-5 years older), explicit content, sexual themes, dirty talk, masturbation, first-time sex, light power dynamics, vulnerability, emotional complexity.

wc: 5,3k

notes: heeeeey🩷 these days i’ve been feeling really attacked by jungwon😩 i can’t stop thinking about him, so i thought i’d write a fanfic with this theme because i saw a tiktok where he calls a fan "noona" and plays along with it😶‍🌫️

you met jungwon when he still had milk teeth and scabby knees.

you were in the third year of secondary school, hormonal and vaguely annoyed at the universe, when your little brother sunoo came home one day dragging behind him a skinny, quiet boy with a backpack twice the size of his torso.

“this is jungwon,” sunoo had said, already halfway to his room. “he’s new. his mom knows mom. we’re partners for the science project.”

you barely looked up from your textbook, muttering a polite hello. but he looked at you.

really looked.

his eyes lingered longer than they should’ve for a kid his age, wide and curious and—something else. like he wasn’t just seeing you, but memorizing you.

“hi,” he said softly, his voice still uncertain, his ears already turning pink.

you didn’t think much of it at first. boys were shy around you sometimes — older cousins’ friends, classmates, the occasional awkward neighbor. you thought it was just a phase of growing up. you didn’t realize that for jungwon, it wasn’t a phase. it was the beginning.

he started showing up more often after that. friday afternoons. saturdays. sometimes sundays if their homework was especially hard (or if he just needed an excuse to see your face again).

you'd come out of your room to grab water and find him sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, trying to focus on sunoo's babbling explanation of mitosis while accidentally glancing at you every ten seconds.

he never spoke to you much. when he did, his voice cracked. or he stumbled over his words. once, you asked him if he wanted juice, and he stared at you like you’d just proposed marriage.

“uh—um—y-yeah,” he stammered, hands fumbling with the hem of his hoodie, cheeks flushing deep scarlet. “please. i mean—if—it’s okay—if you’re not—like, busy.”

you almost laughed. but you didn’t.

because something about the way he looked at you made your heart ache a little. it wasn’t gross or inappropriate. it was… earnest. innocent.

like he genuinely thought you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

and the thing is — you noticed.

you noticed the way he’d sit up straighter when you entered the room. how his voice would drop an octave and crack embarrassingly. how he’d peek at you from behind sunoo’s head, then quickly look away when you caught him. how his hands would shake a little when you passed him a cup or brushed too close.

you never teased him for it. you never said anything.

because in some quiet, maybe slightly selfish part of your mind… you liked it.

you liked being admired. being seen. being felt that intensely, even if it was from the shy, blushing best friend of your little brother.

he was always respectful. always sweet. he never crossed a line. but his crush on you clung to the air like perfume. soft. warm. obvious.

years passed. you graduated. life got louder. messier. you dated. you worked. you kissed boys who didn’t love you and left

boys who didn’t deserve you.

jungwon grew taller. broader. his face sharpened. his voice deepened. but every time he came over — during holidays, birthdays, random reunions — he still had that same look when he saw you. like his chest couldn’t hold everything he felt at once.

you pretended not to notice.

but god, it was hard.

especially when he started looking at you like he wasn’t thirteen anymore. like he could actually handle everything he felt.

and one night, everything shifted.

you hadn’t heard from sunoo all day.

which wasn’t particularly rare — he was in his second year of university, constantly juggling late-night study sessions and social events, and had recently started going out more with his friends. you figured he was just having one of those wild friday nights. until your phone buzzed at 1:14 a.m.

sunoo [1:14 AM]: noonaaa pls come get us jungwon threw up i’m fine but he’s dead pls don’t tell mom

you sighed, rolled your eyes, grabbed your keys and slipped into the hoodie you always used for midnight emergencies — not that you were ever planning to see anyone during them.

you pulled up in front of a too-bright, too-loud, too-packed house on the edge of campus and texted sunoo to come out.

a few minutes later, the front door opened and there he was — clinging to the arm of someone taller, broader, effortlessly holding him upright. for a second, you didn’t recognize him.

then he looked up.

and there he was.

jungwon.

but not the jungwon you remembered.

this jungwon wasn’t a boy.

he wasn’t wearing baggy jeans and awkward energy and hope in his eyes.

this jungwon was all jawline and collarbone, his black t-shirt clinging to a chest that clearly spent time at the gym. his hair was longer, messier, falling in soft waves over his forehead. his eyes met yours — steady, quiet, focused — and for the first time, he didn’t look away.

he didn’t flinch. didn’t stammer.

he smiled.

“hey,” he said, voice deep and low, still warm but heavier now, mature. “sorry about this.”

you blinked.

that’s your voice? you wanted to ask. that’s how you talk now? that’s how you look at me?

sunoo groaned beside him. “i’m fine, but jungwon had like three shots too many. we tried to leave earlier but he threw up in the bushes.”

jungwon grimaced slightly. “traitor.”

“shut up, you begged me for water and called me ‘hyung.’”

“i was being polite.”

“you’re not polite, you’re pathetic.”

they bickered all the way to the car, sunoo practically collapsing in the back seat while jungwon climbed into the passenger side. you could still smell the alcohol on both of them, but jungwon didn’t reek. he smelled like a faint trace of expensive cologne and something else—soap? mint? you couldn’t place it, but it was… grown-up.

he glanced at you while you drove. quiet at first. but his eyes didn’t stray.

“thanks for coming,” he said after a moment, voice softer. “i told him not to call you.”

you shook your head. “it’s fine. better me than some drunk stranger.”

he chuckled under his breath. “you’ve always saved him. guess you’re still saving me, too.”

your hands tightened a little on the steering wheel. you tried not to look at him. you failed.

“you’re different,” you murmured. “you look…”

“older?” he offered.

you smirked. “yeah. and bigger. like—buffer. you work out?”

“a bit,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “i’m doing physical education. planning to specialize in rehabilitation and injury recovery. so, yeah. kind of have to stay in shape.”

you blinked. “you’re studying physio?”

he nodded. “yeah. i like the idea of helping people heal.”

and fuck, that sounded more attractive than it should’ve. something about his voice, his posture — he wasn’t trying to impress you. he was just being.

“you?” he asked after a pause.

“i’m freelancing right now,” you said, eyes back on the road. “graphic design. branding mostly. and some small business stuff. it’s boring.”

“no it’s not. it’s so you.”

you glanced at him.

he smiled again, but this time it was smaller. less polished. more personal. like it belonged to a memory — of juice in plastic cups and teenage crushes and the way your laugh used to make him drop his pencil.

“you remember a lot for someone who barely talked to me,” you teased.

“i didn’t talk because i knew i’d say something dumb,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “but i watched. a lot. i—used to like you. a lot.”

the air between you cracked. just a little. a thin fissure running through the quiet, letting in something hot and unspoken.

“used to?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

jungwon looked at you.

his eyes weren’t shy anymore. they were steady. unwavering. burning.

“no,” he said.

“not used to.”

the living room was still, dimly lit by the glow of the microwave clock from the kitchen. you had tossed extra blankets on the couch for both of them, with sunoo passed out flat and snoring softly on the floor, limbs sprawled like he'd been dropped from the ceiling.

jungwon had taken the couch without protest, pulling a hoodie over his t-shirt and curling into it like he thought it would keep him safe from the memories clinging to your home.

but he couldn’t sleep.

it wasn’t the couch. it wasn’t the faint buzz of the refrigerator or the thin light seeping in from the streetlamps outside.

it was you.

he could still smell your perfume on the blanket you'd handed him. he could still hear your voice from the car — the way you said he’d changed, how you looked at him like maybe you saw it, maybe you noticed it.

he stared at the ceiling for an hour. two.

and then quietly stood, careful not to step on sunoo as he padded toward the hallway.

he didn’t expect to run into you.

not like that.

you were just stepping out of the bathroom, your hand tugging lightly at the knot on your robe. it was short — too short. soft grey cotton, the hem brushing high on your thighs and clinging to your hips like it had something to prove. your hair was down, still slightly damp from a shower, curling a little at the ends. your legs were bare.

he froze.

you blinked, mildly startled, but your eyes flicked down his body before returning to his face, amused.

"couldn't sleep?" you asked, your voice low from sleep but edged with curiosity.

jungwon swallowed, gaze darting once to your thighs before he caught himself.

"yeah. uh—couch's kinda stiff."

"mm," you nodded, stepping past him. he stayed still, hyper-aware of the way your shoulder brushed his chest, the smell of your skin so close he could taste it. “or maybe something else is keeping you up.”

he didn’t answer.

you turned, leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed — and the movement made the robe ride up even higher. his eyes flicked to the exposed skin, then back up to yours. caught again.

you tilted your head. “jungwon…”

“yeah?” his voice cracked. once.

you smiled slowly, wickedly, like you were enjoying how nervous he looked.

“why do you always look at me like that?”

he tensed. “like what?”

“like i’m the only thing in the room.”

he stared at you, wide-eyed, lips parted, like you’d just spoken the deepest truth of his life. and maybe you had.

“i—i don’t—” he started, then stopped. sighed. “i didn’t mean to.”

“but you do.”

he dropped his gaze.

“you’ve been looking at me like that since you were fourteen,” you said softly, stepping closer. “don’t think i never noticed. the stares. the blushes. the way you used to stop talking mid-sentence if i walked into the room.”

he exhaled shakily. “you… knew?”

“of course i did.” you leaned in a little. “and now, you still do it. except you don’t blush anymore.”

he met your eyes. something flickered there — fear, maybe. frustration.

desire.

“you’re playing with me,” he said quietly.

you smiled, not denying it.

“you’re my brother’s friend, jungwon,” you said, tone playful, like that meant something. “you’re younger. i’m just—curious.”

his jaw tensed.

“is that what i am to you?” he said, voice sharper now, wounded. “just a curiosity? some dumb kid with a crush you can tease?”

you didn’t answer. not immediately.

but he stepped forward — two full strides — until he was right in front of you. taller now. broader. not afraid to get close.

“i’m not a kid anymore.”

his voice had dropped, rough at the edges. his gaze was steady. no hesitation now.

“i’m twenty,” he said. “i’ve lived on my own. i’ve seen things. i’ve felt things. i’m not that shy little boy who got nervous when you bent over to get something from the fridge.”

your breath caught.

“then who are you?” you asked, whispering.

he leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he replied.

“i’m a man who’s wanted you for years.”

goosebumps.

your knees nearly gave out.

he pulled back, watching your face, waiting to see if you’d laugh again — if you’d keep playing.

but you didn’t.

you just stared at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

“show me,” you murmured.

he didn’t say anything.

he didn’t need to.

you turned without a word and walked to your room, knowing he would follow. his footsteps were quiet but quick behind you, like he was afraid you’d change your mind if he hesitated too long.

the moment you closed the door behind him, he stood still—eyes flickering over the space like it was holy, forbidden. like he was stepping into something he’d only ever imagined.

and you could feel it. the weight of his stare. the breath he held in his lungs.

your robe was still loose. still too short. your skin was warm and dewy from the shower, soft and smelling like lavender soap, and you knew the scent would drive him mad. it already was—he was staring at the curve of your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts, the smoothness of your thighs peeking out from under the edge of the fabric.

“sit,” you whispered.

he sat on the edge of your bed like he was being summoned to a throne.

you stood in front of him. close. close enough that your knees brushed his.

he looked up at you—eyes dark, lips parted, fingers gripping the mattress like he needed to hold on to something real.

“do you still want this?” you asked.

he nodded. fast.

“use your words, jungwon.”

“yes,” he said, voice hoarse. “yes. i want you.”

you climbed into his lap slowly, deliberately, straddling his thighs, your hands on his shoulders. he gasped softly at the contact, at the weight of you, at the way your robe parted slightly, revealing more of your thighs and a glimpse of black lace underneath.

“you’re not a kid anymore,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “you’re not just sunoo’s friend.”

he nodded again. “i want to be yours.”

your heart clenched.

you kissed him.

soft at first—just the press of lips, the taste of him, the trembling hesitation of years of longing finally touching skin. but he moaned, low and needy, and his hands flew to your waist, pulling you closer. you felt him hard against you already, pressed between your bodies.

“fuck,” you breathed against his mouth. “you’ve been holding this in a long time, haven’t you?”

“so long,” he whispered. “you have no idea.”

your fingers slid into his hair, tugging, and he gasped again. you kissed down his jaw, to his throat, sucking softly just below his ear, feeling his breath catch against your shoulder.

his hands slipped under your robe, palms hot and desperate against your thighs.

“can i…?” he asked, voice shaking.

“anything,” you said.

he pushed the robe off your shoulders slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping something sacred. his eyes widened when it slipped down your arms and pooled at your waist, baring your chest to him. his breath caught—completely still for a second—just staring.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered.

you smiled, tugging his shirt up and over his head, revealing his lean, toned torso. his skin was golden, smooth, his shoulders broader than you remembered, his body hard from years of growing and becoming.

he wasn’t a boy anymore.

he kissed you again—deeper, hungrier. and when he pulled you down to the bed with him, the last thread of restraint snapped.

your robe came off completely.

he looked at you like you were everything.

and then he worshipped you like it.

“have you…?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper as your fingers trailed down the line of his abs.

he looked at you, cheeks already flushed, lips kiss-bitten and raw. he nodded slowly.

“yeah,” he said, swallowing thickly. “i’ve been with someone. once.”

you raised an eyebrow.

“but it wasn’t like this,” he added quickly, reaching up to touch your face. “it was nothing like this.”

you leaned into his palm. “what was it like?”

he hesitated, then let out a soft laugh. embarrassed. “fast. awkward. i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

you blinked.

he looked away, like he wasn’t sure he should have said that out loud. “i mean… i used to—fuck, i used to jerk off to the thought of you. all the time. your voice. your thighs. the way you looked at me like you knew i was nervous. it was fucked up, i know. but i couldn’t help it.”

your lips parted.

your stomach clenched.

your thighs pressed together automatically at the confession, at the heat in his voice, the hunger. the honesty.

“how many times?” you whispered, voice low against his jaw.

he groaned. “so many. i’d get home from hanging out with sunoo and lock myself in my room. sometimes i couldn’t even make it through dinner.”

you let out a soft, breathy laugh. “god, jungwon…”

“i want to make it good for you,” he said then, serious again. “i want to make you feel everything. like you deserve.”

you kissed him before he could say anything else. kissed him hard. slow. deep. your tongue dragging over his, sucking softly on his bottom lip.

“show me,” you murmured against his mouth. “you’ve waited so long. show me how much.”

his hands shook slightly as he slid down between your legs, kissing down your throat, your collarbones, between your breasts, taking his time. his breath was warm against your skin. reverent. worshipful.

“you smell like heaven,” he murmured, nosing against your stomach. “like soap and heat and you.”

you arched up for him, and he pulled your panties down slowly, dragging them down your legs, eyes fixed on your pussy like it was something sacred.

“fuck,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “you’re soaked.”

his fingers ghosted over your folds, trembling.

you caught his wrist gently, eyes on his. “you can touch me, jungwon. it’s okay. you’re allowed now.”

that seemed to snap something inside him. his mouth was on you seconds later, licking into you like he needed it to live. he groaned when you gasped, when you tangled your fingers in his hair and cried out his name.

he was eager. hungry. desperate to please.

and when you finally pulled him up, breathless, your thighs shaking, he looked at you like he was about to break.

“please,” he whispered. “please let me fuck you.”

you nodded. pulled him down. reached between you both and helped guide him to your entrance, feeling the weight of him—thick, hard, pulsing.

he slid in slow.

inch by inch.

his breath was ragged. yours was gone entirely.

you both gasped at the stretch, the warmth, the way your bodies fit like they’d been waiting all this time to do this.

he buried his face in your neck, panting, whispering your name over and over like a prayer.

“so tight,” he groaned. “so fucking wet. fuck—i’m not gonna last if you keep clenching like that.”

you moaned at his honesty, at the way his voice cracked, at the rawness in his tone. he started to move, slow at first, dragging his hips back and then forward again, pushing deep, grinding into you.

it was good. better than you expected. it wasn’t just sex—it was years of longing, of wanting, of watching each other from opposite sides of a line neither of you had dared to cross.

until now.

“you feel like everything,” he whispered, fucking into you harder now, deeper. “i dreamed about this. every night. every fucking night.”

“then don’t stop,” you gasped, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “fuck me like you’ve waited for it.”

and he did.

he fucked you with devotion, with hunger, with shaking hands and eyes wide open so he wouldn’t miss a single expression on your face. something dark, something feral flickered in his gaze.

and just like that, the fear in his shoulders melted, replaced by heat.

he kissed you again, harder now, and without pulling out, he rolled you on top of him, hands gripping your thighs.

“ride me,” he whispered, voice low and broken. “please. i need to see you.”

you slid up slowly, his cock dragging along your walls, then sank back down, making both of you moan.

“fuck,” he gasped, fingers digging into your hips. “you feel—so fucking good. fuck—fuck—please don’t stop.”

you moved above him in reverse cowgirl, hands on his thighs for support as you rode him slow at first, then faster when you felt his cock twitch again inside. he sat up, chest against your back, mouth on your neck, groaning your name like it was a spell.

“you’re so fucking hot like this,” he muttered, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you open so he could watch his cock slide in and out. “i dreamed about this. every fucking day.”

when you started to clench again, he lay you on your stomach gently, pulling your hips up, and slid into you from behind—deeper, harder.

doggie style hit different with jungwon.

he was more confident now, more vocal, panting above you, whispering how tight you were, how wet, how you were making him lose his mind.

you pushed your ass back on him greedily, and he groaned, one hand gripping your waist, the other on your shoulder to keep you steady as he fucked you harder.

“you like this?” he rasped, pounding into you. “you like being fucked like this? like you’re mine?”

you moaned something between yes and his name, your voice breaking with every thrust.

he leaned down, his chest against your back again, fucking you hard and deep.

“you’re mine now,” he whispered against your ear. “you’re not gonna fuck anyone else after this, right?”

“no,” you gasped. “just you. only you, jungwon.”

and then, after you both came again, shaking and breathless, he didn’t stop.

he took you in missionary one last time—slow, deep, eyes on yours the entire time, his forehead resting against yours as he kissed you between moans, whispering how beautiful you looked, how long he’d waited to love you like this.

“you’re everything,” he whispered, voice cracking as he pushed in deep one last time. “you’re everything i’ve ever wanted.”

he stilled with a broken gasp, arms trembling around your body as his hips jerked forward one final time, deeper than before, his breath hot against your neck. the way he moaned your name—desperate, shaky, reverent—sent a shiver through you that tangled with the warmth blooming low in your stomach.

you felt it when he came.

thick, pulsing inside you, filling you up so suddenly that his whole body tensed, and for a second he looked stricken—terrified even—his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "shit, i—i came inside. i didn’t mean to. fuck—"

your fingers combed through his hair gently, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of his breathing. you tilted your head to look at him, his flushed cheeks, his wide, guilty eyes.

"it’s okay. i’m on the pill. i’ve been on it for years." you murmured, your voice soft but sure.

he blinked at you, his brows furrowing. “really?”

you nodded, your thumb tracing his cheekbone, then the corner of his parted lips. “yeah. you’re fine, baby. you don’t have to panic.”

his shoulders slowly relaxed, and something shifted behind his eyes—like he was letting himself believe it was real. that this wasn’t a mistake. that you wanted him just as much.

then he kissed you again—slow, deep, grateful—still buried inside you, still catching his breath.

you didn’t move. neither of you did.

just stayed tangled like that, in your sheets, in your skin, in something that felt too big to name yet too fragile to let go of.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered after a pause. “i wanted to last longer. i thought i would.”

you smiled, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead.

“you did better than i expected,” you teased, lips grazing his jaw. “besides… we’re not done unless you are.”

he looked at you, eyes dark and hungry again.

“i’m not done.”

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that, bodies pressed together, chests rising and falling in sync. his heartbeat was still racing beneath your palm, but it had softened now—steady, grounded. there was something so beautifully boyish in the way he clung to you even after, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you like this. like you might disappear if he let go.

“you’re warm,” he mumbled sleepily against your collarbone.

you smiled, your hand sliding slowly down his back. “you wore yourself out.”

“i didn’t think…” he trailed off, his lips grazing your skin again. “i didn’t think it would feel like that.”

“like what?”

he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “like i belonged to you.”

your breath caught.

you didn’t answer right away. you just cupped his jaw, kissed him soft and deep, like a thank you and a promise rolled into one.

his hand brushed your side, then your thigh. tentative. reverent.

you felt him growing hard again, slow and unhurried, pressing against your hip with the same nervous need that had always burned quietly behind his eyes.

but there was no rush this time.

just heat, and quiet hunger, and the kind of tension that settles deep in your bones.

you shifted slightly, tilting your hips as you reached between you and wrapped your fingers around him, making him gasp softly against your mouth. his hips jerked into your palm, and he whined—high, breathy, desperate.

"you’re still so sensitive," you whispered, teasing your thumb over the head, slick and flushed.

he nodded, eyes fluttering shut. “but i want you again… i want to make you feel good.”

“you already did.”

“not enough.”

his voice cracked on the last word, and that was all it took.

you rolled him onto his back slowly, straddling his hips, your movements smooth and sure as you lined him up again. his hands gripped your thighs like he didn’t know where to touch first, overwhelmed, eyes wide and starry as you sank down onto him with a quiet moan.

he was deeper like this.

closer.

“fuck,” he choked, watching you like he was in awe, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

you rode him slowly at first, your hands on his chest, grounding yourself in the rise and fall of his breath. his mouth dropped open, fingers digging into your waist as he tried to hold back.

but you could tell he was unraveling.

every time you circled your hips, every roll forward, every clench around him made him twitch inside you, made him moan through gritted teeth.

"you’re doing so well," you murmured, leaning down to kiss his lips, his jaw, the hollow of his throat. “look at you. fucking me so good…”

he whimpered, bucking up into you.

“tell me you’re mine,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear.

“i’m yours,” he groaned, like it hurt. “i’ve always been yours.”

you shifted your angle, riding him harder now, chasing your own release as his hands scrambled to grab your ass, pulling you down with every thrust.

“i can’t—fuck—i’m gonna cum again—”

and when he came again—louder this time, broken and raw, with your name falling from his lips like a confession—you let go with him, your walls tightening around him, pulling him deeper until neither of you could breathe.

you collapsed against his chest, trembling, kissed his sweat-slick skin as his arms curled around you.

he held you like you were his.

because in some quiet, undeniable way—you were.

sunoo wakes up with a throbbing headache and the taste of cheap vodka in his mouth.

he groans dramatically, rolls over, and nearly falls off the couch. “i’m never drinking again,” he mumbles, as he always does, before drinking again next weekend.

after peeing for what feels like an eternity, he shuffles out into the hallway—barefoot, hoodie halfway on, hair looking like he fought a raccoon and lost.

and then he hears it.

a door creaking shut.

your door.

his eyes narrow.

he walks to the kitchen. there’s a coffee mug on the counter. another one in the sink. two mugs. okay. maybe you just wanted a second cup.

he turns around.

jungwon walks in, freshly showered, wearing one of your oversized t-shirts that says “girlboss energy” on the front.

sunoo blinks.

jungwon blinks back.

“morning,” jungwon says, casual. too casual. the shirt hangs halfway down his thighs like a nightgown and he has the audacity to stretch — arms over his head, shirt lifting just enough to show hip bone.

sunoo stares.

“...is that my sister’s shirt?”

jungwon pauses. “uh. laundry emergency?”

“we were only here for eight hours, what did you—never mind.” sunoo rubs his temples. “why do you smell like her shampoo?”

jungwon opens his mouth. closes it. shrugs.

“you two didn’t—” sunoo cuts himself off. “wait.”

his eyes go wide.

jungwon picks up a banana and starts peeling it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “you want some eggs?”

“don’t change the subject!” sunoo screeches, pointing an accusatory finger. “did you fuck my sister?!”

jungwon freezes. the banana droops sadly in his hand.

then, very quietly, he says: “define ‘fuck’.”

sunoo screams.

sunoo sits at the kitchen table, staring at the two of you like you’re both guilty of murder. well, not just murder—incestuous murder.

you and jungwon are trying to act as normal as possible, but neither of you are fooling him for a second.

you’re stirring your coffee like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and jungwon’s sitting there, still wearing your t-shirt and acting like this is just any ordinary morning.

“so,” sunoo starts slowly, trying to piece everything together like it’s a bad detective show. “you two didn’t—you know...”

you raise an eyebrow at him, innocently. “didn’t what?”

“You didn’t,” he waves his hand dramatically, “kiss or… touch… or—anything?”

you pause for a second, and then you smile. a sweet, innocent smile that screams “i know what you’re thinking but i’m not going to confirm it.”

“sunoo,” you say calmly, “that’s not what happened.”

jungwon chimes in, voice a little too smooth. “yeah, we were just—uh, talking. you know. bonding over childhood memories and stuff.”

“memories, huh?” sunoo squints suspiciously. “so that’s what you’re calling it now?”

“uh, yeah?” jungwon looks way too casual about this. “like how you and i used to play video games when we were little?”

sunoo shakes his head. “but you—you're wearing her shirt.”

“well, the other option was wearing your dirty laundry,” jungwon smirks. “you really want that?”

sunoo looks horrified. “okay, no. no. i’m done with you two. this is too much.”

but then, you—ever the calm, collected one—lean forward and say in that smooth voice of yours, “sunoo, it was an accident.”

jungwon nods. “accident. i slipped… into your sister’s bed.”

sunoo, completely done with everything, slowly places his face into his hands. “god, i’m going to need therapy after this.”

you grin, leaning back in your chair with a teasing glint in your eye. “don’t worry. we won’t make it a habit.”

jungwon’s eyes widen in panic. “wait—no, i—”

“too late, jungwon,” you tease, crossing your arms. “your secret’s safe with me... for now.”

sunoo’s head jerks up, horrified. “you two are going to keep doing this?!”

you and jungwon exchange a glance, smirking.

“maybe,” you reply, a sly smile playing at your lips. “depends on how you feel about getting a new roommate.”

sunoo glares. “this is not happening.”

and just like that, you both vanish into the living room, leaving sunoo alone to spiral into a panic attack while jungwon pretends he’s completely unaware of the emotional damage he’s causing.

the sound of sunoo yelling from the kitchen echoes for a while.

but you and jungwon? you just laugh and relax. it’s been a long night, but the chaos has only just begun.

[nightingale-prompts]

The Nightingale Family-DC x DP prompt

(Shameless Addams family inspired prompt)

News travels fast in Gotham, especially in affluent circles. A new family has arrived in the city, old money at that. They had taken up residents in the old mansion overlooking the Historic Gotham Graveyard.

The Nightingales had a way of letting their presence be known. They were rarely seen in public. The eldest Jasmine Nightingale however had made waves working at the Gotham Asylum as a psychologist. She was often escorted by her younger brother Dan Nightingale. The public really started talking when Jazz was seen talking with Harley Quinn.

There were two children that lived in the Nightingale manor. They were elusive to say the least as the family didn't attend the parties of Gotham.

It wasn't until Damian Wayne got an invite from his classmate Danielle to visit their manor that someone saw the lives of Nightingales. This invite had been received after Damian carefully befriended the youngest Nightingale to investigate their connections.

That's how the Waynes ended up at a dinner party.

The manor was bleak to say the least and that's saying something in Gotham. The buildingbwas made from black stones and gargoyles perched on the roof. The garden was wilted and full of thrones that crept up the walls.

Bruce felt a sense of Deja vu as he approached the door and rang the bell. Tower bells rang out as the face of Jasmine Nightingale appeared. She was dressed in black dress pants and blazer. Her lips were painted to match. Her red hair had a striking white streak through it which had become a fashion trend since the family's arrival to girls wanting to seem mysterious.

"Good Evening. It is so nice to meet the infamous Waynes." She shook Bruce's hand. Behind her, the sounds of clanking metal was heard. "That is just my younger siblings playing. You don't you boys join while I talk to your father.

Despite only being a fresh-faced 20 year old Jazz carried herself like a confident adult. A certified genius in psychology who graduated early she also handled the inmates at the Asylum well enough that escapes are at an all time low.

"She's got it all" was what Harley said.

Bruce's admiration of the young lady was only matched by his suspicion. The house the Nightingales lived y had once belonged to the Al Ghouls. There was no telling yet if there was a connection.

He took a seat in the living room with Jazz tea already prepared. She poured two cups of black tea. Not black as in the type of tea but the color of the drink. Bruce cautiously sniffed the black liquid, it smelled earthy and acidic. Poison.

"Do you like it? I made it myself. I added the belladonna myself. It has a sweet taste so you don't need sugar. The kids have sweet tooths but we avoid added sugars. They love nightshade." She smiled drinking.

Bruce put the cup down. So they drink poison at a young age. They must be part of The League of Assassins. But why are they here?

"If you don't mind me asking. Why did you move to Gotham? Your parents-" Jazz put a hand up as she finished her cup.

"Mr. Wayne I'm sure you are no stranger to parents leaving before their time nor the concept that not all parents deserve children. Now I can't confirm or deny if that is the case for use but you can understand that it's a private matter." Jazz said sternly.

That wasn't an answer.

Upstairs Danny and Danielle played with Elle's new toys. Swords from Dan's trip to Portugal. He even sharpened them. They were currently tearing through the mansion.

Tim and Damian caught them while Danny had successfully pinned Elle to the ground.

"Dami! Help!" Elle yelled catching Danny off guard as Damian tackled Danny to the ground.

"Alright, alright. You can go next." Danny rolling Damian off him and passing him the sword. "Im taking a break."

Danny loved playing with his little sister but baby games are tiring.

"They let you play with swords," Tim exclaimed. This wasn't something he expected, sure it was normal for Damian but Damian is weird and was raised by assassins. Damian didn't do it for fun, it was training.

Damian and Danielle ran off while fencing.

"You must be one of the Waynes. Elle has been excited to have your brother over." Danny said politely if not a bit dismissive.

"Eh, yeah. Your sister said we should join you." Tim said a bit awkward. " You have another brother right?"

"Oh, yeah. He travels alot but he's relaxing right now. He's probably swimming." Danny shrugged.

Tim had heard of Danny. They went to the same school but Danny was part of a program that allowed him to come to school when he felt like it. The program is for young engineers who want to work for Wayne Industries. He mostly worked on small experimental projects. So far Danny's superconductor tech was revolutionary but impossible to replicate. Danny somehow managed to make a more effective coolant than anything they had created in the lab.

"You have a pool?" Tim knew that the mansion didn't have a pool.

"Of water? No." Danny shrugged but gave no further answer.

"I see, so what do you do?" Tim tried to sound normal like he was talking to his friends and not someone he was trying to probe.

"Anything, everything. I was going to recalibrate my telescope but I have a laser to test." Danny walked off expecting Tim to follow.

Testing was just cut a bunch of things in half. Tim got some great info on making an explosive ice canister and foam bombs. Tim made sure to get his number to hire him to make some gear for him.

The Nightingale kids were absolutely lawless. They destroyed everything in their path.

Elle had dragged Damian to her room to show off her toys. She used to travel with Dan until she started school. She picked up a bunch of items. Cult artifacts, shrunken heads, voodoo dolls, cursed puppets, knives, swords, and the homemade taxidermy Elle made from roadkill. She also had a pet dodo bird named Ernesto who had a bed next to her bed. Ernesto took a liking to Damian and sat on his head. The way he shows his affection

Soon enough Dan came upstairs to check on Elle and Danny.

"You kids, need to get ready for dinner. Sharpen your nails and teeth." He said before going back to the kitchen.

"What does that mean?" Damian asked.

"You don't sharpen your nails. Well good luck at dinner." Elle said bemused.

Dinner was...horrifying. Watching the family chat happily as they ripped apart the moving food as it came to life. Damian was actually excited as he skewered the cheese and broccoli casserole that screamed at him.

"Father, why can't we do this at our home?" He asked.

[millers-girl]

on the line

interconnected standalone/sequel-ish to bitter/sweet and fallout - a Dr. Jack Abbot (The Pitt) fanfic

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: Jack takes a six-week placement across the country. Four specific FaceTime calls—full of banter, longing, and everything unsaid—hold you two together until he comes home.

warnings/tags: grumpy x sunshine, age gap, long-distance relationship, mild language

word count: 5.0k

“What are you wearing?” 

You cracked one eye open, squinting against the soft glow of your bedside lamp. Jack was staring at you through the screen of your phone, propped up on your nightstand. His image was bright against the dim lighting, accenting the sharp set of his jaw and the smirk playing at his lips.

“You know what I’m wearing – we’re on FaceTime,” you mumbled into your pillow, voice thick with sleep. Your limbs felt heavy under the familiar weight of your comforter. “When are you coming back?” 

“You know when I’m coming back,” he echoed, mimicking your tone. “Why’re you asking – miss me?” His voice dropped an octave, teasing, and you saw his eyes flick down your form as you shifted to get more comfortable beneath the covers.

This had been an ongoing game for the last month – every time you talked, one of you tried to get the other to admit they missed them first. Neither of you had cracked. 

Now, that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him. Quite the opposite, actually. 

Jack had been gone for three weeks now, having been offered an intensive placement at UCLA Medical Center. You could still remember how he broke the news—quietly, nonchalantly, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it—and how you’d smiled widely and pushed him to take it even as something inside you fought every move.

This is UCLA, you told yourself. He has to take it; it’s an incredible opportunity. How many times does something like this come along?

But knowing it was the right decision didn’t make it easier.

Six weeks. Forty-two days. Nearly fifty sunsets without him. 

After spending almost every day together, the sudden absence had carved out a hollow space in your chest.

The first week, you felt his absence immensely. But you figured, with time, it’d get easier. 

Oh, how wrong you were.

The ache didn’t dull. It sharpened. Everything reminded you of him – how much he’d probably roll his eyes at a joke Eleni told during service, how he’d immediately get to cleaning your apartment if he saw how messy it had gotten, how he’d let you follow him around if he was back at the hospital when you were dropping dinner off for your sister. 

Luckily, technology was on your side. While he was in California, you texted him constantly – mostly one-sided updates on your day, the chaos of the kitchen, the new weird thing your landlord did. He replied in his usual charming fashion: a “K” here, a thumbs-up emoji there.

FaceTime was more his speed. Every night, your phone took up its spot on your nightstand while you curled into bed, half-asleep before he even picked up. He was usually just getting ready for his shift – brushing his teeth, dressing in his scrubs, sometimes sitting in the car with one hand on the wheel. 

“At least it’s regulating my sleep cycle,” you’d joked during one call, watching him frown in that subtle, concerned way he did.

“You love me doing night shifts,” he’d countered. “Said it keeps you on your toes, guessing.”

“Yeah, guessing how much sleep I’m gonna get that night,” you’d teased back, and he’d huffed a small laugh. 

Now here he was, two weeks from coming home, asking you what you were wearing in that low, steady voice of his that always had knots forming in your stomach.

“You already know I’m wearing one of your hundred black tees,” you mumbled, cheek sinking deeper into your pillow. 

“No panties?” he asked, a hint of a smirk at his lips as his eyes gleamed with mischief.

With minimal effort, you peeled back the duvet just enough for him to catch a glimpse of his boxers sitting low on your hips.

“You do miss me,” he grinned triumphantly, a quiet chuckle escaping him. You sighed through a small smile, eyes fluttering shut. His voice, even through the phone, grounded you. “Tell me what you did today.”

You took a moment to think, thoughts clouded by sleep and the warmth of your sheets. “Tried out a new truffle recipe,” you murmured. 

Sure enough, you peeked an eye open just in time to catch his nose wrinkle in disgust. He hated truffles.

The sight made you smile – even 3,000 miles away, Jack was still so Jack.

“Dinner rush was crazy – some show was going on at the theatre down the block so we were packed. Almost ran into one of the sommeliers rushing out of the kitchen. Nicked my finger on the bottle opener he was holding.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately, and you pulled your hand from under the covers and held it up to the camera, watching his eyes narrow. “Did someone at the Pitt take a look?”

“My sister did,” you said, brushing it off. “It’s fine – just a scrape.”

He frowned that familiar, pinched-brow frown.

“You should keep it wrapped,” he muttered. “Could get infected.” 

You mirrored his expression, this time out of something deeper – affection, mingled with longing. “I miss you medically scolding me.” 

Jack paused a beat, then offered softly, “I can still do it over the phone. That’s why they invented FaceTime.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” you giggled sleepily, burrowing deeper into your sheets. The weight of him not being there settled over you again, dense and unrelenting. 

Silence stretched for a moment before you opened your eyes again. Jack was still looking at you. “What?” you asked, your voice small.

He hesitated. “Nothing… you just look tired.”

But the way he said it—gentle, weighted—made your throat tighten. 

You didn’t just look tired.

You missed him. You missed sleeping better when he was beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as your limbs tangled together. You missed the safety, the stillness. Without him, everything felt a little bit off.

Your hand drifted across the sheets, reaching for his side of the bed – cold, untouched. Your fingers curled into the empty space as if you could will it to hold his warmth. That familiar ache bloomed in your chest again, pressing hard against your ribs, forcing you to acknowledge it.

And the way he was looking at you right now—gaze just soft enough for you to see the emotion behind it—it made the distance hard to bear. 

You wanted to ask him to come back early. Just say it. Just tell him.

But you didn’t.

He was doing something important – teaching residents, working alongside brilliant attendings, contributing to something meaningful. You couldn’t ask him to give that up. So you buried it, like always.

Instead, you asked, “Any exciting cases today?” 

Jack blinked at you, then shrugged, his voice returning to that calm, clinical cadence. “Someone said a guy came in with third-degree burns from resting his hand on the grill – didn’t realize his wife had turned it on.” 

You winced, turning your face into the pillow. “Ugh, Jack – that’s gross.” 

He chuckled softly. “Reminds me of an old army buddy who met the wrong end of a crockpot once.” 

You hummed, already drifting. “Tell me about it.” 

You tried to stay awake, but the familiar and comforting tone of his low voice began to lull you to sleep. A few minutes into the story, Jack noticed your breathing had slowed.

You looked so peaceful.

He watched for a while, the silence between you warm and heavy, filled with all the things left unsaid.

Then, in a quiet voice that barely crossed the distance, he whispered a sweet good night to you and ended the call.

Four weeks into the placement, when Jack FaceTimed you and you answered with a deep-set frown and red-rimmed eyes, he could already tell it would be one of those days. 

The hard days. The days one of you missed the other so much, it was impossible to ignore. The days your heart was three thousand miles away, tucked into the go-bag of your favorite ED attending, somewhere in a cramped locker room in Los Angeles. 

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked, making your frown deepen. 

“Nothing,” you promised, setting the phone down on your nightstand as you began to get ready for bed. The camera angle wobbled as you moved – half of your frame disappearing, your voice muffled by distance and steam escaping from the open bathroom door behind you.

This was unusual. Whenever Jack called at this time, you were already tucked in bed, cozy and glowing, hair a little messy, a smile curling at the corners of your lips the moment you saw him. 

And, you always showered in the mornings – you said showering at night would intervene with how much time you two got to spend on FaceTime. 

Yet, here you were now – hair wet from the shower, curling at the ends as you moved about your room, distracted and quieter than usual. You pulled on a soft t-shirt, then wandered off-screen, brushing your teeth with a kind of mechanical rhythm.

Jack stayed silent, watching.

He could tell something was bothering you. 

Your hands shook as you did your skincare – too much toner on the pad, moisturizer forgotten halfway through.

“How was your day?” Jack asked slowly, treading lightly, trying to gauge how you were actually feeling.

“Fine,” you mumbled, disappearing again. The faucet turned on in the background as you washed your hands, cool water grounding your overheated nerves before you slipped into bed wit a heavy sigh. 

Jack’s voice came again, cautious, “Anything happen?” He tried to sound casual, but you weren’t in the mood for it now.

You glanced at the screen sharply. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know, just… anything good? Or… something bad?” 

Your jaw tensed as you looked past the phone, voice bitter. “A critic came in today.”

“Oh?” 

You laughed humorlessly. “I didn’t even know who she was, and I told her to fuck off.” 

Jack’s brow rose at that. “And why’d you do that?”

“Because she was being an asshole – and I didn’t recognize her and I was rushing and – and I was exhausted. I just snapped and – and it wasn’t even about her. It’s just… I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending this isn’t hard.”  

Jack paused, his face softening, the weight of your words hanging thickly between you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?” 

You shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Because it’s not your fault,” you finally said. “And I didn’t want to make it your problem.” 

“You’re not a problem.” 

His voice was quiet, thick with the guilt settling into his stomach.

You immediately noticed the shift in his tone – soft and frayed around the edges.

“I didn’t say it to make you feel guilty,” you said, gaze now locking onto his, unwavering. 

“I know,” he replied, tiredly dragging a hand down his face, like he wanted to crawl through the screen and pull you into his arms.

“I just… I miss you.” 

There it was.

You’d finally said it.

And yet, it didn’t make you feel like you’d lost the game – at least, not in the way you thought. And, it didn’t make Jack feel like he won, either.

“I miss you every day,” you continued. “I miss you so much I don’t know where to put it anymore. It’s just there. Always. Like a weight on my chest. And every day, you – you pick up the phone and I see your face and you’re fine. Smiling… Happy. And, it’s just – just… Don’t you miss me? Like, even a little?” 

The moment you said it, you instantly regretted it. 

Jack could tell – the way your eyes squeezed shut in regret, like you wished you could pull the words right back into your chest. It broke his heart even more than hearing the desperation in your voice. 

He found himself looking away, swallowing hard. Then, finally, quietly, he said, “Of course I miss you. I miss you all the time. I just – I don’t let myself think about it too long. If I do, I can’t focus.” 

You knew he’d never say anything hurtful on purpose but the comment still stung. A sharp pang, like a bruise pressed too hard.

If he missed you so much, how come it felt like you were the only one falling apart? If he missed you so much, why didn’t it seem like he felt it?

Before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out. “Right. Got it. I’m over here crying in the walk-in fridge like a lunatic and you get to compartmentalize.” 

His eyes flinched shut, barely perceptible – but you saw it. Instantly regretted your words. And yet, you didn’t take it back.

And he didn’t push back either.

The silence grew too thick, claustrophobic.

After a beat, you shook your head, voice quieter now. “You’re running late – I should let you go. We can just… I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Your hand reached for the screen, heart already retreating.

“Wait!” Jack’s voice rang out, startling you.

You hesitated, still refusing to meet his eyes, but something in you paused – your ribs tightened at the strain in his voice.

“I think about you all day,” he admitted. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. I make a list in my head of all the things to tell you when we finally talk, and then when you pick up and give me that smile, I forget how to say any of it.”

You blinked.

That wasn't what you expected at all.

Still, he kept going. “And I bought you this mug from the UCLA store, in the shape of a smiling sunny face. I keep it in my locker, drink coffee from it before the shift – and all the residents look at me like I’m crazy. But it just… it reminds me of you. Keeps me grounded. Gets me through the shift.

“And your voice notes – I save them all. I listen to one specific one whenever I miss you more than usual – the one where you called me a broody bastard and then basically told me you missed me in the same breath.” 

That cracked something open in your chest. Like air rushing into lungs that had been holding their breath too long.

Soft tears lined your eyes. Not the frustrated kind. The aching, full-hearted kind.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding in your chest, throat thick with emotion. His face was still there – steady, honest, eyes staring back at yours, so full of you. Of all the missing he hadn’t said until now.

He missed you. Of course he missed you. Maybe not in the same noisy, unraveling way you did – but in the quiet, deliberate way only Jack could. Through mugs and voice notes. Through saved recordings and mental lists. Through showing up, every night, even when words failed.

Your lip trembled as a tear ran down your cheek.

“Jack…” you breathed, the apology catching somewhere between a sob and a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally said, voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just – God – I feel everything right now, and I don’t know if it’s hormones or just the distance or – ” 

That four-letter word was at the tip of your tongue, but it didn’t feel right to tell him over the phone. This deserved to be told in person. He deserved that.

Jack’s face softened, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it – the way his shoulders eased like something fragile in him had finally seemed to settle.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, after a beat, he deadpanned, “It’s both. I checked the app earlier.” 

You stared, stunned. Then, your eyes warmed, the corners crinkling as a small, disbelieving, shaky smile touched your lips. “You track my cycle on your phone?” 

He shrugged, a little too casual. “Ever since the brownies incident – hell yeah.” 

That conversation changed things – in the best way. 

It made both you and Jack more intentional about the time apart. More creative, more present. FaceTimes evolved into something more sacred, more playful. You started doing virtual date nights, much to Jack’s technologically-deficient chagrin.

“I can barely work this FaceCall thing, you want me to do what now?”, to which you’d rolled your eyes and corrected, “FaceTime,” while suppressing a grin.

He’d grumbled, but you caught the way he cleared his evenings anyway – made sure he wasn’t on call any earlier than he needed to be, made sure his dinner (mediocre and suspiciously not homemade) was ready on time. Despite the mismatched time zones, you both made space. You’d end up eating hours apart, but “together” nonetheless. And that was what mattered.

Six days before Jack was set to fly home, you had another one of these date nights. 

The screen flickered to life and there he was – tousled hair you wished you could run your fingers through, half-zipped hoodie you wished you could burrow into, sitting cross-legged on a too-modern couch that definitely didn’t belong to him. He held up a plastic takeout container like it was an offering.

“Dinner, courtesy of the fine culinary skills I’ve learned from you.” 

You raised a brow. “That looks suspiciously like pad Thai.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe I cooked. Maybe the DoorDash guy and I are becoming best friends.”  

You snorted, curling deeper under your blanket as you reached for the remote. “What’d you do yesterday?” 

Jack leaned back with a groan, the kind that said his spine hated him and the previous night had been long. “This guy came in with a ridiculous chest injury. We had to work carefully around the nerve endings in his nipple and – what?” 

He paused mid-sentence, catching the grin spreading across your face.

“Should I be jealous by how excited you just got talking about someone else’s nipples?” you teased.

Jack coughed, nearly choking on his water. “Jesus. It was a very complicated procedure. We had to be extremely precise.” 

“Oh, I’m sure his nipples were deeply moved by your devotion,” you grinned.

“You’re insufferable.” 

“And you miss it.” 

“Unfortunately,” he deadpanned, mouth twitching.

You smiled, feeling that familiar warmth settle into your chest. God, you missed his face. You missed his voice, his sarcasm, the way he looked at you like you hung up the moon. 

You squinted at the screen. “Is it just me or are you getting a tan?” 

Jack glanced down at his arms. “Well, the sun does shockingly exist here. Unlike your vampire den of a kitchen.” 

“I work best when the lights are dim, and you know that!” 

He smirked. “Sure. That explains why every time you call me from there, you look like you’re in a hostage video.” 

You groaned, tossing a throw pillow off your bed. “Well, not all of us can soak up some West Coast rays while also being a nipple whisperer. Guess you’re just built different.” 

“I regret telling you anything about that case.” 

You smirked as The Bachelor theme started playing faintly from your TV. You both fell quiet for a beat, comfortable. It had become your ritual – playing the show in the background, pretending to care about the drama, when really, it was just an excuse to sit in each other’s orbit for a while. 

Midway through the episode, Jack stood up and walked off-screen and came back holding something. You squinted.

“Is that… a bobblehead? Of an avocado… surfing?” 

Jack held it up proudly toward the camera like it was fine art. “Picked it up at a roadside stand. Guy said it was hand-painted by his seven-year-old niece.” 

“It’s so ugly,” you commented, grinning anyway. “I love it!”

He just laughed, setting it on the table behind him so its little bobblehead eyes stared into your soul for the rest of the call. And, his heart grew every time he caught you staring at it.

Later, you rolled onto your side, shifting your phone as you got more comfortable. The new angle must’ve shown more of the room, because Jack leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“You changed the bedroom.”

You panned the camera, shaking your head. “Just been sleeping on your side lately,” you admitted through flushed cheeks, before cutting him off when he smirked and parted his lips to speak. “Don’t! Don’t ask me why. Just helps me sleep better.” 

He didn’t make a joke. Just stared at you with that soft, unreadable look that always made your chest feel like it was going to burst open.

“I missed this view,” he said gently. His voice was low, almost reverent. “That room. That bed. You in it.”

You fiddled with the comforter. “It misses you. The vibe’s been different, though. Less broody. No angry sighs every time the neighbor’s dog barks.” 

“That dog is a demon,” Jack said, on instinct.

“You’re just grumpy when you’re tired,” you teased.

“And you’re grumpy when I’m not there for you to stick those frozen toes under my legs to warm them up.” 

You opened your mouth to retort, paused, then nodded. “Okay, that’s true.” 

Jack laughed.

The show was long forgotten now. All that mattered was the glow of your screens, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, the way his voice softened like it always did when the night got quieter.

“What do you miss the most?” he asked, almost shy.

You hesitated, then said, “I miss you hogging the blanket.” That made Jack laugh, but you shook your head, insisting, “I’m serious. In like a stockholm syndrome-y way – I miss that. And other stuff, like you leaving all the lights on or waking me up at the stupid hours of dawn when you get back from a shift… The little stuff.” 

Jack nodded, smiling in that slow, aching way. “You know what I miss?” 

“What?” 

“Sitting at the island, watching you test out new recipes – make a mess of the kitchen like you’re on some Food Network competition.”  

You smiled, fond and aching. “That’s the only way I cook.” 

“I know,” he said. “I miss it. Miss you.” 

You let that settle between you. Let it warm you all the way through.

 “In six days, I’m gonna be stuck to you like velcro,” you murmured.

He quirked a brow. “Is that so?” 

You nodded. “And you’re not allowed to leave again, by the way. And if you do, you’re taking me in your go-bag.” You lifted your pinky finger toward the camera. “Promise.” 

Without hesitation, Jack raised his pinky to match yours. “Promise, baby.” 

And for a moment, across the glow of two tiny screens, it almost felt like he was already home.

“Are you here yet?” you asked the second you picked up the FaceTime, barely able to contain the grin stretching across your face. The sounds of the kitchen clattered behind you, but your focus remained on the screen. On him.

Today was the day Jack was coming home and you were giddy with anticipation. 

“I am,” he replied, voice smooth, teasing, “but where are you?”

You groaned, “A last-minute catering order came in, so I had to stay late. Almost just brought the chef’s knife with me to work in the car and just sprint to Arrivals.”

Jack smirked, familiar and smug. “I don’t know how TSA would’ve taken that.” 

“But, I sent a good backup, huh?” 

Jack shifted the camera to the driver’s seat, where Robby sat, looking amused as he drove. “You’re lucky I’m easily bribable with food,” he said. “Picking him up on my day off was not part of the plan.” 

“Yeah, but you’d do it for the filet mignon these magic hands can make, right?” You wiggled your fingers at the screen, and Jack snorted.

“Oh, any day of the week,” Robby agreed, his grin cracking wider.

Jack turned the camera back to himself. He looked tired from the long travel day, but the way he looked at you—like he’d been waiting all day, or rather, six weeks, to see your face—made your chest ache.

You drank him in. Stubble. Black tee. Soft warmth creeping onto his features as he looked at you. 

“How was your flight?” you asked.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he replied, rubbing his jaw. “I just spent six hours sitting in front of a guy who kept stabbing at the screen like it wronged him personally. Kept me up the whole flight.”

From off-screen, Robby piped up, “Is that why you fell asleep on my shoulder in the first five minutes of the drive?” 

“Aww, is that true?” you cooed, and Jack immediately frowned, shaking his head. “Liar,” you accused with a knowing smile, before asking, “Are you close?”

“To your place?” You nodded. “I was gonna head home first, shower, sleep for a bit – ”

You were already shaking your head, correcting him, “No. You’re coming here first; not allowed to shower before you see me.”

Robby snorted, and Jack sighed in that over-it-but-not-really way before turning to his friend. “Can you drop me off at hers?” 

“Kinda already assumed,” Robby said, tapping the GPS. “Route’s set to her address.”

“How much longer?” you asked Robby, bouncing on your heels with impatient energy.

“Twenty-three minutes.”

You groaned, tugging off your apron. The clock on the wall ticked slowly, teasingly. “Can you be here already?” you whined at Jack, then paused as a mischievous glint sparked behind your eyes. “I’m ovulating and miss you being in my – ”

“Ohhhkay,” Robby cut in, clearly scarred and making your grin widen. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“I was going to say ‘arms.’ Sheesh, Jack, what kind of freaks do you work with?” you teased, grin widening as Jack broke into a full smile and aimed the camera at Robby, who groaned in defeat. 

“You’re gonna get me kicked out of this car, trouble,” Jack said, warmth bleeding into his voice at the nickname. Your chest squeezed, missing him.

Eleni walked into the office a moment later, waving at the screen. “Hey, Eleni,” Jack greeted.

“Hey,” she said, squinting. “Was that groaning I heard just now? You guys doing phone sex again or just emotionally scarring Robby?” 

“For the record, those things are not mutually exclusive,” Robby chimed in.

Eleni grinned, turning to you. “You heading out now?” 

You nodded. “Unless there’s something else – ”

She was already shaking her head. “Go. Get out of here. You’ve already cleaned the walk-in twice just waiting for Jack to land.” 

Jack perked up at that. “Aww, is that true?” he mocked, using your tone from earlier.

You glared at him, but before you could deny it, Eleni added, “She reorganized the grain bins, too!”

You were already grabbing your keys as Eleni ushered you toward the door. “Okay, I’ll see you when you get here,” you said to Jack. 

In a rare moment of vulnerability, he puckered his lips and blew you a kiss goodbye. You flushed, heart stuttering. 

“You’re getting soft on me, Abbot,” you teased.

“Pretty sure we’re way past that.”

The drive home was a blur; you could barely keep your concentration. Every red light felt like the universe was plotting against you; every slow pedestrian crossing the street made you want to scream. 

Your heart was hammering in your ears. You didn’t even remember pulling into the driveway, adrenaline surging. But the moment you caught sight of the front door – 

There he was.

Jack.

Standing at your front door in that familiar black tee, suitcase sitting on the porch as he fumbled with the spare key you’d given him. He was so focused on unlocking the door, he didn’t even hear your footsteps approaching.

“You know, for someone who saves lives for a living,” you called out, approaching him, “you’re really struggling with the concept of a lock.” 

Jack froze, then turned.

And then, a slow-spreading, lopsided smile that had lived on your phone screen for far too long was finally gracing you in person. 

“Well, maybe if someone didn’t have ten million locks on the door, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” he said, voice lower than usual, rougher in a way that made your stomach flip.

You crossed the distance in three strides. The key clattered onto his luggage as he let it fall.

And then you were in his arms. 

Not the thought of him. Not his voice through a screen. Not his pixelated smile or sleepy texts or pictures of his takeout. Him. Warm and solid and real.

His arms wrapped so tightly around you, it felt like he wouldn’t ever let go. And you didn’t want him to. You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in. 

“I forgot how good you smell,” you mumbled into his shirt. “Like middle seat and recycled plane air.” 

He tugged playfully at your ear, leaning back just enough for you to get a good look at him. Sun-kissed skin. Slight scruff that made your fingertips itch to trace it.

“You got more handsome. That’s annoying.” 

He raised a brow. “You’re only saying that because you’re ovulating.” 

“No,” you promised. “If I did, I would’ve already dragged you inside and ripped your clothes off – ”

He kissed you mid-sentence. Not hurried. Not desperate. Just… steady. Like he had all the time in the world, because now, he did.

When you finally pulled back, breath short, he rested his forehead against yours. “Missed you,” you said softly.

“Yeah,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Me too.” 

You leaned into him again, arms tightening, greedy now that you finally could be. “You’re never leaving again, right?” 

He chuckled, voice cracking just a little. “You going to chain me to the radiator?” 

You shrugged. “Tempting. I do own zip ties.” 

His laugh was full, unguarded, the sound of it seeping into your skin like sunlight. “Why don’t we save those for the bedroom, huh?” 

He leaned down again to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. And then he whispered, “Let’s go inside.” 

But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You’d waited this long.

What was one more minute in each other’s arms?

[trampleddoves]

hi! i liked your free use blurb and I was wondering if you'd do it in the reverse where the reader could use spence?

s. r. blurb 3

contents: fem!reader, free use Spencer, slight dom/sub dynamics, MDNI

Dating a nerd who all but worships the ground you walk on has certain perks.

There are the more obvious ones: he does your taxes for fun (and by hand, like the most lovable troglodyte), he takes you to lovely dates that are somehow both exciting and—if you’re being completely honest—ever so slightly boring, he is an absolute gentleman. The type who walks by the street, and would bend down to tie your laces for you. 

Lesser known perks are as follows: he can recite books for you from memory—which comes in handy when you need something soft and soothing to lull you to sleep, he indulges in your little hyperfixations, and, lastly, he’s so completely desperate for you. Enough that a simple brush of your hand on his thigh has him stuttering and turning pink, the slightest pressure on his crotch sends him reeling. Certain clothes are his enemy—you wear red and there’s a tent in his pants. 

It seems only fitting for you to claim his cock whenever you want. He gets hard so quickly, you might as well take advantage of it, right?

Right.

And of course, Spencer Reid—perfect, loving, incredibly intelligent—says yes to being your free use boyfriend. 

Another perk of dating a nerd?

He has nothing else going for him outside of work. Granted, the BAU takes him away from you more often than not, but you simply see that as another opportunity. Just means when he’s back, you’re bouncing on his cock at every opportunity you can.

This weekend is no different. He’s been gone for four days, barely calls—he’s always been so bad at that—but being apart only heightens your need for him. Absence sharpens love after all, or whatever it is Shakespeare said. You’re sure Spencer knows it by heart, something beautiful and poetic, not the clumsy version you can recall. 

So he’s home after four long days, trying to play chess, and you’re splayed on his lap, your back to his chest, grinding your hips in slow, circular motions to relish the feeling of his cock stretching you out and filling you up after being unsatisfied for the past few days. 

He’s moaning. Everytime he reaches over to move a piece, you bounce on his lap to distract him, giggling at the quiver in his fingers when you clench your walls tightly around his pulsing length. You follow his hands, long fingers wrapping around a knight and moving it to take an opponent’s bishop. You start bouncing faster. 

“God, honey,” he groans, accidentally knocking over a pawn in the process.

“Need your safe word?”

“No no, just—I missed you so much.” he whimpers, burying his face into your neck. He begins to buck his hips up, meeting your thrusts.

You pause immediately, hands resting on his thighs. Not that it doesn’t feel good—it does, but the whole point of this is that he continues his activities while you use him. “Did I give you permission to fuck me, Spence?”

“No,” he whines. You smile when he stops moving obediently, face lifting from your neck, “I’m sorry.” He resumes the chess game, moving a rook to take the offensive knight from before.

“Good boy.” you reward him by grinding again, more up and down this time. Leaning back into him, you drag your wet cunt all over his cock, squeezing as you do. Like a good boy, he simply continues his chess game, but you grin triumphantly as his hands tremor even more. With a hum, you bring your fingers to your clit, rubbing quick circles on the swollen nub. “White’s check in three.”

“No way.” he gasps as your pace grows rougher, riding him in quick strokes, “I could have sworn—ah!”

You come undone around him, walls tightening to a nearly painful degree. Soft, breathy gasps leave your lips as you ride him through your climax, going lax and soft in his arms. He sighs, staring dumbly at the chess board in front of him. Understandably needy, but he can’t do much about it right now, that’s not his role. Not unless you give him permission. 

“You’ve been so good, baby,” the words come out a sweet little sigh, full of affection. You crawl off his lap, grinning as he turns his head and follows you with a gaze so full of longing it’s almost pitiful. You hum, settling on the couch beside him. Legs spread, an invitation. “Come and fuck me now, Spence, you deserve it.”

The last, perhaps least known perk of dating a nerd?

They’re amazing at fucking. Or, at least, Spencer Reid is. 

[hangesophtalmologist]

playing with fire burns like hell

part 1

previous name: the salesman’s obsession

part 1, (part 2)

pairing: squid game's salesman/ recruiter x f!reader

synopsis: when someone dares to interrupt his game, the infamous salesman ought to punish them... but she doesn't intend to play by his rules.

warnings: violence, physical assaut, social stigma, psychotic mc, squid game au

a/n: we shall give the people what they asked for (salesman x readers) (i'm people)

The slap rang out like a gunshot, ricocheting off the cold subway walls. The man on the ground – disheveled, panting – flinched. His cheek blossomed red, but he didn’t dare look up. Above him, the Salesman stood poised, palm still tingling. His eyes were bright but empty, the light behind them clinical, dissecting.

"Come on now, one more try,” he taunted. His voice was smooth, almost musical and weightless, as if he were suggesting a game of chess. "Don’t stop at three. You’ll regret that more.”

It wasn’t joy he was feeling. Amusement, merely. Detached, surgical. Like stepping on something fragile just to hear the crack. The pathetic, the desperate – they all crumbled the same way. He just had to give them a little push, and their precious facade fell apart, leaving behind the twitching core of greed, ready to humiliate itself for scraps.

The sweating businessman bent to pick up his red tile, trembling. His shoulders sagged under the weight of silent despair. Miserable. The Salesman’s lips curled, though not exactly enough to be called a smile. He enjoyed the process. The inevitability of it.

Another failure.

He raised his hand, licking his lips in anticipation, but before he could swing, something unexpected happened. A hand grabbed his wrist.

Firm. Unshaking.

Cold.

His head snapped to the side; the sharp turn of a predator interrupted mid-hunt.

You.

His gaze narrowed. He’d noticed you earlier, lingering on the platform’s edge. Background noise. He rarely missed details, but somehow you had slipped through the cracks. Perhaps that was the first red flag.

His gaze drifted over your hand, slender fingers circling his wrist like a cuff. He could break free easily. Yet he didn’t. Your grip felt… deliberate. Measured.

“Enough,” you said, cocking your head to the side, sly eyes scrutinizing him.

His expression shifted, just slightly. Interest flickered, not outwardly hostile, but curious. He searched your face for clues – that familiar, nauseating blend of pity and self-importance most saviours carried. Yet, your eyes betrayed neither. But he didn’t need any tells – he knew people like you. Hypocrites yearning for crumbs of recognition.

“And who might you be?” His voice retained its warmth, but irritation simmered beneath it.

You stepped between him and his trembling opponent, your hand falling away. “Doesn’t matter.”

His gaze darkened as annoyance started to seep in his body. He didn’t even watch as the man behind you scrambled to his feet, disappearing into the crowd like prey escaping a hunter. His focus was entirely on you now – the intruder. He examined you for long time – longer than what he was used to. The Salesman never cared much for remembering anyone other than his recruits – but there was something about the lines of your face, the crooked slope of your mouth, the mischief in you pupils. Something challenging. Something he wanted to crush.

"You just cost me 100,000 won," he said lightly, adjusting his cufflinks with meticulous care – but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the casual tone. "So. How do you plan to pay me back?"

You shrugged, defying. “I don’t plan to.”

His grin widened, but the glint in his eyes sharpened. “I see. Then I’ll have to take it from you. A slap or cash. Choose.”

“I have a better idea,” you smirked, lazily flicking the red tile between your fingers. “I’ll take his place. I want to play too.”

His smile faltered. The thrill flickered out, but simply for a second – you weren’t desperate, not twitchy or ashamed. Not his typical prey. Yet. Because after all, if you wanted to play, it was because you wanted money – like everyone else.

He just needed to crack your confident mask to see you scrambling for it.

A chuckle escaped his mouth, hunger for your humiliation gnawing at his stomach. He wanted to see your heroic aspirations slapped out of your mind until you were nothing more than the lowlives he usually dealt with.

Yes. This would be even more fun to watch.

His smirk returned, though colder. “Fine. Each loss costs 100,000 won. Can you pay?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t lose.”

Your smugness stirred something primal in him—something ugly, something he hadn’t felt in years. You flipped the red card over your fingers, defiance oozing off you. Then in a split second you hurled the tile to the ground with surprising force. There was no hesitation, no tension. He didn’t need to look down to know you had flipped the blue card over. He watched you carefully, waiting for the inevitable flicker of relief that most winners betrayed.

None came.

Your eyes had barely left him either, like you were also gauging his reaction. Your lips stretched in a predatory smile – a thrill of excitement ran down his veins.

“I paid the debt. Now let’s play for real,” you cheered, displaying a naïve smile, one that could have fooled him as genuine if there wasn’t a flick of calculation - measurement - behind the easy curve of your lips.

The Salesman was a man of control – he could recognize when someone was leading a game, and right now this someone wasn’t him. He wasn’t surprised when you succeeded again.

“You won,” he stated, but there was no satisfaction, no amusement – he was still hungry for your humiliation. He reached for his luggage. But your foot stopped him, stepping on it as you suddenly reduced the distance between them.

“Oh no, Mister. You must have misunderstood me,” you slowly leaned towards him and whispered against his face.

He should have seen it before – but it was only now, when you were inches away from him, that he finally noticed the spark of amusement hidden in your eyes. It wasn’t heroism, nor greed that animated you.

Danger. His heart raced with the adrenaline that was reserved for his favourite kills, an all-too-powerful feeling that welcome your next words.

“I wasn’t playing for money.”

And then with sudden, brutal efficiency, you slapped him. Hard. Hard enough to send him stumbling on his feet and wipe any thought from his mind.

The crack resounded louder than his own had.

His head jerked to the side, pain stinging his cheek. Silence stretched between you. The slap burned, but not as much as the unfamiliar sensation curling in his gut.

Your laugh cut through the quiet, light and playful, but dripping with something – something mad.

He scoffed, bringing a hand to massage his cheek. It was stinging, the only proof that the last seconds had happened. When he looked back at you, you had tilted your head in an innocent expression.

But your conniving smirk was taunting him. “I get you now; it is quite fun. Have a nice day, Mister.”

You turned and walked away, your figure shrinking under the flickering subway lights.

The Salesman didn’t follow. Not immediately.

He watched you disappear into the station, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead casting fractured shadows on the tiles.

He stayed rooted, fingers twitching at his side, replaying the moment. Over and over.

Then, without warning, he laughed. Deep, unhinged, shaking laughter that echoed through the empty station. His stomach twisted with hunger, sharper and more vicious than he had felt in years.

You.

You weren’t a prey.

No, you were something far more valuable.

You were a challenge.

And he would break you. Piece by piece.

[idkwhylou]

Trouble

Summary : You grew up on military bases, always under the shadow of your admiral father—and always just out of reach of the Navy boys you weren't supposed to want. But Bradley Bradshaw had always been different.

Bradley Bradshaw x f!reader/militarybrat!reader

Warnings : bad knowledge on military settings, alcohol consumption, mentions of sex (nothing graphic more suggestive), flirt, Hangman, no use of y/n, bit of angst ?, happy ending dw

Words : 6K

A/N : It's the first time I write for Bradley, actually this have been hidden in my drafts for too long soooo. Didn't check before posting, sorry for the mistakes

+ your last name is Andrews (not important I just named the admiral father like that so)

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Being a military brat wasn’t exactly a dream, but you’d learn to survive it with style.

Endless relocations, half-finished friendships, birthdays celebrated on video calls while your father was halfway around the world—Admiral Andrews always had bigger battles to fight. You grew up in hangars and on tarmacs, your lullabies was the roar of jet engines and the bark of orders through static-filled radios. Discipline was second nature. And so was pretending things didn’t hurt.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. They were…perks. 

Namely, the men.

They came and went like seasons—loud, fleeting, and always convinced they were unforgettable. Each one walked with the same cocksure strut, flight suits unzipped just enough to suggest ego rather than comfort, and eyes that burned with that reckless, high-altitude gleam. You learned fast—faster than you were probably supposed to—how to recognize the pattern. The polished charm they wore like a second skin.

You didn’t fall for it. Not once.

You watched, studied, catalogued the way they spoke when they thought they were being clever, the way their smiles sharpened when they were about to flirt. You learned how long it took them to show their tells—the subtle shift in tone, the not-so-innocent brush of an arm, the pause that lasted just a beat too long. They weren’t as mysterious as they thought or tried to pretend. They were pretty predictable actually.

But you never chased them. That, was the key.

You let them notice you instead—just enough to spark the thought, just enough to stay in their mind when the hangar got quiet. You were a test they didn’t realize they were failing. 

Every. Single. Time.

But your father had made it crystal clear from the start : “No navy men”. Which was funny, considering that’s all you were ever surrounded by. Anyway, the irony wasn’t lost on you and neither was the challenge. 

He thought keeping you on base and away from the navy bars meant keeping you safe. But the Admiral never realized that some of your favorite games were played right under his nose. You knew the base like the back of your hand—every shadow, every corner, every overlooked bench, every hangar edge where you could linger just out of sight. You didn’t need loud scenes or public displays. You had subtle smiles, quiet glances, late-night conversations shared against metal walls still warm from the day’s sun. 

Flirts came and went; a wink here, a stolen moment there. You kept things light and unattached. You weren’t naïve—you knew better than to fall for boys who wore dog tags. But God, it was so fun watching them fall just a little bit for you. 

Over the years you got really good at it. You learned how pilots saw you, how they move around girls, how they lie without meaning to. You recognized the ones who were all show, the ones who tried too hard, and the rare few who didn’t try at all. You knew how to draw attention without begging for it. 

And at first, they all tried.

When you were younger—barely out of high school but already too clever for your own good—the attention was constant. New recruits, cocky lieutenants, even a few seasoned officers too sure of their charm. They came at you like it was some unspoken initiation: flirt with the Admiral’s daughter, see how close you could get before it blew up in your face.

One did get close. Too close.

You’d spent the night tangled in Navy sheets and heat; a moment of rebellion that tasted too sweet to regret. It wasn’t love—just curiosity with hands and mouths, a quiet hunger you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying until it finally spilled over. He was older, confident in a way that didn’t feel forced, and for one night, you let yourself fall into the thrill of being wanted, seen—not as the Admiral’s daughter, but just as you.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But the morning did. You hadn’t even had time to slip your shirt back on when you heard the footsteps—sharp, purposeful, unmistakable. The door creaked open before you could speak, and there he was: your father, Admiral Andrews, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to actually. One look. One breath drawn through his nose. One flick of his eyes to the discarded uniform trousers on the floor. 

That was enough.

The silence that followed was deafening. He didn’t yell, didn’t bark orders. He simply turned and walked away with the kind of fury that came wrapped in control—and that was somehow worse. By the end of the week, the boy was gone. Transferred without explanation to another coast. Scrubbed clean from your world like he’d never been there. And no one said a word about it. 

Not your father. Not the guy. Not anyone. Not even you, because you knew it was best to keep your mouth shut if you didn’t want to end up in the same situation.

But the message was heard loud and clear across base. You were off-limits now. Untouchable. The Admiral’s daughter—marked. 

After that, most of them backed off. The stares were more cautious; they’d smile quickly, maybe toss a joke your way, but nobody dared get too close. Well, not unless they had a death wish—or a transfer request ready to go.

And you ? You adapted. The flirting became harmless, more performative—just enough to keep things fun.

And still, now and then, someone would forget. 

Some new recruit, fresh off a carrier and drunk on his own reflection, would mistake your easy grin for an invitation. Or maybe it was the way you leaned in when you laughed, the way you held eye contact just a breath too long. You knew the signals you sent. You just knew how to pull them back, too.

They’d catch on. Eventually. Maybe it was the way the older pilots watched you a little too closely, not with hunger but with caution. Maybe it was the subtle tension that snapped into place anytime your father’s name left someone’s mouth like it was a warning label: ‘Admiral Andrews’s daughter’.

And then there were the whispers. Low-voiced and half-believed, traded like ghost stories in locker rooms and smoke breaks. The one who got a guy sent away. Some were curious, others called it poison, most didn’t dare. But a few still tried: the ones too bold or too dumb to care, or maybe just the ones who didn’t know.

Which is why you noticed right away when someone didn’t get the memo.

That night at the Hard Deck, the music was low, the air buzzing with the usual mix of sweat and beer. You were nursing a drink more out of habit than thirst, letting the noise wash over you in waves. That’s when he showed up—Jake Seresin, golden boy swagger and all.

He didn’t look at you like someone warned him. He looked at you like a dare.

“Funny,” he said, leaning an elbow on the bar like he had all night to kill. “I come here a lot, and I don’t remember seeing you before. That feels like a personal tragedy.”

You turned to him, unimpressed but not dismissive. “Maybe I’m very good at not being noticed.”

Jake smiled slowly, eyes sweeping over you—not crude, but confident. “Not with a face like that.”

You snorted softly, swirling the rest of your drink. “Do those lines actually work, or are you just here to collect L’s ?”

He laughed, tilting his head. “Just here to see if lightning strikes. What’s your name ?”

You considered it for a beat too long. “Wouldn’t you rather guess ?”

Jake’s grin grew wider. “Trouble. Definitely trouble.”

You leaned in slightly, letting your shoulder brush his just enough to register. “Only for people who don’t know how to handle me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, “I specialize in handling.”

You raised an eyebrow, your expression unreadable but amused. “You sure ? You look more like someone who talks a big game and taps out when it gets interesting.”

His hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “You wound me.”

“I’m just being cautious,” you replied, your voice silk over steel. “I’ve seen a lot of pilots walk in here thinking they’re bulletproof. Turns out, most of them flinch when the safety’s off.”

Jake chuckled, eyes narrowing slightly. “So you are military. I was betting civilian.”

“Does it matter ?” you asked, letting the question linger.

“Only if you outrank me.”

You smirked into your glass. “You have no idea.”

For a moment, the air between you was still—charged with the kind of tension that made everything slow down. Jake looked at you like he wanted to solve you. You looked at him like you’d already read the answer and were just waiting to see if he’d catch up.

From across the room, someone called his name but he didn’t move. Not yet. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let me buy you a drink. Worst case, you put me in my place and I go home with a bruised ego. Best case…”

You tilted your head. “Best case ?”

He leaned in, just a little. “You stop pretending you're not having fun.”

You didn’t answer right away, just held his gaze. Then, with a slow, calculated smile, you slid your almost empty glass toward him.

“I’ll take a whiskey,” you said. “Neat. No bullshit.”

Jake’s laugh was soft and genuine as he flagged down Penny. “Now that’s a girl after my own heart.”

He returned quickly with the drinks in hand, sliding yours across the table next to you like a magician revealing a card trick. “One whiskey, neat. No bullshit—just how you like it.”

You took it with a nod, your fingers brushing his for half a second. He was easy to look at—lean, tan, jawline too sharp for his own good. The kind of guy who probably had a mirror above his bed. But he was charming, you had to admit. There was something in the way he grinned at you like he already knew you were trouble and still wanted a bite. Maybe you’d give him one. Just a taste.

“You’re not so bad, Hangman,” you said, sipping your drink.

He perked up. “So you have heard of me.”

“Hard not to. The ego arrives five minutes before you do.”

Jake laughed. “That’s fair.”

You let the conversation drift, leaning back against the wall, letting his stories and confident smirks wash over you. It was easy to play this game. Familiar. Like slipping into old shoes—ones that still fit but didn’t take you anywhere new.

And then, the door swung open.

You didn’t look at first, still listening to Jake—he was mid-sentence about some dogfight in training—but then you felt it. A shift in the air. Your eyes flicked toward the entrance.

Bradley fucking Bradshaw.

He walked in like he didn’t need the room to notice him—and yet it did. He had that kind of quiet gravity, the kind that pulled attention without asking for. He wore one of those old Hawaiian shirts—sun-bleached and fraying a little at the edges, probably one of his dad’s—left unbuttoned, sleeves cuffed like it was second nature. A pair of aviators rested low on the bridge of his nose, catching the bar lights just enough to hide his eyes. In his hand, he still held the keys to his precious bronco, twirling them once around his finger like a nervous tic, though nothing about him looked uncertain. 

Jake was still talking, something about g-force and cocky teammates, but you weren’t hearing it anymore. You and Bradley had known each other for a while now. Enough to share inside jokes and glances that didn’t need words. He made space for you in conversations without trying. He remembered things you hadn’t realized you’d said. He was kind in a way that didn’t need an audience.

The blond said something and you nodded absently, but your eyes followed Bradley as he made his way toward the bar. Rooster hadn’t seen you yet, or maybe he had and was just taking his time. Either way, he walked with the ease of someone who didn’t have to prove anything. While Jake was all angles and spotlight, Bradley was all depth and quiet corners.

Hangman finally paused, catching your shift in attention. He followed your gaze and let out a short laugh, “Is it the porn ‘stache or the ugly shirt ?”

You blinked, snapped back. “What ?”

“Bradshaw,” Jake said, nodding toward him. “Didn’t peg you for the boy scout type.”

You shrugged and let out a soft chuckle, “I don’t have a type.”

Jake tilted his head, that ever-present smirk tugging at his mouth. “Sure you don’t. Rooster ? Really ? You’re goin’ soft on us sweetheart.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning boredom as you sipped your drink. “Bradley’s just a long-time friend.”

Hangman leaned in a little, elbow brushing the table as his voice dropped low. “Mm-hmm. Funny, because you don’t look at your other friends like that.”

You smirked. “What’s the matter ? You’re jealous ?”

His grin widened into something smug. “Jealous ? Please.” He gestured at himself. “Sweetheart, I’m not worried. ‘Cause let’s be honest—Rooster’s too busy thinking about the right thing to say. Me ?” He leaned in just a bit closer, voice smooth and low. “I actually know how to treat a girl like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Oh yeah ? And what kind of girl is that, exactly ?”

His gaze flicked down briefly—too quickly to be respectful, too slowly to be innocent. “Smart mouth, sharp tongue… but you like a little danger. You want someone who doesn’t ask permission to touch, someone who knows when to talk… and when not to.”

You let out a soft laugh, but there was heat beneath it. “Wow. You rehearsed that one ?”

Jake’s grin turned lazy, cocky. “Sweetheart, that was the improv version.”

You leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing, teasing. “If I wanted a man who thought with his ego, I’d pick one with better stamina.”

His eyebrows lifted, that cocky smirk faltering just a second—then came back twice as bold. “You volunteering to test that theory ?”

You were about to say something sharp, something that might’ve made the temperature between you boil over, but a voice cut the moment clean in half. “Seresin.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. But you did.

Bradley stood there, calm as ever, jaw tight, that unreadable gaze flicking between you and Hangman. The keys to his Bronco hung loosely in his hand, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable. “Didn’t know we were giving lectures on respect tonight,” he added, his voice level, but unmistakably pointed.

Jake raised both hands in mock surrender, a laugh in his throat. “Easy, Rooster. We were just talkin’.”

“Sure you were,” Bradley said, gaze not leaving Jake’s face.

Hangman didn’t move, his grin just a fraction but his stance still confident, as if daring Bradley to push further. “So, what’s the real deal ? I’m not one to back off, you should know that Bradshaw.”

Bradley’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping low but steady, laced with quiet authority. “You remember Admiral Andrews, right ? You’ve got his sweet little girl right in front of you, idiot.” He took a slow step closer, his tone sharpened with warning. “So maybe think twice before you mess around with something you can’t afford to break.”

The blond blinked, the easy cockiness flickered for a moment, surprise crossing his features as Bradley’s words hit harder than he expected. He glanced at you, then back at Bradley, sensing the line he wasn’t meant to cross. You see a flicker of hesitation in his eyes—but he didn’t back down. You liked that.

“You think a name’s gonna scare me off ? I’m not like you chicken. Plus I don’t see her old man anywhere.” He smirked.

Bradley stepped forward just enough, his voice calm but firm, carrying the weight of authority. “Maybe not. But I’m the one standing between you and a whole lot of trouble. So why don’t you save us both the headache and walk away ?”

Jake let out a slow sigh, the fight draining out of him as he finally nodded. He looked at you and winked, “When he's done bothering you, you know where to find me sweetheart.”

You weren’t angry—Bradley did this all the time. Always stepping in, always cock-blocking you when you least expected it. It was almost infuriating how often he played the protective big brother role. But you knew it came from somewhere deeper. He wasn’t just interfering for the sake of it; he was looking out for you. You mattered to him, more than most people realized.

Bradley’s eyes softened as he looked at you, a quiet honesty in his voice. “I know it’s annoying. But you’ve got people watching your back—including me.”

You shook your head with a small laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Big brother mode activated. I get it.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow as you both moved toward the bar, where Penny was serving other patrons. “Come on,” he said. You followed him, feeling the familiar pull of comfort in his presence—someone who knew the real you, without pretense or judgment.

Bradley didn’t waste a second. He caught Penny’s eye and commanded, “Six shots of tequila Pen’.” He shot you a knowing look, his smirk softening just a little. He knew exactly how you liked it. 

Before you could even think about pulling out your wallet, he slid his card across the counter. “On me. Don’t even.”

You slid onto the stool next to him, the wood creaking softly beneath your weight. The air between you buzzed with a tension that had settled there years ago—familiar, low-burning. You barely had time to adjust your seat when Bradley, without a word or a glance, reached out and tugged your stool closer to him. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—firm, like muscle memory, like this wasn’t the first time he’d wanted you that close.

You didn’t protest, you didn’t need to and absolutely didn’t want to. 

From across the bar, Penny slid the six shots in front of you with practiced ease. She arched a brow, smirking as her eyes flicked between the two of you. “Bradley,” she said, tone dry but affectionate, “keep an eye on her tonight, will you ? She’s trouble in my bar—and you’re the only one she actually listens to.” 

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, but didn’t deny it. And Bradley just smirked, like he already knew he’d be doing just that. Trouble, after all, had a way of finding the two of you. Or maybe you were just better at finding each other. You took the salt and pour some on your palm, Rooster stretched out his hand to you, so that you could put salt on his too. You, then, reached for the first glass without hesitation, fingers brushing the cool rim just as Bradley’s hand closed around his own. Your eyes met in the half-second, you raised your shot in a toast. 

“To trouble then.” You said, your smile lazy, knowing. 

He chuckled warmly under his breath as the clink of glass between you was soft, but it echoed—more than sound. You tipped yours back easily. The tequila was sharp at first, then smooth as you bite in your quarter of lemon. His gaze lingered a second too long on your mouth, as you lick your lips. 

You leaned your elbow on the bar, chin in hand, feeling your throat burning. “You’ve always got my back, haven’t you ?”

He gave a half-shrug, eyes flicking down to his empty glass. “Someone had to.” That was always the thing about Bradley—he didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. While others circled like moths to flame, trying too hard, talking too loud, he simply stayed. The only one who never looked at you like you were something to win or just a piece of meat.

You studied his profile for a beat—the strong jaw, the crease just forming between his brows. He looked like he always did: calm, grounded, the kind of calm that only made you more aware of your own pulse. His fingers tapped once against the bar, a quiet rhythm. Nervous ? No. Calculated for sure. Like he was trying not to look at you again, trying not to give too much away.

Then, without breaking the silence between you, he reached for the second shot. And slid yours toward you.

No words this time.

Just the soft scrape of glass across wood—and that heat blooming in your chest again, heavier this time. Not from the tequila. From the way his fingers brushed yours, just long enough to feel intentional and deliberate. 

For now.

You tilted your head, voice low and teasing. “What is it with you, Bradshaw ? You always this cautious, or just with me ?”

He gave a soft breath of a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t make it easy.”

That was honest. A little too honest.

You clinked your glass to his again. “Good.”

The second shot burned a little deeper, less sweet and more heat. You didn’t look away this time. You let your eyes linger on him as you set your glass down with a quiet clink, and this time, he was already watching you.

But not in the way others did. There was nothing lazy or possessive in it, just that familiar, weighted gaze. 

“You ever think maybe I’m not trying to make it easy ?” you murmured, lips just shy of a smirk.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted slightly on his feet, as if trying to find steadier ground. “I think,” he said finally, “that you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“And I think,” you replied, leaning in just a little, “you’re still trying to pretend it doesn’t get to you.”

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. Instead, he glanced away, jaw tight, hands folded in front of him like he needed somewhere to put the tension. “I can’t risk it,” he said under his breath. It wasn’t for effect. It wasn’t a line. It was a confession.

Your smile softened just a fraction. “Then why are you still sitting here, Brad ?”

That pulled his gaze back to you—harder this time, deeper. Something in it cracked, just slightly. And between you, the third shot sat untouched, waiting, as the tequila warmed your chest. Spread slow through your veins like liquid confidence. But Bradley’s eyes were too serious now.

“I’ve known you too long to fuck this up,” he said quietly, “You’re his daughter. You know what that means.”

And there it was; the sting. The salt no softening it at all and no smirk to hide behind.

Your smile faltered for half a second before you caught it, masked it in something lighter—your defense, always. “Well, good thing you’re not in uniform tonight. It doesn’t count then.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. 

You leaned in, slow and unhurried, “So what’s your excuse now, Lieutenant ?”

But before you could get too close, he shifted. Enough to let the air slip between you again, enough to say nowithout the words. You froze for a beat, the rejection subtle but sharp in the places that mattered. He didn’t meet your eyes right away, his fingers tense against the wooden bar. 

“I don’t have a good reason,” he said at last, voice rougher now. “Only the right one.”

You didn’t flinch, but something in you pulled tight. Slowly, you leaned back, the teasing edge fading from your smile. Your fingers toyed with the rim of your empty glass, tracing a circle like it might give you answers. Right. Of course, it was the right reason. It always was with him. That was the problem.

“I forget sometimes,” you said quietly, your gaze fixed on the bar. 

He looked at you then—really looked—and there it was again, that quiet storm always behind his eyes. “I know what they see when they look at you. I’m not proud of how many I’ve wanted to punch for it.”

You huffed a breath, something like a laugh but thinner. “And here I thought you were the calm one.”

“I’m not calm when it comes to you.”

The confession dropped between you like a weight, and for a moment neither of you moved. The room felt too still. Too exposed. You turned, met his gaze again, your voice soft but steady. “Then don’t be. Just for tonight.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look away either. And that silence said more than either of you were ready for. From behind the bar, Penny raised a brow and took discretely the two empty glasses—cutting through the moment like she knew. Of course she did.

You glanced down at it, then back at Bradley. “Last one,” you murmured. “You gonna let me drink alone ?”

His jaw flexed, but this time, he didn’t move away.

Bradley’s fingers wrapped around the last shot glass as he held your gaze. Then he tipped it back in one smooth motion. You watched his throat work as the tequila slid down, the way his eyes fluttered closed for just a beat—like he needed the burn to make a decision. Like he’d hoped the fire would settle something inside him.

But when he set the glass down, he didn’t say a word. Just pushed the rim gently toward the center of the bar and stood. No glance toward you. No smirk. No half-joke to soften the blow. Just the subtle clench of his jaw and the quiet scrape of wood as he stepped back from his stool.

Your breath caught. “Bradley—”

“I can’t,” he said, barely above a whisper. But it hit harder than if he’d shouted.

Then he turned and walked away. You sat frozen for a second, the heat of the liquor blooming in your chest, spreading too fast. Too deep. Penny didn’t say anything—just watched with that knowing look she always had, as if she’d seen a hundred near-misses like this before. You stared at the empty glass in front of you. Still warm. Still full of everything he didn’t say.

You stared at the empty space where he’d been, pulse thrumming beneath your skin like something trying to break loose. The tequila sat in front of you—untouched, waiting. Like a dare. 

You picked it up without thinking. “Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, then knocked it back. The burn hit harder than the first two. Bit deeper. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was him—but the moment the glass hit the bar again, you were already sliding off the stool.

You pushed past the quiet hum of the Hard Deck, ignoring the knowing look Penny shot your way, ignoring Jake's low whistle behind you. All you could focus on was the sight of Bradley’s broad back, just slipping through the door, his frame half-lit by the hazy dusk spilling across the beach.

“Bradley !” you called, the wind catching your voice as you jogged after him.

He didn’t turn around at first. Not until you caught up, your hand brushing his arm, fingers curling. He stopped like he’d been struck. Then, slowly, he turned. His sweet brown eyes found yours in the dim light of the parking lot, a storm behind his quiet irises. You let your hand drop from his arm, but his warmth lingered on your skin like a brand. 

“Why do you always do that ?” you asked, voice lower now. “Push me away like I’m some damn risk you can’t afford.”

Bradley didn’t answer right away. He looked past you for a second, jaw tight, as if picking his words from a minefield. “Because you ae,” he said finally, “You’re an Admiral’s daughter. You’re trouble I can’t walk away from clean.”

You flinched, not from the words themselves but the truth behind them. “I’m not a fucking kid Brad.”

“I know that,” he said, eyes falling shut for a second, like he was trying to steady something inside him. He pinched his nose, “Trust me, I know.”

“Then stop acting like you don’t want this too !” you snapped. “You’re not wearing your uniform tonight. You’re not my babysitter. You’re just… you. And I’m just me.”

His eyes opened because of the sudden rise of your voice, “You think that makes it easier ?”. You didn’t respond and he sighed looking down, then he stepped forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body again. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“I’m not asking,” you said, tapping your head back to meet his gaze. “I’m telling you I’m right here. And I want you.”

Bradley’s hands twitched at his sides, and for a moment it looked like he might pull away again. But instead of retreating, he exhaled slowly, like he was holding himself back. His expression shifted in something sharp flickering in his eyes, frustration simmering just under the surface. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair as his voice edged harder. 

“You don’t get it,” he said tightly. “You think I can just pretend that your dad wouldn’t end my career the second he found out I even looked at you twice ?”

You sighed and then took a shaky breath, your voice defiant. “You think I care what my dad thinks ?” you scoffed, shaking your head. “Plus he likes you Bradley ! He trusts you and-”

He cut you off by letting out a bitter laugh, “Yeah,” he muttered, “because I’m not trying to fuck his daughter.”

The words hit hard—crude, sharp, and a little too honest. 

“This isn’t a game for me.” Your name escaped his lips so softly you almost forgot you were arguing. 

“I never said it was a game,” you said barely over a whisper. “But thanks for assuming I don’t understand.”

His jaw clenched. He looked away, down the road like it might offer an easier answer than what stood in front of him. “This is exactly why I walk away.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. “Right. Because walking away’s easier than actually admitting you care.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. But it was enough.

He turned, keys still dangling in his hand, posture tense like he was ready to bolt.

Your heart squeezed.

You took a step forward, voice gentler now, cracking just a bit. “Bradley—wait.”

He stopped but didn’t turn. His shoulders stayed tense, his jaw locked as your words settled in the quiet between you.

“Can I just…” you hesitated. “Can I just have one thing ? One second. You don’t have to do anything else. Just let me… just let me have this.”

You stepped in slowly, cautiously, like approaching something wild that might bolt at any sudden movement. Your hand brushed his chest, fingers splaying gently over the fabric of his shirt. His heart was racing and so was yours.

“I don’t want to stay mad at you,” you said softly, searching his face. “I don’t want you to stay mad either.”

And then, without waiting for a yes—just holding your breath—you leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Slow, barely there. Lingering just long enough to make your heart break a little when you pulled back. It wasn’t about heat or seduction, it was something quieter; a confession. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d done it. There had been quiet moments over the years—late nights, stolen conversations, the way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t looking—when you let yourself lean in and leave that barely-there kiss on the corner of his mouth. Just enough to remind him you saw him. Wanted him. Hoped he’d want you too.

And every time, Bradley would pull back with a small shake of his head, or a sharp sigh, or that carefully constructed silence that meant he was burying the thought before it could bloom.

But tonight… he didn’t move. He let you do it. He didn’t flinch or step away. He just stood there, breathing you in like it hurt, letting the moment happen. And that—more than anything—made your heart thud painfully in your chest.

You took a step back like you hadn’t just laid every card on the table. “That’s all,” you whispered.

Bradley exhaled, something raw and helpless in the sound. His eyes found yours—dark, unreadable—and then dropped to your lips. “You’re a real brat,” he muttered, almost like a prayer.

And before you could respond, he reached for you—fast, like the dam had finally cracked. One hand curled firmly around your waist, grounding you, while the other slid up to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair like he needed to anchor himself. 

Then he pulled you in. 

His lips met yours, like he’d been fighting the pull for too long and finally, finally gave in. There was nothing hesitant about it, no more restraint, no more carefully measured distance. It was deep, consuming, years of tension unraveling in one breathless moment. He kissed you like he was starved for it, like every second he’d held back had only built the hunger. 

Bradley’s lips were deceptively soft, contrasting the sharp angles of his jaw and the rough edge he carried with him everywhere else. They were warm, shaped with a natural fullness that made every half-smile feel like a secret, every smirk a challenge. When he kissed you, they didn’t hesitate. There was no awkwardness, no uncertainty—just a grounded, confident pressure that spoke of restraint worn thin.

They tasted faintly of tequila and whatever gum he chewed out of habit, but underneath it was something that was just him ; clean, familiar, and dangerously addictive. And when they moved against yours, slow at first then deeper, there was a quiet intensity in them, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally let it slip.

When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against yours, his breathing unsteady, like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His voice came low, hoarse and rough with everything he’d tried to bury.

“I should’ve known better than to think I’d ever be safe from trouble like you.”

“That’s why you love me.” You chuckled and gave him a quick peck, “And, don’t worry ‘bout my dad, I’ll take care of it.”

“If he sends me at the other end of the universe, you’d better follow me, you brat.” He teased, pinching your side playfully. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll follow you anywhere Bradshaw.” You kissed him again and you felt his body softening under your touch. 

[sixeyesonathiel]

academic rival!satoru who starts pulling all-nighters and obsessively rewriting his notes not just to beat you—but to catch your attention. he tells himself it’s strategy, war, rival stuff. but deep down, he’s hoping you’ll finally look at him. not glare. look. and when you do—when your gaze sharpens like a blade and you hiss, “how the hell did you score higher than me?”—his heart flutters like it's prom night, like you proposed marriage with your rage. he circles the date on his planner. he writes a haiku about it in his margin. “her eyes could kill me / but in that moment, i’d die / a scholar in love.” he considers submitting it to the campus poetry zine. he doesn’t. but he thinks about it. constantly.

he didn’t mean to start this rivalry, but he absolutely doubled down on it once he realized you were finally taking him seriously. the first time you muttered “smug bastard” under your breath in class, he swore he saw the face of god and got addicted to the sound of your frustration. he spiraled that night. rewrote his planner in pen. made a color-coded timeline of “her fury levels vs my grades.” it’s posted on his wall like an artifact. so now he’s trying harder. not just studying. overstudying. outscoring you on every test, quiz, class poll, kahoot game, group project ranking, and even the stupid little brain break games professors throw in. he shows up with research articles printed and annotated just so he can leave them on your desk, post-it commentary signed with a heart. he calls it “scholarly banter.” his friends call it “a cry for help.”

everything he does is soaked in neon desperation and pastel affection. he's convinced every time your voice raises in exasperation, it’s basically flirting. he calls it “intellectual foreplay.” his friends call it “delusion with extra steps.” you once slammed your textbook shut mid-discussion and muttered something about transferring schools just to escape him. he marked that moment in his journal as “peak chemistry.”

he still steals your pens, but now he leaves behind new ones. personalized. glittery. cursed with horrible puns. your name spelled out in cursive on the cap. once he got one custom-made with your initials and a tiny heart, and when you used it during a test, he almost fainted. he says it's to maintain “balance in the rivalry.” really, he just wants to see you roll your eyes, maybe sigh in that way that means you’re exasperated but not homicidal. progress. baby steps. thesis-worthy milestones. he once emailed the campus stationery supplier to ask if they could make pens that smell like your favorite shampoo. they said no. he cried a little.

his google drive has twelve folders named after you: “rival data,” “her essays (aka masterpieces),” “evidence she’s smarter than me but i’m hotter probably,” and “her favorite snacks ranked by study mood.” he makes spreadsheets comparing your academic scores. one chart tracks your moods based on how many hours you spent in the library, cross-referenced with your spotify activity. it’s color-coded. he thinks it’s romantic. it looks like a CIA threat report. he once gave a presentation with you as a case study on academic excellence. you weren't in the class. he did it anyway. he said it was “practice for when we’re co-professors someday.”

you treat him like a nuisance. a threat. a very loud, very cerulean-eyed glitch in your academic routine. you work harder just to obliterate his smirk. you glare when he gets the top score, mutter insults when he raises his hand, scoff when he compliments your writing. he thinks it’s all part of the enemies-to-lovers pipeline. it is not. you hate him. you're convinced he's mocking you. and he’s too stupidly in love to realize his plan is imploding like a dying star. he writes motivational quotes on his mirror. they’re all just things you’ve yelled at him.

he thinks it’s banter. you think it’s war. he flirts through footnotes, you throw sharpened stares. he doodles hearts on your thesis draft, you circle them in red and write “grow up.” he writes fake references in his essays like “her eyes, personal observation, 2025” and wonders why you haven’t confessed yet. he once tried to footnote your handwriting as a primary source of inspiration. you reported it as academic misconduct. he thanked you for noticing. he still has the warning email. printed. framed.

he believes in your intellectual excellence like it’s gospel. once said, “she’s a walking academic citation,” and got choked up about it. when you won the department award, he clapped so hard he got a bruise. told everyone later he was clapping for the future mother of his academic children. you told him to shut up. he saved the moment anyway. printed the photo. it’s in his wallet. laminated. waterproof. just in case.

his grades are rising but his romantic odds are tanking. he’s winning tests and losing dignity. one time he scored 100%, looked at you for validation, and you said, “congrats, nerd.” he wrote a poem about it. it rhymed. poorly. he performed it at the campus open mic. people clapped. you left halfway through. he said it was symbolic. a metaphor for your metaphorical emotional walls. he made a mood board. labeled it “the walls she built, the man i became.”

to him, you're the rival-slash-muse of his dreams. to you, he’s that annoying guy who somehow has your cat doodle as his lock screen. how? why? you don’t know. you don’t want to know. he says it “inspires him to rise above academic mediocrity.” you tell him to get therapy. he writes that down. “note to self: look into couples therapy.” you threaten violence. he updates his will. adds a note: “to be read by her, preferably with tears in her eyes.”

he's convinced you're in the slow burn arc. you're convinced he’s an incurable idiot. he messages you late at night with things like, “what’s your stance on fate?” or “if we wrote a thesis together, what would the topic be?” you leave him on read. he screenshots it and stares for hours. once he printed out a message you sent—“we’re not friends”—and taped it above his desk like motivational hate mail. then made it his lock screen for a week.

of course you and him aren’t friends. don’t be ridiculous. you’re soulmates, silly. academic rivals to twin flames. enemies-to-lovers speedrun. he’s delusional, yes, but passionately.

his delusions are so loud they echo in the lecture hall. he sees you win a class debate and writes a 2,000-word reflection on intellectual passion. titles it “she spoke, and the earth wept.” submits it anonymously to the school literary mag. signs it with your initials and hopes you’ll take the hint. you do. you write a rebuttal titled “the earth weeps because you talk too much.” he hangs it next to his bed. says it’s proof of your connection. invites people over just to show them.

you once muttered, “you’re a walking distraction,” and he whispered “she noticed me” before fainting dramatically onto his desk. his friend had to fan him with a syllabus. he calls that day “the awakening.” he includes it on his personal timeline of academic enlightenment. writes a song. badly. uploads it to soundcloud under the name “midterm romeo.” it has 101 plays. 99 of them are him.

the only reason he joined the academic decathlon was because you signed up. when asked his motivation, he said “to defeat my nemesis and earn her begrudging respect.” you stared at him. he winked. you nearly punched him. he said, "was that a spark?" and held an ice pack to his cheek with a lovesick smile. wrote a limerick about it. no one laughed but him. he printed it on a mug.

he's tried subtle confessions, like changing his discord status to “she's my thesis.” no one knew who “she” was. except everyone did. the group chat roasted him for six hours. he left and rejoined under a new name: “GPA 4 HER.” it got worse. made a spotify playlist named: “studying her like a sacred text.” you blocked him on everything but email. he started ending all peer reviews with “ps: hi.”

at some point, your mutual friends start noticing. they ask if you two are dating. you respond with horror. he responds with “not yet.” you threaten violence. he updates his will again. adds a footnote: “if she cries at my funeral, i win.” writes a powerpoint: “our enemies-to-lovers arc: a predictive analysis.” presents it to himself in his dorm at 2am. cries. adds transitions. makes a playlist.

you don’t know he wrote you into his valedictorian speech. he calls you “his greatest academic challenge and muse.” he practices it at night, staring at the mirror, pretending you're there in the crowd, not fuming—but finally, finally smiling at him. he’s rehearsed your nonexistent wedding vows more than his intro paragraph. sometimes he grades fake exams you never wrote and gives you 100 just to feel something. he once drafted a fictional university recommendation letter for you just to imagine what it’d be like to praise you publicly without you throwing a pen at his head.

and maybe, if he’s lucky, when the final grades are out and you tie for first place, you’ll look at him again. not with fury. not with confusion. but with something soft. maybe interest. maybe curiosity. maybe the beginning of something stupid. something sweet. something research paper-worthy.

strictly academic, of course. unless... extra credit?

[uchispeach]

Killer

Dark! Bully! Rafe Cameron x Fem! Reader

Warnings: NON CON, SMUT, rough sex, manhandling & degradation, choking, breeding kink, bullying, violent & abusive behavior, Mean! Rafe, Bully! Rafe…

A/N: Sorry for disappearing, I’ve just had a shit ton of family problems. I hope I can update a bit faster from now on! ALSO lmk if you want this to become a series! 💕

A laugh, dripping with mockery, echoed through the vast room, sparking a ripple of chuckles and whispered insults from the nearby group of boys.

Rafe Cameron’s body stretched lazily in the chair, making it seem almost comically small under his heavy frame. Even with his limbs sprawled out in complete relaxation, the outline of his hard muscles pressed against his shirt, as if daring to break free at any moment. You couldn't deny he looked attractive, exuding an undeniable magnetism in that confident, almost predatory pose, his new buzz cut only amplifying the arrogance that oozed from him. But that ugly, smug smirk? It made your bones ache and your throat dry up in ways you couldn’t explain.

His eyes, the color of storm clouds, lingered on yours with a deliberate intensity, delighting in your discomfort, relishing in every flinch and subtle shift of your gaze. You turned away, hoping your disinterest would bore him eventually, but you knew it wouldn’t.

No matter how hard you focused on the lecture, his presence was like an intrusive, constant drill on your brain—his burning gaze a distraction that gnawed at your senses. How naive had you been to think he'd ever leave you alone? Every time you raised your hand in class, you could count on him to whisper some stupid joke under his breath. How foolish had you been to think he would ever stop tormenting you? This sick dynamic between you two had been a game since childhood, and if anything, he seemed to thrive on it.

His once-small fingers had grown long and strong -now covered in silver rings. Those same digits that used to tangle on your hair and pull from it until your scalp burned in pain. His legs were now far longer, but they had always been longer than yours, outpacing you as they chased you through the school halls in all infant and adolescent years, always with the aim of making you stumble and fall to your knees. But his mouth had never changed. It had only sharpened, evolving into something far more dangerous.

You’d convinced yourself you were above all of it. Charleston had felt like a fresh start, and you’d thought the Pogue curse might finally be something you could outrun. But when Rafe Cameron showed up once more, everything you’d built: your confidence, your peace of mind—began to crumble, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the raw, unresolved tension between you.

You were studying to be a teacher, the first in your family to receive a scholarship that promised a brighter future. Your days were filled with lesson plans, textbooks, and the weight of academic expectation. Every second of your time was accounted for as you worked tirelessly to carve out a new path for yourself, one that didn't involve being brought back to the past or the memories of him. You didn’t have time for distractions, certainly not for him. But here he was, always lurking just at the edges of your life, a dark cloud you couldn’t escape.

Rafe was studying for an MBA, the complete opposite of you, and yet fate had forced you into a shared class. You would’ve done anything to avoid him, but trapped in between those fours walls, mere meters away from him - it just seemed impossible.

And there he was, at your left, staring with a look of sick pleasure every time he found you trying to focus. His presence was suffocating, like the air itself became dense with his attention. His words, the snide remarks whispered under his breath, were like a weight on your chest, making every breath harder to take.

He harassed you constantly in that class—every. single. time. Without fail. No matter how much you tried to bury yourself in your notes, no matter how hard you tried to ignore his mocking chuckles, his eyes always found you, always zeroed in on your every move. He’d challenge you with pointless questions, make stupid comments about your work, his voice dripping with condescension. But it didn’t stop there. His reach extended beyond the classroom, following you into the hallways, his tall frame casting a shadow that would make your stomach turn. He would appear out of nowhere, as though drawn to you by some sick fixation, and make his presence known with a smirk or a taunt, forcing you to look up from your books, to meet those stormy eyes full of wickedness.

He would ‘accidentally’ bump into you, making your school supplies fall over. He licked his lower lip when you bent over to pick the mess up. His front would get dangerously close to your back in any queue, sometimes getting bold enough to grind slightly against you. He would move you around like a rag doll, always putting his huge palm on your ass to push you to the side. Still, there was nothing as uncomfortable as having his dirty eyes scanning you from head to toe at any given time - he licked his lower lip in amusement, making your cheeks grow hotter.

You’d always hoped, prayed, that once the class ended, he’d disappear—vanish into his own world and leave you to yours. But you were wrong. Every time the teacher dismissed you, and you gathered your things to leave, he’d be right there, waiting. It was like clockwork. His long, strong fingers would slide into the pockets of navy trousers, the scent of his manly cologne wafting over you in an intoxicating way. His gaze would follow you as you tried to make a clumsy exit, his footsteps closing the distance between you with every passing second. You hated that you could never outrun him. Hated how he always found a way to corner you.

And just as you thought you might make it out of the door, safe, free—he’d appear at the threshold, standing in your way with that damn smirk of his, a look that seemed to promise nothing but trouble.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice would slither through the air like poison.

Your heart would pound in your chest, but you’d force your eyes to look anywhere but at him, hoping and praying, that maybe, just maybe, today would be the day he’d leave you alone. But you knew better. You always knew better.

And now, you could feel it again; the familiar pressure of his presence, creeping closer, dark and inevitable.

“What’s that I’ve heard?” He scratched his head while pressing his brows together, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Oh, right” Now, enlightened; he stepped forward. Your almost wobbly legs did their best on distancing themselves -though, they weren’t allowed much movement after hitting a desk.

The back of your knees stung against the protruding piece of wood. “You tryna leave…study abroad, right?” Your eyes peeled in horror, and you hid in yourself as much as you could when his tall frame overpowered yours. “No, no. Look me right in the eye.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. Without any hesitation, his cold rings found their place under your chin, burying in your skin when lifting up your face. “How-how do you know?” Your stuttering made him smile -predatory grin adorning his harsh features. “Everyone thinks you’re smart…” The pain on your neck amplified at the uncomfortable position.

“…But I think you’re just a dumb bitch.” He spat at you. Tone as rough as the domineering grip on your jaw. “…Bragging left and right - you really thought I wouldn’t find out?” He shook you with erratic movement. The pain you felt under his digits distracted you from a perverted knee slowly opening its way between your legs.

His unruly eyes took a break from tormenting yours as he admired your skirt’s fabric draping over your thighs. The blond snob flashed you his hungry canines while biting into his lower lip.

The horror only amplified when a sharp thrust attacked your clothed sex. His impatient knee continued to roughly rub against the cotton underwear, cruelty reflected on the fast pace. “Ha. Would you look at that? The dirty slut is getting wet!” You whined in disgust when Rafe pressed harder on the soaked circle.

The scarce dignity you thought you held was harshly stripped from you. On his arms you were nothing but a squeaky toy he got to bite and squeeze whenever he desired, and little by little you felt victim to a raw resignation.

The next thing you sensed was his palm abandoning your neck and moving onto your meaty thighs. He gave the flesh a squeeze, followed by a lusty groan leaving his pinkish lips.

Your mind tried to wander away, but the situation was just too much; too much stimulation everywhere, too much heat coming from his larger body, too much degradation directed your way in mean words and touches, too much torturous pressure applied to your virgin cunt and too much pawing at your unexplored parts.

The next thing your brain registered was a rip. The sound of something being torn apart, and if you didn’t see the light fabric pooling around your feet, you could’ve almost swear it was the noise your spirit made when breaking in half. “And I was thinking about making it nice for you…fucking you on a bed of roses or some corny shit.” He talked with nothing but mockery, while leaning onto your chest. “But I guess you prefer it when I treat you like a cheap whore.” The Cameron boy finished it off with a chuckle, his muscles flexing hard under the rumbling laugh.

You wanted to contradict him, defend your honor and pull him off of you, but all protests got stuck in your throat when he took you by it and slammed your upper body against the desk. The rigid wood wasn’t welcoming. Your head spinned uncontrollably at the beast-like hit.

The lack of oxygen didn’t stop you from hearing him unbuckling his pants. Panic grew louder as you heard his clothes falling to the Classroom’s floor. Worries clouded you in a tumultuous storm, and you did your best to cover yourself up when the only layer covering your vulnerable hole was pushed to the side. “Open your fucking legs or I’ll break your useless skull!” He demanded in a crazied tone, ripping your limbs apart and throwing them over his shoulders.

“Please, don’t.” Your eyelids squeezed together, shielding your irises from looking at the violating scene. “That’s right, beg me” Warm breath imposed itself above your slit, followed by a warmer liquid dripping down your folds. “Gotta make it wetter…I don’t want you breaking at the first use.” Even though your sight was all black, you could imagine his satisfied grin decorating that diabolically handsome face.

You tried pulling away when a foreign limb rubbed against your sex, desperate to be let in. “Rafe, no-” You were cut short by your own screams, eyes peeled open at the feeling of his cock entering all at once.

“Fuck! Tight ass pussy.” He sounded in heaven, palms manhandling your knees to your chest while pounding ruthlessly into you.

The rest of your body went numb, being rocked up and down at the bestiality of the boy’s attack. His groans and moans overpowered your miserable sobs. Your withering form contrasted his blessed expressions, pure passion exuding from his now sweaty body.

“Your whorish cunt is squeezing the shit out of me…she doesn’t want me to leave!” He continued to talk while creating some deeply loud wet noises.

Your neck and waist’s skin burned under his cutting rings and the unsolicited friction of his grip that kept you still. Your ears got lost at the multiple pet names he called you, as well as the dirty sentences of encouragement he occasionally threw your way.

After almost an hour of feeling him impale you on his dick, you grew tired of screaming and crying, now reduced to quiet whimpers and even quieter pleas. “Stop-” He did the opposite to that, toned pelvis slapping hard against you as his tip bruised your cervix in persistent thrusts.

The cries that left your esophagus were now primal and raw, long nails holding onto his huge back. “That’s right, cry for me. You fucking deserve it!” That only made the tears fall faster down your cheeks, reaching your mouth on a salty taste.

And when his movements finally went sloppy and his member felt softer, your suffering only sharpened. “Tell me you love me” He barked at your face, drops of unintentional spit hitting your distressed face.

You thought you heard wrong, that between his chocking, and suffocating weight your brain had imagined the unimaginable. “Tell me you love me!” His features tensed, making a vein pop on his front.

Was Rafe Cameron asking for words of affirmation from you? Was the same guy who just butchered your purity asking you for your heart? Or was it just another inhumane prank? Another limit of yours he wanted to cross?

Clearly you took to much time thinking and not acting because the next thing you felt was the blond burying impossibly deeper into your core and making you know a new level of uncomfortability. “Tell me you fucking love or I’ll come inside you.” The light on the room was vast, you were sure of it. Such an elite university could only have the best illumination for its elitist students; still, his burly body completely covered yours.

His sharp jaw and eyes were enhanced by the darkness found in his stare. “I-” He trembled lightly in excitement at your shaky voice. “I love you.” You finally decreed, unknowingly sealing your fate.

His smile was like nothing you saw before, too devilish and twisted you actually doubted smiling was ever a nice gesture. And when you felt a dense liquid flooding your womb in overwhelming warmth, you swore you could see the devil in his eyes.

.

.

.

[floatyflowers]

Dark Platonic Father Front Man/001/Hwang In Ho x Reader

You escaped your father's clutches after so many years of being under his control.

And while undercover, you wanted to earn money quickly, so you put all the money you had with you that you saved the past years in a cryptocurrency with the advice of your friend, Thanos.

Both of you lost the money and found yourselves in the Squid game trying to earn back the lost money.

However, you never thought to see your wealthy father in the game.

No one knew that 001 is your father nor did you and the participants knew that he is the Front Man.

Yet, everything became clear to you, once you see everyone dying in front of your eyes.

Instead of putting your trust into your father, you put your trust in Seong Gi-hun.

Because he seems to be the only one telling the truth, and he acted like a father figure towards you.

Meanwhile through most of the game, you tried ignoring your actual father.

But, Hwang In Ho did his best to protect you, until you get betrayed by Thanos.

And find yourself getting shot, yet you survived and found yourself in a dark room, handcuffed to a bed.

And not before long, you see your father enter the room, holding a tray of food for you to eat.

But he wasn't dressed in the green tracksuit

"I don't understand." you stutter out, backing away from him in fear.

"If I wasn't your father, I would have had you killed and your organs sold for escaping."

Your breath hitches as you come to the realisation of your bitter situation.

Your voice trembled, “You’re the leader here… aren’t you?”

Hwang In-ho paused for a moment, his sharp eyes assessing you carefully.

Then, he placed the tray of food on the small table beside you, his movements deliberate, almost calculated.

"Yes," he finally admitted, his voice cold but carrying a hint of something softer underneath.

"I am the Front Man."

You felt your chest tighten, your breath hitching.

A few questions raced through your mind, but only one managed to escape your lips.

"Why?"

In-ho leaned forward, resting his hands on the edge of the bed.

"Why did you escape, (Y/N)? After all I did to protect you from this cruel world, why would you willingly walk into something so dangerous?"

His calmness unnerved you in many ways.

You pulled at the restraints on your wrists, glaring up at him.

"Protect me? You controlled me! Every decision I made, every step I took, you were always there, pulling the strings, I needed to escape you!"

His expression hardened, but his jaw clenched slightly, betraying his emotions.

“And look where your ‘escape’ brought you,” he asserts, his tone sharpening.

"Into the heart of death itself, do you think I would let you die like the others?"

His expression turns cold once again, standing up from the bed.

"Are you going to kill Seong Gi-hun?"

You almost scream out the question, fearing for the 456's life, despite knowing him for a short period of time.

"You only have one father, remember that."

With that, your father walks out the door, and leaving you in your misery.

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about)  A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves. 

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit. 

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events. 

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes. 

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry. 

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.” 

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table. 

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you. 

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus. 

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh. 

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back. 

You take the tiniest nibble. 

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory. 

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first. 

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?” 

A long pause. 

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness. 

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” 

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage. 

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this. 

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull of letting yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender. 

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is. 

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color. 

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic. 

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time. 

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!” 

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.” 

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well. 

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle. 

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

-

-

-

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…” 

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.  

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he? 

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast. 

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach. 

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are. 

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”  

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment. 

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak. 

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers in the air, amidst the silence.

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…” 

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring. 

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to. 

You love him. 

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest. 

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke. 

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud. 

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew. 

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time. 

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control. 

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same. 

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you? 

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that lead to nowhere? 

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid. 

-

-

-

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month. 

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence. 

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again. 

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive. 

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city. 

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people. 

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back. 

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again. 

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air. 

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest. 

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this? 

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills. 

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you. 

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

_

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops. 

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.” 

You know what’s coming. 

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).  

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course. 

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables. 

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly. 

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.” 

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

[rafecameronssl4t]

IM BEGGING FOR MORE FRATBOY!RAFE CAMERON PLEASEEEE💔

Trap Queen || Frat boy!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: hehehe missed writing frat boy!rafe also had no idea what to title this so I thought this song kinda matched idk

Warnings: mentions of sex, idk if there’s anything else

Word count: 2,042

MASTERLIST (frat boy!rafe x reader au masterlist)

“I have no idea what her problem is with me,” you mutter under your breath, your eyes flicking toward Jada, who’s glaring at you like she’d love nothing more than to see you vanish. Her gaze lingers, intense and filled with something close to hatred.

You turn back to Rafe, irritation bubbling up as you try to make sense of the tension hanging in the air. Rafe glances over lazily, his eyes briefly scanning Jada before he scoffs, almost amused by the situation. He leans back casually, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl between you and tossing it into his mouth without a second thought.

“Probably ‘cause she was trying to get into my pants before we started dating,” he mumbles through a mouthful, barely caring to mask the indifference in his voice. Your body stiffens, eyes widening as you process what he just said. “Are you serious?” you snap, crossing your arms and staring at him, bewildered.

“And you didn’t think I should know this?” Rafe slows his chewing, his brow arching slightly as he swallows. His reaction is calm, almost too calm.“Didn’t think it was worth mentioning. She’s irrelevant babe,” he shrugs, his voice annoyingly nonchalant. “I don’t give a fuck about her.”

You turn to look at Jada again, and this time she isn’t even pretending to hide the jealousy etched across her face. She’s whispering furiously to her best friend, the sorority president, her eyes flicking between you and Rafe with an almost desperate need for attention. The way her eyes follow Rafe, hungry and spiteful, makes the knot in your stomach tighten.

She’s clearly still bitter, and her gaze shifts between you and Rafe like she’s daring you to flaunt what she can’t have. It’s more than just resentment—it’s envy, glaringly obvious, and you can feel her simmering frustration from across the room. Frustration swells inside you, and without thinking, you reach for Rafe’s hand, gripping it firmly.

“Let’s get out of here,” you murmur, not wanting to feed into Jada’s petty game, but unable to shake the discomfort gnawing at you. Before Rafe can say anything, you grab his hand, pulling him up from the couch. His surprise shows for a second, but he follows your lead, letting you drag him away.

~

“Fuck off,” Rafe growls at the sound of a knock on his door, still half-asleep and annoyed as he shifts under the blankets. His arm gently moves you off him, and you let out a soft whine, instantly missing the warmth and security of his body pressed against yours. He sighs as the knocking persists, louder this time, more insistent.

“I’m coming!” he yells, frustration evident in his tone as he clumsily pulls his boxers up his legs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He’s barely awake, his movements sluggish, but the incessant knocking has him on edge. Just as Rafe reaches for the door, he pauses, his hand hovering over the knob.

A frown crosses his face. It wouldn’t be any of his frat brothers—they’d all gone home for the long weekend. Suspicion sharpens his senses, and he leans toward the peephole, squinting as he peers through it. His gut twists the moment he sees who’s on the other side, Alice, your sorority president, and Jada.

“Shit,” he mutters, backing away from the door. He hurries back to the bed, his hand reaching for your shoulder as he shakes you gently. “Babe, hey. Wake up,” he whispers urgently, trying to keep calm as you groan, still half-lost in sleep. “Jada and Alice are outside,” he says, his voice low but urgent.

The words barely sink in before you’re wide awake, panic flooding your system. “What?” you whisper, your voice strained with disbelief as you sit up, your heart racing. In an instant, you’re scrambling to grab your clothes, your mind spinning. “What are they doing here?” you hiss, pulling your jeans up your legs in a rush.

Your fingers fumble as you try to fasten them, your breath quickening with every second. Rafe’s hands are already on your back, tying up the straps of your top with quick, precise movements. “Fucked if I know,” he mutters, glancing toward the door. The knocking continues, sharper and more demanding this time, as Jada’s voice echoes through the room.“Rafe, open up! We know you’re in there!”

Jada calls out, her tone laced with impatience, as if she’s holding some kind of authority over him.“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, cursing the situation. The last thing you need is Jada and Alice catching you here—especially like this. Your mind races with the possibilities of why they’ve shown up now, of all times. Rafe turns to you, his hands resting on your arms as he tries to steady you.

His eyes are calm but serious. “Just hide in the bathroom. I’ll deal with them,” he says firmly, his voice low and reassuring despite the situation. You nod, heart pounding in your chest, and quickly dart toward the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind you. Locking it, you press your ear to the wood, your breath held as you strain to hear what’s happening.

You hear Rafe sigh heavily before he opens the door, his voice low and tense as he greets Jada and Alice. The muffled sound of their conversation seeps through the door, but it’s hard to make out the words clearly. Your stomach twists as you wait, hoping that whatever they want, Rafe can get rid of them without making things worse.

Rafe opens the door just enough to stand in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a bored, unimpressed look on his face. He eyes Jada and Alice, his expression indifferent as he sizes them up. “Can I help you?” he asks dryly, making it clear from the start that he has no interest in whatever they’re about to say.

Jada and Alice exchange a quick glance, their irritation barely hidden beneath thin smiles. Alice, with her usual fake sweetness, steps forward, her voice dripping with insincerity. “Is Y/n here by any chance?” she asks, flashing Rafe the overly saccharine smile she gives to everyone. He sees right through it—he knows exactly how two-faced she really is.

Rafe lets out a short, amused snort, crossing his arms. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he replies with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself. Jada opens her mouth to say something, but he cuts her off before she can get a word in. “No, she’s not here. Why do you even care?” He raises an eyebrow, his voice sharp with challenge.

Alice, not backing down, continues with the same fake concern. “She wasn’t in her room while we were doing our rounds last night, and her roommate said she never came back,” she explains, though her tone lacks genuine worry. Rafe can barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. It’s clear they’re just fishing for information, and their excuse is weak at best.

“What, you have curfews on a Friday night?” Rafe deadpans, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He watches as the annoyance flickers across their faces, and he takes pleasure in knowing he’s getting under their skin. Alice forces a tight-lipped smile, her patience clearly wearing thin.

“Yeah, to make sure everyone is home safe and sound,” she says, her voice still maintaining that fake sweetness, though Rafe can hear the underlying frustration. “Right, sure,” Rafe mutters, clearly not buying it. He shifts his weight and straightens up, his disinterest obvious. “Well, like I said, she’s not here,” he says flatly.

The two girls stand in tense silence for a moment. Rafe can see a flicker of something—perhaps jealousy or frustration—behind Jada’s eyes, and it intrigues him. He watches as Alice turns, clearly ready to leave this awkward encounter behind, but Jada’s sudden outburst catches her off guard.

“What do you even see in her, anyway?” Her sudden outburst catches Alice by surprise, and she glances back at Jada with wide eyes. Rafe raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by her boldness. “Jada, let’s just go. She’s not here,” Alice mutters, her hand gently squeezing Jada’s arm, as if trying to ground her. Rafe can’t resist interjecting. “Yeah, Jada. She’s not here,” he mocks, a smirk playing on his lips as he leans casually against the doorframe.

Rafe’s disdain for Jada is palpable, and he relishes the chance to get under her skin. The flush of anger spreads quickly across her cheeks, her fists clenching at her sides as if holding back an explosion of frustration. The heat radiates off her in waves, her glare sharp and unyielding, her eyes narrowing with contempt.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she snaps, her voice bitter, teetering on the edge of desperation. Her gaze burns into him, full of resentment. “You think you can just parade around with her like she’s some prize to be won. What makes her so special?”

Rafe meets her gaze head-on, completely unfazed. He tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk. “Why are you so obsessed with my fucking girlfriend, Jada?” His voice cuts through the tension like a blade, catching her off guard for just a second. She falters, her posture stiffening at the unexpected challenge.

“This is clearly between you and me, so leave Y/n out of it,” Rafe continues, his tone sharp and unwavering. He steps closer, his expression darkening with warning. “You got a problem with me? Fine. But don’t drag her into whatever this is.”Jada’s eyes flash with frustration, her lips tightening as she struggles to maintain her composure.

She clearly wasn’t expecting Rafe to call her out so directly, and the protectiveness in his voice stings more than she wants to admit. “You think you can just blow me off like I’m nothing?” she hisses, her voice trembling slightly. “I see how you look at her, how you act like she’s so perfect, like she’s better than everyone else.” There’s a bitterness in her words, a jealousy she’s no longer able to hide.

Rafe raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “If you think this is about anything more than your own jealousy, you’re delusional,” he says bluntly. His tone is calm, almost amused, as if he’s thoroughly enjoying watching her squirm. “If you’ve got some fantasy that I ever wanted anything to do with you, that’s on you, not me.”

“Get over yourself. I don’t want you, and I never fucking did,” Jada opens her mouth, clearly intending to argue, but no words come out. For a moment, she’s frozen, her face a mixture of shock and hurt, as if she never expected him to be so blunt. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. Rafe leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms with a lazy air of indifference. He knows he’s won.

“Why don’t you take your little jealousy trip somewhere else?” he says with a bored tone, as if she were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. His words only fuel her fury, but he doesn’t care—he’s already dismissed her in his mind. Jada’s fists tremble at her sides, her frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

She glares at him one last time before spinning on her heel and storming off, her heels clicking angrily against the floor. Alice glances at Rafe for a moment, but she’s smart enough not to say anything. She shoots Rafe a scowl that could cut through steel, her frustration evident. “Leave Y/n alone. Don’t test me,” Rafe warns, his tone lowering to a menacing growl.

There’s no way he’ll allow them to interfere in your life, not when they’re so clearly motivated by envy. Alice opens her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitates, measuring the threat in his eyes. After a moment, she seems to reconsider, her expression darkening with resignation. With a heavy sigh, she shakes her head and turns on her heel, hastily following Jada down the hallway. Rafe watches them go, a sense of satisfaction washing over him.

[rindreamery]

like a fever, i ache for you.

how intensely the blue lock men yearn for you. featuring: itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, michael kaiser ─ content: suggestive

note. drove myself insane while writing this actually 🧍🏻‍♀️WHEN WILL IT BE MY TURN

itoshi rin sees you in every daydream.

every time rin closes his eyes, you’re there— it’s as if the image of you is permanently burned into the space behind his eyelids, like a never ending dream. (yet, he never wants to wake up from it.) the mere sight of you makes his heart burn and his head spin, and that desperate feeling of wanting you bleeds into his fingertips that makes him reach for you in his sleep. you trap him in his own mind. it feels as if you consume his every thought and occupy the space of every moment he’s awake. you’re a distraction, but one he can’t seem to get enough of.

when he blinks, you’re there, and everything blurs together. he starts to lose sense of where you end and he begins— you’ve become a part of him.

the concept of you even begins to seep into his passions, into his goals. rin thinks of you when he’s on the field, and he can’t deny the rush of adrenaline that shoots through his body at the thought of you cheering for him. he’s hooked to the feeling, he needs more. the thought that you’re only thinking of him too at that exact moment— watching him, holding his dreams close to your heart— that you’re both thinking of each other. connected. it’s a dream that drives him to try even harder.

because you’re not just a distraction anymore; you’ve become his sole focus.

during his next game, he plays with the image of you patiently waiting for him at the entrance of the tunnel. so when he catches his breath after a hard match, his body on the brink of collapsing and covered in sweat, it’s not the sweet taste of victory that revives him. it’s not the cheers of the crowd, praises of his name falling from their lips, that brings him back to life. no— it’s the thought of you. close and real, hand pressed against his chest as you lean in, with your warm skin pressing against his own as you whisper into his ear, “i knew you could do it.”

he knows he'll dream of that feeling from now on too, of your breath against his ear. he can’t escape you— but he doesn’t think he’ll ever want to.

itoshi sae searches for you in the crowd.

without fail, sae’s eyes will always gravitate towards you— even in the chaos of the stadium, even when you think you’re lost in the blur of the people surrounding you. his eyes always seem to find yours. when he finally catches sight of you in his jersey, it’s hard to miss the way his gaze sharpens with intensity, his eyes darkening in a way you’ve never seen before. it’s electric; the only word that could describe the feeling he gets when he sees that you’re staring back at him with the same intensity.

something about you— the way you proudly wear his jersey, and the look of pride that swims in your eyes as you look at him— awakens something deep in him.

sae feels a satisfaction he's never quite felt before you. it’s a possessive and all-consuming feeling. like his ego is inflated to its limits and makes him uncharacteristically greedy for you. his thoughts become filled with the need to become the center of your world, to stake some sort of claim on you so no one else can. (he wants his teammates to see what he comes home to every night.) this feeling that makes him want to throw away all rationale, and before he realizes it, it's this feeling that has him walking over to you before the match even begins.

he doesn't care for the alarmed look on your face as he rips your (his) ring off your finger. around the two of you, shocked gasps fill the stadium, as he loops your ring into his necklace. but they become lost in the background, and his focus is on you. "look at me," and when he brings his necklace up to his lips, your ring now dangling by the string, his eyes never leave yours. there’s an almost dangerous edge to it now— his eyes gleaming possessively at you.

he wants you to think of this moment, to embed it in your thoughts, and crave for him the same way he craves for you.

nagi seishiro can't stop staring at your lips.

light pink lip gloss looks the best on you. it’s a thought that clouds nagi’s mind every time he sees them. the way its glossiness catches the light, making the soft pink of your lips stand out and give it a subtle, irresistible fullness. they’re so plump, inviting, that it becomes dangerously intoxicating. (it must be on purpose, he often thinks, because you smile every time you're applying it on.) he doesn’t care if you notice the fact that he’s unable to fight the urge when his eyes flicker towards them— like it’s impossible to tear his eyes away from them— he wants you to notice.

they’re just so alluring, yet troubling, the way it gets his heart pumping in excitement.

the jealous part of him wants to be the only one to see you like this. because there’s just something about the way you react to him, something about the look in your eyes when you catch on to his wandering gaze. he’s entirely drawn to the way your breath hitches just a little when his eyes flick down to your lips, and then back to your eyes. and the way the corner of your lips pulls into a little smirk at this, eyes focused on his, as your tongue teasingly drags across the gloss to get a taste. his mind becomes overcome with thoughts of you— what would they taste like? would it be something fruity, like strawberry? or maybe something even sweeter, like birthday cake?

but you never give him the satisfaction of knowing, and it pulls him in even deeper. you push away from him, every time, and it’s maddening. it’s always with the same sweet smile and playful glint in your eyes, that you tell him, “it was nice talking to you.” then you’re turning around, leaving him behind.

nagi’s left wondering what it would be like, to see if that sweetness on your lips tastes as inviting as it looks.

mikage reo thinks of you in every song.

with every beat, every lyric, with every tune that floods reo’s ears— there you are, vivid in his mind, as if you were woven deep into the addicting melody. it’s as if the lyrics were written with you in mind, and he’s forever stuck thinking of you. his heart burns for you in the songs that you send, and he clings to every playlist you share. he imagines you in these lovesick songs— having you in his arms, intertwining his fingers with yours as you dance slowly to the tune— like his mind is desperately trying to tell him something he’s still too afraid to say out loud. it’s a silent confession, words he can never bring himself to say out loud, spilling from the speakers instead.

he plays the same song on repeat; he wants to keep hearing your name in the lyrics, and to feel the ghost of your presence as if you’re right there with him.

but as silent as his affections are, reo doesn’t want his desperate longing to be one-sided. he wants to worm his way into your every thought, invade your mind, the same exact way you had done with his. he wants you to see flashes of him when you hear a familiar tune, to smile to yourself whenever you realize it’s his favorite song playing in the background of a random store.

so reo pours his heart into a playlist for you. "these songs remind me of you," and to him, it’s enough. he hopes you can hear everything he feels in the space between the lyrics, to read between the lines of the words as they dance across your screen. every song is a dedication to his love for you. to him, it’s a love letter he can never bring himself to write but can’t help and send. he doesn’t want to speak it out loud— this playlist, with a strange mix of soft longing and quiet desire, does the work for him.

it’s a playlist of his soul’s quietest confessions, and he hopes you can hear how much his heart longs for you.

michael kaiser is haunted by thoughts of your touch.

kaiser doesn’t know when it started— the obsession, the craving for you, the fervent need to feel your skin on his. maybe it was when your fingertips grazed his hand as you passed him a water bottle, lasting for a second at most, but sending sparks flying across his skin where you touched. or maybe it was when you put your hand against his back, palms pressed firmly into the planes of his muscles, as you guided him out of the way (because he was blocking you, but he chooses to ignore that detail.) you’re his manager; you’re simply doing your job.

but he’s started to find himself stuck in the fantasy of your touch— imagining the way your fingers would trace over his tattoos, or having them run through his hair as you brush it out of his face.

and his breath always catches in his throat as he imagines the sensation, having to swallow at how dry and constricted his throat becomes. he thinks of the warmth of your hands, the way your fingers would subtly dance on his skin, and he shivers. he imagines that you wouldn’t rush—no, you’d take it slow. you would let it linger, and maybe he would press his hands over yours to trap it there. just to savor the feeling.

his fantasies of you could never compare to the real thing, though, he realizes one day.

he’s sat on the bench in front of you, tense with heightened sensitivity. the surface of his skin feels like it's on flames from your words, “your tattoos are so pretty,” and from the way your index finger trace over the inked vines that wrap around his arms. his stomach starts to form tight coils as your fingers travel up and up— at the feeling of your thumbs grazing his jaw as you brush his hair out of the way to look at the blue rose — and he’s sucking in a harsh breath as he tries to keep himself grounded. to keep himself from losing his mind. and when you pull away, he can't ignore the emptiness the washes over him.

his heart is greedy and insatiable; he's never satisfied. now that he’s gotten a taste of what it feels like, he finds himself wanting even more of you.

© rindreamery, 2024

[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.”