#(( ✧ — Look Mummy No Hands :: Family ))

[athenalvss]

LEAVE US ALONE ( Wally west! )

summary: three moments when your family ruined your time with your boyfriend.

pairing: Wally west x batsis! reader

part one - part two

open request - wally west masterlist

The rain tapped softly against the bedroom windows. The storm was wreaking havoc in Gotham, leaving the weather windy and cold, but inside, everything was warm.

The dim lamplight cast soft shadows on the walls, while Wally was halfway on top of yours. His hand brushed against your waist beneath the fabric of the old tshirt he'd stolen that afternoon, while his lips descended down your neck in a slow, almost devotional sequence.

"Mmm… come on Wally"

The kisses became more demanding. The caresses, more daring. Your legs tangled with his under the sheets, seeking closer contact if possible, while the storm outside seemed to give rhythm to both of your accelerated pulses. Wally slid his fingers under the elastic of his shorts, just as

CLANK

The sound of something metallic hitting the balcony frame brought them out of their trance. Wally froze, his body still on top of yours, both of them gasping and paralyzed.

"It can't be..." you muttered, turning your head just in time to see a wet figure forcing the window.

"What the fuck—!" Wally began, pulling the sheet up to cover your both.

Jason Todd, soaked by the rain, casually slipped onto the balcony as if he weren't intruding on a moment that clearly wasn't meant for visitors. "Why is the door locked?" he said casually, shaking the water off his shoulders. "I told you he could stay here only if you left the door open."

"Jason, are you completely crazy?" you complained, covering yourself with the sheet. "Knock on the door like a normal person!"

"I knocked on the door, you know?" he replied, raising an eyebrow with a mocking smile. "But you were too busy with your soft porn session to listen."

Wally let out a strangled sound, burying his head under his pillow as if that would reverse the trauma.

—Jason. Out. Now. —you growled, gritting your teeth. —I'm not going to repeat this.

Jason ignored you completely and jerked his chin. "Is that your sleepwear? Because if that's sleepwear, I need to talk to Bruce about the new dress code in this house."

"Get out!" you shouted, red with embarrassment.

"Not until you swear to me that the idiot with super speed isn't going to try to get his hands on you" he paused for a second to think before continuing. " Nah, you know what? I'm staying until you both calm down." Jason slumped into the chair next to the desk as if it were his room.

"Are you kidding?" you muttered, your eyes narrowed.

"You're in bed with your boyfriend half naked and you're asking me if I'm joking? "

Wally sat up slowly, still wrapped in the sheet like a traumatized mummy. "Jason, brother, please don't make this any more awkward than it already is."

—Brother he calls me... Look how quickly he tries to gain approval, —Jason replied, giving him a sharp look.

Silence .

Wally took a deep breath. A very deep breath. "Do you think it's weird if I go live in another dimension for a couple of weeks?"

"No, take me with you please"

── .✦

The living room was silent, lit only by the blue glow of the television screen. The blankets wrapped around them, blanket-like warmth, and a tub of ice cream sat between them.

Wally had one arm around your shoulders, his other hand gently playing with your fingers. You were leaning against his chest, feeling the steady, steady beat of his heart as the movie slowed to a crawl.

"Did you know this scene was improvised?" Wally murmured, smiling mischievously, turning slightly to get a better look at you.

"Did you know I couldn't care less about the movie and I want you to kiss me?" you replied, raising an eyebrow with an equally daring smile.

He leaned toward you, his lips brushing yours with that slowness that makes the world disappear. The ignored movie. His fingers slipped under the blanket and caressed your waist gently, letting you feel the rough pads of his fingers, and just as his lips finally rested on yours

¡PLOP!

The sound of someone throwing themselves onto the couch with the entire weight of the universe suddenly separated them. The blanket shifted and the tub of ice cream almost fell to the floor. .

"Family movie night!" Dick announced with fake cheerfulness, a giant bucket of popcorn in his lap. "What are we watching?"

you both looked at him with a mixture of terror, shame and pure hatred.

"Dick... you're fucking kidding me, aren't you?" Wally muttered, his voice deep, visibly frustrated. "You're in my top three people I want to throw out a window right now!"

"How sensitive! Is this how you treat your best friend?" Dick replied, as if he didn't notice the mess he had just made.

"Clearly!" Wally sat up in the chair, still covered up to his waist by the blanket that now hung disastrously. "Do you know how hard it was to convince her to watch this movie with me?"

"A cheesy romantic comedy?" Dick said, looking at the screen with feigned interest. "Hmm, yeah, not your style. Weird. Almost... desperate i can tell."

"Because I am!" Wally exploded, pointing at you. "I want to spend time alone with my girlfriend!"

"Oh, how romantic," you said, rolling your eyes.

"I was trying!" Wally told you, pointing to the sky as if summoning the gods. "Until Dick the cock blocker came along."

Dick stood up from the chair with a firm slap on his thighs. "All right, I'll leave you two alone. But don't say I didn't warn you when Bruce checks the hallway cameras and sees Wally doing God knows what to his daughter."

"Don't come back," you growled, pointing the remote at him.

He walked away as if he hadn't caused a catastrophe.

Silence.

The glare from the screen was still there, the ice cream half-melted, the blanket badly placed, the atmosphere ruined.

Wally let out a long, defeated sigh and slumped back against the chair, his eyes closed and his heart split in two. "I can't take it anymore."

You turned to him, watched him for a second—his head thrown back, his arms crossed behind his neck, his legs spread—and in the calmest voice you could muster, you whispered, “That was so hot, Wallace.”

Wally opened one eye slowly, confused.

"what?"

── .✦

The Batcave hummed with life: console lights flickered, screens flashed with maps and data, and the distant echo of the elevator announced the imminent start of another night's patrol.

You had stayed in your usual spot, in front of the central monitor, adjusting the last lines of communication for the departure. You needed to have everyone's lines perfectly connected in case something happened.

Wally, on the other hand, already in his bright red suit, approached you in complete silence. As soon as he made sure you were out of sight, he leaned down to rest his chin on your shoulder.

"You're not going to miss me that much, are you?" he whispered, brushing his lips against your neck.

"Maybe," you replied, still staring at the screen, but still smiling. Wally was like a magnet. He always was.

"A goodbye kiss for your favorite hero?" he asked, pouting, trying to sound pitiful, as if you'd ever denied him a kiss.

You turned slightly in your chair to face him and, without thinking twice, gently took his face in your hands, letting your faces almost touch. What a beautiful man. "Only one."

It was a quick kiss at first, but as always with him, neither of you knew how to stop in time. Your fingers tangled in his red hair, his hands rested on the console behind you, and the hum of the device became a distant murmur. It wasn't anything too explicit, but it wasn't a chaste kiss either.

And right in the middle of that scene, something a bit more “affectionate” than recommended for a secret base of operations

"This is a workspace, not a motel.

you both suddenly separated as if someone had thrown a grenade.

Damian Wayne emerged from behind one of the side consoles, like a vengeful shadow, his arms crossed and the impassive expression of someone who had clearly been there for a while.

"How long have you been there?" you asked, putting a hand to your chest to keep your heart from leaping out of your mouth.

"Long enough to witness him try to merge with you, sister" she replied without flinching. "Frankly, I expected a little more discretion from you"

Wally protested, throwing up his hands, offended. “It was a kiss. A perfectly consensual and controlled one between two adults.”

"Aren't you a little old to have such raging hormones?" he said with a crooked smile. "I thought you were supposed to have control over those things by this age."

Wally looked at him, taking a deep breath as if mentally counting his patience. "Forgive me for having a functional love life."

"It's not functional if it interferes with work," Damian replied simply. "Even less so if you do it in the middle of the Batcave."

You settled into the chair, crossing your arms.

"And what were you doing back there, exactly?" you asked, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

Damian didn't hesitate. "A private investigation for our father, he wants to be aware of everything that happens here" he murmured in the same tone before turning around and going to sit in the Batmobile.

[evilgwrl]

ExHusband!Simon x Reader

You Want a Divorce? (Two)

Note: I feel like this is so bad im sorry!!!!

CW: Angst, titty sucking, passionate asf sex, simon missed ur pussy and you very much and vise versa, breeding kink, PIV (no protection, pls use it irl), squirting, simon eats the FUCK out of ur pussy, multiple orgasms, praise, hint of degradation, possessive!simon, OVERSTIMULATION, slight daddy kink… sorry

Part One

It was a quiet ride, the subtle sweeps of cars fleeting by as Simon gripped the wheel, eyes trailing off to the side to look at you briefly. Your head was leaned against the window, your knees knocking together anxiously as your daughter babbled in the back, cooing about how Mummy and Daddy were now back together.

You tried to hide the shed of tears that filtered across your iris, every small childish mumble like a stab to the gut as you listened to the genuine happiness in her tone. You would turn around occasionally with a small smile as you reached out to tickle her foot, giggles filling the car.

Simon pulled in, the car bouncing slightly as it hit the gravel carpark, his hand swerving into a spot before he turned to the back. “You excited, baby?”

Ella’s face lit up as she fumbled to take off her seatbelt, “Get me, Daddy! Get me! I wanna see the lions!” It was refreshing knowing she still viewed Simon as her hero, no matter how distant he was in their lives. You knew that even though your ex-husband was rarely around, his time with them did everything it could to mend the time apart. Toby woke up at the commotion, the toddler having slept the whole way there despite his older sister’s constant bickering about what animals she had to see first.

Everything seemed to flash past you as you walked inside, the whir of kids and noise sending your brain into overdrive as your eyes flickered to Simon with Ella swinging around on his shoulders and Toby kicking his legs in the stroller. You looked away; breath shaky as you attempted to compose yourself. This was supposed to be a happy day, for all of you, yet seeing him with your children, something that was supposed to be normal, felt so distant and unknown. Gathering yourself, you plastered a fake smile, hands reaching out to pinch your son’s cheeks as you grabbed the stroller.

Your heart hammered in your chest for the remainder of the day, fingers tingling with anxiety that bled into your veins, consuming your lungs with what seemed like everything but oxygen. It was a series of squeals and commotions from your young ones, their elation evident through the bright glow of their face, soft red resting on the apples of their cheeks. As the day quieted down, Toby slumped in the stroller as you tucked him into the car seat, his new plush crocodile cradled into his arms, mouth wide open as subtle breaths snored out.

Ella was cradled into Simon’s shoulder, her shoes half hanging off as she clutched onto him, dead asleep. You settled into the ride home yet your anxiety only seemed to heighten. You were alone with Simon, with no kiddish voices to break the tension, brown orbs glaring into the side of your face.

“Should we talk about this morning?”

You scoffed. “You have some nerve asking to talk about this morning,” you screamed into a hush, “What you did was completely disrespectful. Not only did you break into my house and kick my date out, but you left our kids in the car! What the fuck were you thinking?”

He cleared his throat, almost like he wanted to hold back how he felt. You noticed the white in his knuckles as he gripped the wheel, right eye twitching as he stared at the squiggles of tar ahead. “I don’t want our kids growing up thinking it’s normal for parents to separate. They need their mum and dad together, y/n.”

The world silenced for a second, the screams of the wind rushing past you seemed to slow as your voice cracked, seeps of emotion pouring out as you choked on your breath, “Then you should have fought for your family, Simon. There is no us anymore, it’s just them. They’re all that connects us now.”

You felt like all the ivory had been sucked out of your eyes, endless pits of your pupil consuming you whole, blurring your vision with fog as you blinked, hot streams of liquid salt spilling onto your cheeks, brimming at the cracks of your lips as you sniffled. You could feel his hesitation as he looked at you.

His words regurgitated in his throat as he stammered, tangled limbs reaching out to grip yours as you pulled away.

“Just drop us home.”

Your eyes had dried now, soft stains of bare skin caving through your foundation as you smudged your fingers against it. Simon stuttered as he pulled up to the driveway, tyres screeching to a halt as you sat in silence.

The soft strum of fingers caught your attention as you turned around, the innocent face of Toby looking back at his parents, tongue blabbing out of his mouth. “Dadda! You have dinner?”

“No, sport. Daddy’s gotta go-“

“Yeah, baby. Daddy will have dinner with us.”

You blinked at your own words, Simon’s surprised expression meeting yours. The wrench in your heart would never subside, the entirety of the beating organ still belonging to your ex-husband, but being a mother was a sacrifice. And you would sacrifice yourself in every existence you become one if it meant your children didn’t have to battle the same internal wounds.

“They’re tucked in,” Simon said, voice soft as he noticed your withered body in the couch. Your hair was messy now, strands spitting out as you anxiously tucked them back in, smoothing them down with the dampness of your palms as you ran around all night, ushering to the demands of your children.

“Thank you.”

You felt ill, your tongue cascading down your throat as you palmed at your knees, desperate for him to leave yet desperate for him to stay. Simon stilled, keys jangling in his hand before he sat down next to you, his weight disrupting the couch as he shuffled around.

“I need you to know that I did want to fight for you, y/n. I have counted every single day since you handed me those papers, waiting by my phone every single night on deployment hoping for you to text me, call me, fuck - blow my phone up. I never wanted the temporary absence that we had apart become permanent. Everything I said,” he breathed, voice cracking slightly as he looked away, “Everything I said on October 6th, 7 years ago, I meant. You weren’t supposed to get away from me - I shouldn’t have - I shouldn’t have let you get away from me.”

It was strange. Simon was never one for feelings, the brutality of his job allowed for any harsh emotions to crack through his fingers as he pulled a trigger, any dampness of tears would sweat through his skin as he pummelled a blade into an enemies head.

But it was you. And you weren’t violent, or any enemy, you were his wife, the person he vowed his entirety too.

Your anxious cascade cracked as you whimpered out a sob, chest heaving as you buried your face, tight with tears, into the pillows of your hands. You felt warmth spread through you, the texture of Simon’s fingers burning through you like wildfire, every ember he felt scorching through your flesh as he pulled you in.

Arms tangled together, intwining like wool as he wrapped you into his chest nimbly. A zephyr ran through you, your wrists clutched in his hands as you straddled him, the weight of you feeling like the grandest treasure upon him.

It was nothing strange, nor sexual but Simon recognised that cry, the differing pitch as you shuffled your frame into his. Simon knew you like the back of his hand, every crevice, every crease, every scar. He knew your backstory, and the one you made up to impress people. He knew the hex of the colour of your eyes and the print of your thumb. No papers would take that away from him.

Soaked eyelashes clumped into one as you looked up at him, orbs resembling once of a doe, innocence seeping through every inch of a salt-stained tear. His eyes met yours, apertures of cocoa reflecting your weary frame as you gripped onto him.

“Let me come home, please.”

Simon’s voice was desperate, it was raw, any shed of arrogance erased through the lines, eyebrows knotted together as he rubbed at the small of your back.

Your nod was subtle, but he could practically hear it, calloused hands gripping at the plush of your cheek and seeping through the tip of your spine, thumb rubbing at your earlobe as he clutched onto you.

Hot, seething pricks ran through your limbs as your lips connected, saline lining your mouth as he lapped at the heat of your tongue, rough groans leaving his lips as he savoured the taste.

Any diffidence left your body as familiarity sunk back into you. Hands pawed at the globe of your ass, gripping the flesh as anguished limbs wrapped around Simon’s waist.

With an easy tug, he lifted you, your hands wrapping around his neck as he pulled you in closer, teeth kissing. You never questioned Simon’s strength, and you wouldn’t start now as you felt your back hit your mattress.

He tugged at his shirt, the black fabric pooling on the floor as you sucked in a breath. Your eyes traced every scar, lighter flesh engraved into the skin of his torso, a short trail of hair disappearing into his pants as you stared at his burly physique.

Simon gripped at your shirt, the material practically ripping before his hands were at your chest, grabbing at your flesh desperately as you tangled your fingers into your bra, sliding it off. His mouth was hot on your chest, the sound of moans and pants filling the air as he positioned himself between your legs, teeth grazing the hard nubs, sucking with fervour as you whined, your hand at the base of his head, cradling it.

“Missed these so fucking much,” he practically whined, groping your tits as he pinched your nipples, lips sucking deep marks of possession into the soft skin. Your pants were desperate, begging him for more as you pulled his hair, fingernails clawing at his scalp.

Your hands fumbled with your pants, hips raising as he slid them off, clumsy fingers chucking them across the room as you laughed, lips connecting once more in a giggly state as his thumb pushed against the wetness of your panties.

“Missed how fucking wet you got for me. Such a good fucking girl,” he groaned, fingers rubbing at your heat through the thin cloth eliciting a pained moan from you.

“Simon - I need more, been so long.”

He choked out a laugh as his fingers hooked into the fabric, lace dribbling down your leg before he mewled at the sight of you. His hands held your thighs apart, your soaking cunt on display as it throbbed, slick folds glistening in the poor lighting.

“Prettiest fucking pussy,” he choked out to himself, placing your legs over his shoulder as he knelt down. Your back arched as you felt his tongue lick a long stripe of your pussy, his body seething for a taste of you as his lips found your neglected clit.

He lapped at you mercilessly, your cries and moans moulding into one with the filthy squelches of his mouth against your heat. Long digits circled your entrance, teasing you, before they curled in.

Your eyes rolled, pools of ivory exposed as you let out a guttural moan, your thighs tightening around his ears as he smirked against your pussy. Cocky fingers rubbed at the right spot, favouring the clench of your tight hole as he pulled every noise he could get from you.

You were barely cohesive as he lapped at your slick, the throbbing of your clit edging him on as he soothed your g-spot with the pad of his fingers. The coil you had only ever felt with Simon began to build, the familiar sensation pooling in your stomach as you stuttered out a whimper.

“Si- too much - I’m gonna-“

“That’s it baby,” he cooed, pulling away from your pussy for a second to take in your expression as you came, your face contorted with pleasure as your legs jerked, pussy wrapping tighter around his abusing digits as he fucked you through it with them. You looked down at him, saliva and your slick coating his mouth and chin as he grinned.

You stammered out a groan as his mouth attached back on your pussy, slurping up your liquid gold as you attempted to push his head away in overstimulation.

“Oh my- fuck - Simon - too much,” you whimpered your words commanding him to continue as he guzzled around your clit, teeth grazing the sensitive bud as your legs shook uncontrollably.

It wasn’t long before the continuation from your previous orgasm rose again, heat swarming your lower belly as you screamed out, your hand slapping over your mouth as you felt Simon’s spare hand wrap around your thigh, squeezing tightly.

You pulled at his hair, tugging at the ashy roots before you were gushing around his fingers and tongue again, sloshing liquids soaking your sheets as he groaned at the taste, mouth lapping it up with vigour. You whined in humiliation, the overwhelming pleasure becoming too much as you heaved.

“Si - no more -“

“I’m sorry baby, too fucking good. Will never get enough of your pussy.”

His words were filthy yet only held the truth, his continuous slurps against your heat causing your body to jerk as you relentlessly bucked your hips. Simon’s abuse continued on your pussy, your pussy gushing and coming another 6 times before he was satisfied, the sheet under you drenched in both your slick and squirt as Simon milked your overwhelmed cunt, claiming he was “making up for the months lost”.

You were dry heaving, throat dry as he captured your lips in a kiss, the taste of you infiltrating into your glands as you groaned, his hands reaching to tug at your breasts as he took in your fucked out state, legs jiggling and twitching as your pussy convulsed at the number of orgasms he dragged out of you.

You felt like you had been lying here for hours, yet you weren’t satisfied. You would only be content when he was inside you, stretching you to the brim as he pumped a load inside your worn-out hole.

“Simon - please - I can’t… I need you now,” you were practically crying, tears shedding at the brim of your eyes, bottom lip jutting out as he tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, slicking back the sweat on your forehead.

“I know baby, done so well for Daddy, hm? Even after all that you still need to be plugged full of me don’t you?”

You nodded as a harsh slap landed against your clit, your body jolting as you squeaked. “Yes, please,” you cried, “Please Daddy.”

His hands were like clockwork, tearing at his jeans as they released his cock, a satisfied groan leaving his body as he gripped at the tent in his pants, a sticky wet patch soaking the material before his length throbbed out, angry tip slapping his stomach as a trail of precum glistened against the base of his cock.

His dick was flushed red, begging for release as he ran it through the squelch of your sopping folds, rubbing against your manipulated clit as you moaned.

Your hands gripped his head as he leant down to kiss you, his arm holding him up while the other positioned himself at your entrance. He stilled for a moment, cock almost pressing in before he whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

The words were soft yet meaningful, your eyes interlocked as he began to push inside, your mouth gasping open as you clutched onto his shoulders. It was hard when you were together all those years to get accustomed to his frightening length, and now it had been a year and the stretch was searing through you.

“I know, sweet girl, you can take it. Such a tight cunt for me, so fucking good.”

Fingernails clawed at his back as he pushed in, your whines muffled by the palm of his hand as he held himself up his elbows. “Holy fuck,” he spluttered as he bottomed out, his lips connecting to your neck as he sucked, resting inside you for a second as you whimpered.

The burn slowly faded as you rutted against him impatiently, the tip of his cock resting against your sweet spot as you gasped.

“So fucking impatient, always been such a slut for me. Haven’t you?”

You nodded, whining as he began to move, moving his hips slowly as he rubbed inside you perfectly, your mouth wide open as your head lolled back. A series of expletives tipped from your tongue as you choked on the air, Simon’s pace picking up at your dramatic noises.

“Fuck - taking me so well-“ he grunted, hands groping at your tits as he watched your pussy absorb his length. It was an obscene sight and he loved it. Every fibre of your being belonged to him and it was something he constantly craved.

“All fucking mine - shit - my fucking pussy,” he grunted, thumb rubbing at your clit as you mewled, twitching below him as he spat, “my fucking wife - got the tightest fucking cunt just for me.”

You clenched around him at his words, knowing it was true as his balls slapped against your ass, skin spanking against each other as the sound filled the room, ecstasy roaring through both of your veins as you made love.

The squelch of your pussy was taboo as he lapped in the missed sound. His eyes took in the way your body reacted to every movement, no matter how small. He took in the way your breasts bounced with each thrust, lower stomach bulging as he pounded into you.

“Fuck - Simon - oh my God,” your words were a mere blabber, barely making sense as you clutched onto him, pulling him down to meet your lips.

“I can’t pull out, baby - fuck - gotta cum in this pretty pussy. Give you another kid, hm? - shit -“

His hips didn’t falter as his pace fastened, chasing his own high as he rubbed at your clit, your breaths growing shallow as your orgasm began to build. “Gonna fill you with my cum until it takes. Need your belly round again and your tits full - such a good fucking mum, makes me so fucking proud.”

His words were the final straw as the build up in your stomach popped, your whole body convulsing as your pussy clenched around him, a loud groan leaving his throat before you felt the hot splashes of his cum pumping inside you.

“That’s it baby, milk my cock. Such a good fucking girl for Daddy, gonna break you apart everyday on my cock until you never forget who you belong too.”

He didn’t pull out immediately, his cum plugged inside you as some seeped out, rolling down the crevice of your ass below you. Your eyes shut, gentle pants leaving your lips as you felt Simon’s absence before a soft cloth was wiped gently across your sex and masculine arms were gripping onto you, carrying you into the guest room before engulfing you into a thrill of heat, Simon’s chest against your back as you fell asleep.

TAGLIST: @kiiwiipie @nijiru

Disclaimer: im sorry if this is disappointing im super tired :(((

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can you pls do a dad Oscar fic with a young daughter and she loves his sisters and while playing with them she grazes her knee or smth and runs back to her dad thank youuuuuuu x

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall

The late afternoon sun bathed the backyard in a golden glow, casting long shadows over the freshly cut grass. A warm breeze rustled the trees, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine through the open space. Laughter echoed across the yard as two-year-old Yn toddled between her aunties, her tiny hands grasping at the air as if she could catch the very essence of happiness.

Oscar leaned back in his chair, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched his daughter. Two weeks in Australia before the season started had seemed like a perfect idea. His family hadn’t been able to see Yn as much as they would have liked, given his demanding schedule and the fact that they lived all the way in Monaco. But now, here they were—surrounded by loved ones, the air filled with the sounds of home.

"She’s getting so big," Edie mused from beside him, her arms resting on the wooden outdoor table.

Oscar hummed in agreement, his eyes still on Yn. "Tell me about it. Feels like yesterday she could barely sit up on her own. Now she’s running around like she owns the place."

"She does own the place," Nicole chimed in with a chuckle from across the table, her maternal warmth shining through. "At least in your dad’s eyes."

Chris, Oscar’s father, chuckled. "Not just mine. Look at those two," he nodded toward Hattie and Mae, who were fully invested in entertaining their little niece.

Hattie was crouched down beside Yn, her fingers delicately plucking tiny daisies from the grass and handing them to the eager toddler. "Here, sweetheart, give these to your mummy later, yeah?"

Yn beamed, nodding enthusiastically as she clutched the tiny bouquet. Her little fingers tightened around the stems, some of the petals already beginning to fall. "Mama!" she chirped, clearly excited about the thought of giving Lilly the flowers.

"That’s right!" Hattie praised, smoothing back Yn’s soft curls. "She’s gonna love them."

"Yn! Look what I found!" Mae’s voice rang out from a few meters away, her tone filled with excitement.

Yn’s head snapped up, her greenish-blue eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Coming!" she declared, her little legs springing into action.

She ran as fast as her tiny body allowed, the determination in her stride adorable and fierce. But her coordination hadn’t quite caught up with her enthusiasm. Halfway across the yard, her foot caught on the uneven grass, and in an instant, she tumbled forward.

The world seemed to pause for a fraction of a second. Then, the sharp sound of her small hands and knees hitting the ground broke the air.

Oscar was already sitting up straighter, his body tensing slightly.

Yn sat up quickly, her chubby hands pushing against the ground as she examined herself. At first, there was no sound—just wide, surprised eyes scanning over her scraped knee. A small drop of blood welled up, and suddenly, her lower lip trembled.

A soft whimper escaped her, then she was up on her feet again. But instead of running to her aunties, she turned on her heel and sprinted as fast as she could to the safety of her father.

"Daddy!" she cried, her voice thick with impending tears.

Oscar was already reaching for her by the time she reached him, carefully lifting her into his lap. "Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, brushing his fingers over her curls. "Let me see, love."

Yn sniffled, still holding back her tears as she stretched her little leg out for him to examine.

Hattie and Mae had rushed over, concern written all over their faces. "Oh, bubba, are you okay?" Hattie cooed, crouching beside Oscar’s chair.

Mae reached out but paused when Yn burrowed into Oscar’s chest instead. "She’s a tough one," she said with an affectionate smile.

Oscar remained calm, his touch gentle as he inspected her knee. "It’s just a tiny scrape, love. Nothing we can’t fix," he reassured her. "You’re so brave, my little one."

Yn hiccupped, her tiny fingers gripping his shirt. "Hurts."

"I know, baby. But Daddy’s gonna make it better, okay?"

As if on cue, Edie appeared beside them, holding a small first aid kit. "Figured you’d need this."

"Perfect timing," Oscar said, shifting Yn slightly so he could access the kit. He pulled out a wipe first. "This might be a little cold, love," he warned.

Yn watched him with big, trusting eyes, her little fingers still curled into his shirt as he gently wiped the scrape. She flinched slightly but didn’t cry.

"Almost done," he murmured. "Now, how about a special band-aid? I think we have some princess ones in here."

At the mention of princesses, Yn’s sniffles paused. "Princess?"

Oscar bit back a smile. "Yeah, princess ones. Do you want pink or purple?"

"Pink," Yn decided with a determined nod.

Mae grinned, shaking her head. "That’s my girl."

Oscar peeled the backing off the pink princess band-aid and carefully placed it over her knee. "There we go. Good as new!"

Yn looked down at her knee, examining the band-aid as if it were the most important thing in the world. Slowly, a small smile tugged at her lips. "Pretty."

"The prettiest," Oscar agreed, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Nicole had been watching the entire interaction, her heart swelling with love for her granddaughter. Deciding that a little extra comfort was needed, she disappeared into the house and returned with a large bowl of vanilla ice cream, topped with colorful sprinkles.

"Here we go, my love," she said, placing the bowl in front of Yn. "A special treat because my sweet girl was so brave today."

Yn’s eyes went wide. "Ice!" she gasped excitedly, her previous injury now completely forgotten.

Everyone chuckled as she eagerly reached for the spoon, her tiny hands gripping it with delight.

Oscar ruffled her hair. "See? You survived, and now you get ice cream. Not a bad deal, huh?"

Yn happily shoved a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth and nodded enthusiastically. "Best," she declared.

Chris let out a deep laugh. "You might wanna get used to this, son. She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger."

Oscar sighed dramatically. "Yeah, I know. I’m done for."

Yn giggled at that, her little body still curled up in his lap as she enjoyed her treat.

And just like that, all was well again. The sun continued to cast its golden warmth over the yard, the air was filled with laughter.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves!I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[douceurrrr]

family matter

cw: heavy flirtation, sexual tension, and playful innuendo. There’s mention of fake baby care (crying, diapering, bottle feeding), Nic being shirtless and hot dad coded, and reader being described with glowing brown skin, a silk robe, bonnet, and laid edges. Expect suggestive touching, cuddling, spooning, and spicy banter with no explicit smut — but definitely strong “I’d give you twins” energy.

“WAHHHHH.”

You woke up to the shrieking cry of your assigned demon doll at 6:12 A.M. on the dot. Eyes crusty, bonnet barely hanging on, and your lashes pointing in two different directions.

“What the hell…” you croaked.

all the other couples beds were having the same problem, as everyone got up with a rude awakening.

From beside you, Nic turned over with a groan and a voice thick with sleep. “t’fuck s’that?”

You stared at him. “i have no idea.”

you sat up groaning like you’d been hit by a bus. The plastic baby was vibrating in its crib beside your bed like it was catching the Holy Ghost.

all of a sudden you hear a phone go off.

“Islanders you’ve been transformed into parents! Enjoy ya’lls bundle of joy!”

You and nic laughed at yourselves as the fool kept screaming and screaming.

you finally get out the bed to pick up the plastic doll. “nic he’s got your eyes.” you chuckled but it only lasted for a little while as you got annoyed with the crying.

“nic come get yo baby.”

Nic, shirtless and in nothing but grey briefs, rubbed his face like he was being asked to climb a mountain. “What you mean my baby? You the one who said you wanted a baby with curly hair. Congratulations.”

You threw your pillow at his head. He caught it with one hand and smirked like the cocky little shit he was.

⸻

7:03 A.M.

You were standing in the kitchen, baby on one hip, bottle in your hand, trying to adjust your silk robe. Nic, meanwhile, was behind you at the counter mixing formula like he did this every day.

You eyed him sideways. “Why you look so comfortable feeding this fake baby?”

He shrugged, smirk tugging at his lips. “Must be the daddy in me.”

You rolled your eyes—but your stomach flipped. His shoulders flexed, abs on display, and that messy bedhead only made things worse.

“You really out here tryna make me ovulate,” you muttered.

“What was that, babe?”

“Nothing,” you said, snatching the bottle. He was already grinning.

⸻

Midday

The baby cried. Again. For the third time in an hour.

You and Nic locked eyes from opposite sides of the room. You were in front of the mirror, fixing your edges. He was spread out across the bed like a man who hadn’t moved since birth.

“Your turn,” you said flatly.

“Damn, again? That baby hates peace.”

He dragged himself over, picked the doll up, and started rocking it back and forth. “Shhh, baby. Mummy’s doing her makeup.”

You rolled your eyes—until he added, in a low whisper to the baby, “Don’t worry. She fine as hell. Worth all the screaming.”

You stifled a laugh. “You flirtin’ with the fake baby about me?”

He shrugged. “Gotta teach him early. Your mama’s a problem.”

⸻

Poolside

You had the baby in a little towel beside you and were soaking up sun. Nic walked out shirtless with the baby carrier like it was part of his morning workout.

“You’d make a hot mom,” he said suddenly.

You squinted. “oh yeah?”

He leaned down beside you, real chill. “I’m serious. You got that milf vibe. Like… a soft glam baddie with a stroller and an iced matcha. Dudes crashin’ their carts in the Target parking lot just tryna look.”

You blinked. “You need help.”

“I need you,” he muttered, grinning. “Milf edition.”

You turned your face fast as hell so he couldn’t see your smile.

⸻

Feeding Time

“You holdin’ the bottle wrong,” you told him, watching from the beanbag.

Nic sat cradling the fake baby like it was made of porcelain. “How? I googled it!”

“It’s a plastic doll, Nic.”

“And I’m a hands-on dad, thank you very much.”

You giggled, leaning back. His big hands, the way he cooed softly—your brain couldn’t separate fantasy from reality fast enough.

“God, I hate how hot you are like this,” you muttered under your breath.

His eyes lifted. “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“You sure? ’Cause you lookin’ at me like you wanna give this fake baby a sibling.”

You threw a throw pillow at him.

⸻

Family Photo Time

The villa had to take “family portraits” with the baby. You didn’t expect anything serious.

But Nic stepped behind you, wrapping one arm low around your waist while you held the baby. His hand stayed a little too long. His lips hovered near your temple.

“You smell good,” he whispered.

“Stop it,” you said, voice shaky.

“Can’t help it. You’re too fine to be someone’s mom—unless it’s mine.”

⸻

That Night

You and Nic laid in bed after putting the baby “down,” the villa dim and quiet. His arm was draped over your waist, the way it always ended up no matter how you started sleeping.

“You did good today,” he murmured, breath warm against your neck. “Like… better than good.”

You laughed quietly. “It’s not a real baby, Nic.”

“Still,” he said. “If this was real… I think I’d like it.”

You froze.

He didn’t backtrack. He just pulled you closer.

“I’d be the hottest baby daddy in the villa.”

You snorted, soft. “You’re stupid.”

He kissed your shoulder—just once. “You’d be the baddest baby mama. Hands down.”

You didn’t say anything for a minute. Your heart was beating stupid loud.

“…You serious?”

He nodded. “I’d pick you. Over and over.”

You finally turned toward him, letting your forehead rest against his.

“I’d pick you too,” you whispered.

And when his hand slid under your robe, just resting at the small of your back—

you didn’t stop him.

[bambifolders]

the meet ✸ james potter

⋆✴︎˚ summary. you had moved in a couple months before summer while james was still at school, when he came home he wasn’t expecting to see you outside… chasing chickens?

⋆✴︎˚ pairings. james potter x fem!reader

⋆✴︎˚ series masterlist.

James Potter was on a high as he sat in the passenger seat of his dad's car with a smile on his face, glad to be home. But it wasn't that. Lily Evans had finally agreed to go on a date with him when they went back to school, he had the whole summer to plan the best date. His friends were coming down to stay with him for a month in a few weeks and they could help.

The boy smiled when the car pulled into the driveway. "Go say hi to your mum and then come help with your bags." His father, Fleamont, said as he got out of the car, opening the back of the car. James ran inside with a smile, excited to see his mum. He was a mamas boy through and through.

"Mum!" James called out, almost slamming the front door open. Euphemia popped her head around the corner from the kitchen with a bright smile on her face. James's smile somehow got larger as he attacked his mom with a hug, "Missed ya, mummy." He mumbled into her shoulder.

Euphemia laughed, rubbing his back, "I miss you too, Jamie." She kissed his head before they pulled back, "I hope you aren't making your dad do everything." She slapped him with the towel in her hand, he touched his arm walking out of the door, she laughed putting the towel back in the kitchen before following him.

James was halfway down the sidewalk to the driveway when he heard it, the chickens. There's no way his parents got chickens, especially without him. Fleamont turned around from where he stood waiting for his son, Euphemia smiled. He furrowed his eyebrows as he took cautious steps towards the car, then he saw it.

He saw you. Your white dress that fell to your calfs flowing in the wind as you ran into your front yard, your brown boots crunchinhg against the gravel.

"Bowie! Elvis!" You yelled out, not noticing your neighbors watching you, your chickens running in front of you. Elvis ran between your legs, making you scoff loudly, throwing your hands up in the air. Bowie ran in circles in the front yard, like he knew he was pissing you off and if he could laugh in your face, he would. Elvis finally ran into the backyard where your father was.

You exhaled with a smile before you heard Bowie cluck loudly, turning around fastly to see him running for the road. "Bowie!" cried out as he ran into the road. James was smiling at the interaction he was watching until a chicken ran straight towards him, he yelped jumping backwards until he bumped into the car. "Oh, oh my--" He exclaimed jumping onto the car blindly.

"Bowie!" You yelled, running up to him and picking him up, "You shithead." You whispered-yelled as you held onto him, looking up and seeing the Potters staring at you, Fleamont had a fond smile on his face as he leaned against the car. Euphemia chuckled at her son, then looked at you with a smile.

James, on the other hand, looked at you like you held the devil in your arms; his breath was heavy as he still sat on top of the trunk of his dad's car, his hands in front of him as if he could protect himself from the chicken. But if it were to attack him, he imagined himself peeing himself as he cried out for his mum.

"Oh," You breathed out, hair from your bun falling in front of your face, "Hi, Mrs. and Mr. Potter!" You said brightly with a smile, "James." You said, turning towards him, he widened his eyes as he looked at his parents.

"Hun, remember I told you about our new neighbors," Euphemia said, gesturing to you. Fleamont said your name from behind the boy, James nodded his head sharply looking down at the chicken.

You stood in front of the family awkwardly as he stared at you, when he first saw you running out into the yard. You looked like a dream, his dream. The sun shone perfectly on you, your hair, your skin. And then a fucking chicken attacked him, and now he was living a nightmare. Literally living a nightmare.

"Um, okay.." You laughed awkwardly looking down at your boots, rocking back and forth.

Fleamont smacked the back of his son's head softly. James jumped. "Be nice. And get off my car."

James looked at you, actually looked. He froze. You were beautiful. Your small smile on your face, awkward but still welcoming, as you rocked on your feet. Your dress that made you look like you had just fallen from the heavens above and you were an angel. His angel. Were you his angel?

"James." His mother gritted out, smiling softly at you. She saw the star-struck look in his eye, but never had she seen him so frozen-- not even when he talked about Lily. James looked down at your chicken, Bowie, he assumed from the times you yelled out the name. Remus would love that. Sirius would love the fact that a chicken named Bowie made him yell like a little girl and jump onto a car.

You noticed he looked at Bowie in fear; you've never seen that before, holding your chicken tighter in your arms since he calmed down. "Bowie doesn't attack, you're okay."

James wanted to argue that he did, but he just slowly slid off the car as he looked at you in awe, you smiled softly at him. "It's nice to finally meet you, I've heard so much." Your voice was angelic, he wanted to ask his parents why they never told him you were like an angel but he just smiled.

"I bet. It's nice to meet you." He tried to find his usual confidence but he couldn't as he looked at you. It was gone. You had stolen his confidence. What was wrong with him?

"Sweetheart!" You heard your father call out for you, looking over your shoulder to see him walking out from the backyard with his hand over his eyes so he could see you. Your father smile seeing you standing with the Potters, he waved.

James gawked when another animal walked behind your dad, "You have a goat?"

You turned back around, smiling brightly. "Yep, two actually. And I'm so sorry about Elvis and Bowie-- they're so used to having much more room than a backyard, and I forgot to shut the gate before we let them out." You said with a apologetic smile looking between the Potter family.

"Don't worry about it, sweetie," Euphemia said softly, James's jaw dropped when she reached out and petted Bowie's head and the chicken stayed still. You looked at her with a small smile, then down at your chicken.

"Actually, I don't know if my parents told you but we were able to buy the space behind us and we're going to make some room for them. With that, I don't think y'all will ever have to worry about them running out here.. unless you got some food." You told them, laughing at your joke.

James's parents laughed, and he chuckled awkwardly. He wished his friends were here to witness this, but at the same he didn't, he thinks they would still be laughing at him throughout the whole conversation.

"Sounds great." Fleamont said, thumping his hand against the car, "Hey, if you guys ever need help, just get James." The boy snapped his head around, his dad just smirked, opened the door and grabbed his sons trunk.

You looked at the boy as he turned around. He smiled shyly when he realized you were looking at him. "Great. I'll see you guys." You waved with a smile, walking back to your house, muttering something to your chicken about him running off. James watched his his mouth open, his whole life had just been changed.

[wendichester]

Self care day with the Winchesters👏

Reader decides to do a monthly self care day— no hunts, just a normal mundane day for once.

Reader always tried to include Sam and Dean in their plans. Both of them were reluctant at first, but all it took was a little tricking and some bribes. Slowly, but steadily, after a couple of months, the boys started to look forward to these self care days.

It's their one day where the brothers feel like a normal family spending quality time together.

Found family with reader type of relationship preferred~

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ selfcarechester,

pairing. dean + sam winchester x reader ( gn )

wordcount. 621 genre. fluff

warnings. mentions of bribery via pie, very soft winchester brothers, reader is the heart of the found family, sam gets his nails done, dean gets bullied into cucumber eye patches

When you first pitched the idea of “Monthly Self Care Day,” Dean looked at you like you’d just suggested a spa day with Satan.

Sam was more polite about it, of course, blinking over the book in his lap with a slow, cautious, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

You had to bribe Dean with pie. You had to lie to Sam and tell him there’d be a new vegan recipe involved.

There was no vegan recipe. There was no pie until Dean wore the face mask. You were a genius.

Now, months later, it’s become routine. Like clockwork. One day a month—no hunts, no weapons, no demon blood, no apocalypse. Just face masks, fuzzy socks, and the three of you squished onto the bunker couch like a pile of emotionally repressed puppies.

Dean’s sprawled in his usual spot, arms folded, cucumber slices over his eyes, grumbling even though he knows he loves it. Sam’s got his feet up and his nails painted in clear polish. You’re filing the edges with extreme concentration. There’s lo-fi playing through the speaker, and someone lit a candle. It might be Dean’s—he never admits it, but you caught him sniffing the “fresh linen” one last month with a suspicious level of interest.

“You know,” Dean mutters, shifting slightly as his sheet mask starts to slide, “I still don’t understand how rubbing green goop on my face is gonna help me kill monsters better.”

You hum, not looking up. “It won’t. That’s the point.”

“Then what’s it for?”

“Making you not a monster,” Sam deadpans, sipping his lemon water.

Dean scowls under the cucumber. “I am not a monster.”

“You punched a soda machine for giving you a Diet Coke last week,” you remind him gently. “I’m just saying. Maybe a little moisturizer helps balance the rage.”

Sam snorts. Dean mutters something about betrayal.

But then, ten minutes later, you catch him reapplying the face mask all by himself, no instructions needed. Progress.

After nails and masks, you move on to the movie segment of self-care day. It’s Dean’s turn to pick, and he claims “Die Hard” is self-care. Sam tries to argue for something educational. You land on a compromise: “The Mummy.” 1999. Brendan Fraser. Everyone wins.

You all pile into the same blanket, bowl of popcorn on your lap, Dean sneaking handfuls without looking like he’s trying to be sneaky, and Sam quoting trivia facts like it’s his job.

Halfway through, Dean leans his head on your shoulder. Says nothing. Just rests there like he forgot how to carry the weight.

Sam slouches into your side too, legs stretched across the ottoman, one of your fuzzy socks still clinging to his foot like it belongs there now.

And you—curled in the middle, your hands resting on both of them—feel it.

That quiet, rare moment where the bunker isn’t full of shadows. Where the silence is comfortable. Where the people you love the most let themselves breathe.

This isn’t the kind of family they ever thought they’d get. Hell, Dean used to joke he didn’t even like people. Sam was always more book than bond. And you? You were the glue. The annoying little tagalong who brought bubble baths and bath bombs and insisted they learn what a cuticle oil pen was.

Now they ask about it.

Dean: “Hey, which one’s the mask that makes me look less like I’ve been punched in the face?” Sam: “Do we still have those peppermint foot things?”

You smile.

You did this. You made this weird, broken, stitched-together little trio into something soft. Not weak. Never weak. But warm.

When the credits roll and no one moves, Dean sighs and pats your thigh.

“Same time next month?”

ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; support my work .ᐟ

[livecrow]

John was cooling down from a run when he first passed you on the sidewalk.

A lovely, soft thing with your hands full. A fat, sleepy baby cradled in one arm and a 4-year-old at your hip.

Still hand in hand with the child, you point over to the verge, at a rogue patch of blue wildflowers springing out among the overgrown grass. Stopping for a closer look, you exclaim, all hushed and excited to the little girl, like you've stumbled across something wonderful, "Oh! Look, a bumblebee!"

The air that day is hot, but your voice is as cool and refreshing as a glass of lemonade as you take a moment to indulge the child's curiosity.

It makes his tongue feel painfully dry in his mouth, suddenly parched for a sweetness that his hydro flask couldn't quench. He wishes he really could taste it, drink in that sweet sound—but no, he'd swear instead he feels it at his nape, a cool trickle down the length of his spine. Could imagine a cold glass of the stuff, pressed to his neck, beads of condensation dripping. John's brow is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and yet he almost shivers.

As the bee buzzes about lazily to another flower, you patiently answer each question you're peppered with.

Actually, that bee is a she! No, she doesn't eat the flowers. She's collecting pollen! Hmmm, you weren't sure what the bee's favorite flower is!

You tell her that particular flower's name anyway. All while the babe at your chest babbles, apparently offering their own insight, drooling on your collarbone.

You beam when she sounds out the word and repeats the Latin back to you, only halfway mangled, asking you if you can pick one to bring home.

It's a beautiful thing. A mother. Right. You make it look as effortless as breathing. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But he feels green just looking at it.

He's a voyeur. Your honeyed words weren't for him. Neither is that soft, ripe body. Feels even dirtier when chubby fingers grab at your neckline. When he doesn't avert his gaze when it's pulled too hard, giving a tantalizing glimpse of your bra and cleavage before you are able to wrangle it back, redirect the babe's tiny fist.

Coveting some other man's happy, little family. Mulling over stealing it out from under some lad too bloody daft to have his wife wear her wedding band. Thinking about your voice saying other things. Making other sounds. Ones that are not fit for polite company.

No. He keeps a respectful distance, hadn't planned on disturbing you, intruding upon the tender scene. But your gaze still finds him, offers a friendly "Morning!" and a smile that's too good for a man like him.

You share some pleasantries. Brief and polite. Banal even. A wink and you'll miss it. Mother's Day is just around the corner, isn't it? He says as much.

...It shouldn't be anything he'd dwell on. Shouldn't be what he's thinking about on the rest of the walk home. While cooking dinner. While watching the game he'd been looking forward to.

And yet. That remark as you departed sent a thrill in him, nestled somewhere deep inside him, echoing in his head long after.

In the shower that night, he still sees you. How you laughed lightly as you hiked the baby higher up in your arm, resituating your hold as you turned to continue your stroll.

"—oh, no, they're my sisters! I'm not a mother."

No.

Sure as those Houstonia caerulea are a flower, you're a mummy.

As far as John's concerned, whether he's planted the tot in your belly yet is irrelevant.

[xquinny]

Grocery shopping with your family always seems like an adventure for the kids. And for Simon, spending time with you and his little ones is probably the most peaceful time ever; Simon is completely different from Ghost - the tough soldier that everyone fears - but you still love both of them, apparently.

Holding your wide-eyed, curious middle one's hand on the left side while holding Simon's on the right side, lucky for you, the aisle is big enough, otherwise you would get a hell of complaints already. The youngest is sitting on the trolley, looking clueless, with your husband pushing it around, and you catch a glimpse of your beloved Simon smiling at the lass so gently, what a scene.

Ahead of you all is your oldest. He's always so energetic, always curious when going outside, even if you have been going to the same place a hundred times already. And sometimes, he gets a bit too restless, resulting in Simon's alertness popping up involuntarily.

"Daddy, look! My favourite sweet!" — He points to the Dairy Milk bars excitedly, clearly waiting for Simon to spoil him rotten like always.

"You got it, Moppet, but not too much, cavity won't leave you out." — He pushes the trolley forward for the lad to fill it up with sweets. Then turn to you lovingly.

"You want any, love? Or just forget it, hey little one, take everything on the shelves for Mummy!"

[enwoso]

love is weird | alessia russo x child!reader

-> based on this request🏝️

grumpy masterlist

the lionesses' prep camp was supposed to be about strategy meetings, recovery sessions, and keeping distractions to a minimum ahead of the euros.

but when ella too e rolled into the lounge carrying a family-sized bag of popcorn and shouted, "girls, it's lovie island o'clock!", all that discipline quietly went out the window.

alessia had hoped the team wouldn't clock the new cast announcement. she even dared to think just for a second that giorgio might not make the final cut. but when the first boy showing the preview for tonight walked across the screen and introduced himself as:

"i’m giorgio, i’m 30, and i’m from kent..."

the room exploded, everyone talking over one another.

"OH MY GOD, IT IS HIM—"

“NO WAY, YOUR BROTHER- LESS?!”

"LESS, YOU DIDN'T TELL US HE WAS ACTUALLY GONNA—"

"no, god no, not the shirt unbutton. he's already undone three!" alessia dropped her head into her hands as groans and laughter filled the room.

"i told him not to do it," alessia muttered, shaking her head. "i told him he'd embarrass himself. and me."

you, curled on your mummy’s chest in your pyjamas, your little blanket draped over you as your esme the elephant was tucked up near your cheek.

you had been teetering on the edge of sleep for the past hour. your curls were a warm halo across alessia’s hoodie, fingers still absentmindedly twisting a loose thread. but the moment you heard that familiar sound of your uncle's voice on tv, you stirred.

your head popped up groggily, squinting at the screen. "...is that uncle gio?" you asked, frowning as you were still in a sleep haze.

the team tried and failed, miserably, to suppress their giggles as alessia braced herself taking a deep breath before opening her mouth. "yes, baby," alessia said gently, brushing a curl off her daughter's forehead. "that is your uncle gio."

you blinked slowly. "why’s he on the telly?"

before alessia could reply, you sat up properly in your mummy’s lap, eyes wide with innocent confusion. "wait... what show is this?"

the room collectively held its breath, waiting for alessia to answer.

"it’s called love island," alessia said, keeping her voice light, nonchalant. "it’s, uh... a show for grown-ups. about people trying to... meet someone special."

your brow furrowed, you didn’t get it. "like... to play with?"

a snort came from the direction of ella, who had buried her face in a cushion trying her best to hide her giggles.

"erm, no not really, lovie," alessia said, stifling a laugh. "more like... finding someone to love."

you twisted around to face your mummy properly, visibly baffled. "but that's silly. he has people to love. he has me. and you. and nonna and nonno. and teddy, remember? from christmas?"

leah, sitting to alessia’s left, let out a soft wheeze of laughter and whispered, "she’s got a point."

alessia nodded seriously. "she really does."

you turned back to the tv. a new girl in a bright bikini was walking toward your uncle, slow-motion hair flip and all. you frowned. "so... do they play games? or is it just talking about kisses?"

this time georgia actually choked on her popcorn.

"it’s um... mostly talking," alessia said vaguely. "and some... hugging. sometimes."

you didn't look convinced as your brows were still furrowed. "they should play hide and seek. or play in the big pool. that’s way more fun."

"i agree," alessia said quickly. "but i don't think that's what this show is about."

just then, your uncle threw out a cheeky wink on screen. the woman next to him giggled. you gasped dramatically catching the action. "is he gonna kiss someone?!"

alessia sat up immediately, her hands going around her daughter's waist. "right. that’s enough. it’s time for bed."

"noooooo!" you flailed, kicking your feet against the sofa. "mummy, please! i wanna watch the love show! i need to see if uncle gio gets a special friend!"

"no, no you don't need to see that," alessia said, standing and hoisting your wriggling little body onto her hip.

"but i don't even understand it yet!" you cried. "do they kiss everyone? what if uncle gio gets the wrong girl? what if he doesn't get one at all?!"

leah was wheezing now, doubled over not moving to help the situation as alessia gave her a death glare.

"you’re being unfair!" you cried, arms flopping in theatrical distress. "i’m five and three-quarters, i can watch!"

"and i’m your mummy and it’s not up for debate," alessia said, heading toward the hallway. "say goodnight to mama and your aunties."

you leaned from your mummy’s arms to hug, leah as she planted a kiss to you cheek mumbling for you to have sweet dreams as you then looked back towards the rest of the team waving a good night.

"goodnight, tiny!" the team chorused through fits of laughter.

"you lot are the worst," alessia called back, cradling you just that little tighter as she disappeared from the room.

the team lounge had fallen behind them, but the echoes of laughter still rang in alessia’s ears as she padded softly down the hallway with you in her arms.

alessia could feel your limbs going heavy again, your head resting lazily on alessia’s shoulder, but she knew better than to assume the battle was over.

back in the hotel room, alessia wondered over to your bed. the corner one where you’d made it your own. flippping on the dim fairy lights that you insisted came with you to every camp, casting a warm golden glow over your bed and stuffed animals that had taken over half of the floor.

gently, alessia settled you down onto her mattress, pulled up the lionesses duvet, and knelt beside the bed. "time for sleeps, my lovie."

you stared up at your mummy with those wide, curious and alert eyes. "mummy?"

here it comes, alessia thought.

"is uncle gio trying to get married on the show?"

alessia blinked. "what? no. he’s erm... he's just meeting people."

"but you said it's a love show. you always say people get married when they're in love." you asked, moving slightly so you were a little on your side as your mummy brushed a strand of hair from your face.

alessia took a breath and mentally begged for strength. "okay, yes, sometimes that happens. but not on that show. it’s more about... dating. grown-up stuff."

you looked unimpressed. "sounds boring. they should just play football and eat ice cream. that would be a better show."

"it would wouldn’t it," alessia said a small laugh slipping from her lips as she kissed your forehead. "now close your eyes."

you didn't. instead, you sighed dramatically and looked up at the ceiling. "what if uncle gio kisses the wrong person? what if he picks a girl and then she's mean and makes him cry?"

alessia leant her head back against the headboard, rubbing her face. "if that happens, i will personally fly out there and get him. but i think your uncle can handle himself."

you narrowed her eyes. "he’s not very clever, though. remember when he put salt in the cake he made?”

alessia couldn't help it, she laughed. "yeah, i remember. but let’s hope the producers took away all the cake baking things."

silence for half a second and for that half a second alessia thought she had succeeded in getting you asleep but then..

"mummy?"

alessia tilted her head. "mm?"

you leaned close and whispered seriously, "do you have to kiss people to love them?"

alessia blinked at the tiny philosopher in front of her. "no, baby. you can love someone a whole lot without kissing them."

"so you love me more than anyone?"

"more than anyone," alessia said without hesitation rubbing small circles on your back. "forever and ever."

you smiled, finally letting your eyes close. "even more than mama?"

alessia paused, grinning. "you’re tied. very tightly. in a bow."

"mmmkay." your voice husky as you were already drifting off to sleep. "'cause mama gives me the last red starburst. that’s real love."

alessia shuffled slightly from your bed, one foot on the floor as she tucked you back under your blanket, waiting for another beat to pass to be able to swing her other leg around

just as the moment came, your tiny voice piped up again: "mummy?"

alessia leaned the back of her head against the wall. "yes, lovie?"

"can i go on the love show when i’m big?"

"absolutely not."

[zreamy]

i'll love you forever

pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader

summary: you were sunghoon's first everything; first friend, first love, and first heartbreak. after years of quietly crushing on you, he was finally ready to confess. so ready to confess, that he told his parents the two of you were already dating! it was an easy enough lie to keep up and he kept it up for months, what could possibly go wrong? he thought. little did he know, you would have a falling out and stop talking for months.. and then, you'd both get invited to spend a week at home with his parents, who still believe you're his girlfriend.

genre: smut, fluff, angst, college au, childhood best friends to lovers, fake dating

warnings: minors dni, fake dating is pretty mild (sorry), she kinda doesn’t rate him at the start, these two kind of exist in a vacuum a little bit idk i had a self-enforced word count to stick to and broke it.. (im within the 10% allowance !), sunghoon in a vest, sunghoon arms, sunghoon

word count: 21,858

playlist: click here.. (for my non-spotify babes, the main song is light by wave to earth (which for some reason i put last.. whatever))

author's note: for silly @asahicore. happy birthday pooks i hope it's amazing and that u enjoy reading this when u have the time !!! LOL (lots of love) also im never writing without telling you things again this was so absurd.

to everyone else.. ok happy reading also emma did not beta read this so im sure it's missing its charm .. anyway it's for emma not you 😭 anyway i hope u enjoy regardless and lmk ur thoughts! omg this is the first fic im nervous about posting.......... please enjoy or else.

In the three years since Park Sunghoon moved away for university, he’d been doing a pretty good job of going home to see his parents. They’d welcome their baby back to the nest with open arms and wide grins. With a rehearsed level of indifference, his younger sister, Yeji, would say, “Oh, I didn’t know you were coming home this weekend.” when she saw him at the dinner table. Sunghoon pretended to only be marginally hurt by this. 

In the last three months, he hasn’t so much as sent a text to his parents. 

Or to you. 

Ignoring texts from his mother is devastating. Between classes, he watches as, “Hi, sweetie, I love you 😍,” turns into, “Missing you, honey, know you must be busy but spare some time for your old mummy, no?” which turns into, “Getting really worried now, are you doing okay? Has something happened with YN? Talk to me, I love you, my baby boy!” 

Ignoring texts from you is easy because texts from you never come. 

Sitting at the end of his bed, Sunghoon rereads a text his mother sent a few minutes ago: Please talk to me, son. Really worried and YN isn’t answering calls either. What’s going on with you two?

When he leaves his room, he finds Jake lying on the couch, and with his keys in hand, Sunghoon says, “I’m going home.” 

And the drive is great! At least, he tells his mum it is. In truth, the drive home without you was nearly impossible. Your ever-expanding home time playlist buzzed through the speakers in his car, but without you there to screech along to the songs, it wasn’t the same. He felt your absence the most when he stopped to get petrol and you weren’t there behind him struggling to carry enough snacks to feed a small family without offering to pay. 

The look of worry on his mum’s face stirs a pit in his stomach. “Why are you so quiet these days? God, you look so tired,” she says, frowning. “Is it school? Or something with YN? It’s not like her not to text back.” Her brows crease as she whispers the word unless. She pulls him into a hug, her chin resting perfectly on his shoulder, and her comforting hand strokes the hair on the back of his head. “Breakups are never easy, honey. I’m so sorry, I know how much you love her.” 

Breakups are never easy. The sentence hangs heavy over his head. 

Whether she knows it or not, she’s handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card, the opportunity to set things straight, to end this mess once and for all. No further questions, and most importantly, no more lies. 

For the first time since he left your flat three months ago, Sunghoon lets himself cry. He’d imagined this moment countless times, his first cry since you ended things. In his mind, it was always intense. Today, as it happens, only a few salty tears leak from his eyes, spilling onto the cuff of his sleeve, darkening the blue cotton in tiny indigo splotches. 

“We didn’t break up,” he says in a small voice—for some reason. “I’m just having a hard time.” Neither statement is technically untrue, but the words taste rotten in his mouth.

The tightening grip of his mum’s arms around his body is what brings on the harsh, shoulder-racking sobs he’d been anticipating. For a while, they stand like this, Sunghoon weeping into his mum’s cardigan until she sends him upstairs to lie down, promising a cup of tea that never comes. 

His childhood bedroom is chilly, so he changes into clothes he left behind and climbs into bed, pulling his duvet up to his chin. He turns his head to look at the walls and the room around him, everything is exactly where he left it in the summer. It should be comforting, but it’s weird to be home without you. 

There are photos of you and him everywhere, growing up and around each other through different stages of life. The two of you together during the summer your family moved in next door, you wore glasses back then and were the first friend he’d made in his life. Sunbathing and sharing earphones at the beach, listening to music together on your iPod classic. Sunghoon in thick glasses with a stiff smile and your arm around him on the first day of high school. Wide grins at the start of this summer, the last time things were okay between you. 

Overwhelmed, he stares up at the ceiling, only realising he’s crying when a hot tear slips from his eyes to tickle his ear. Because Sunghoon likes to upset himself, he screws his eyes shut and thinks about the night before you stopped talking. 

Though he didn’t know it at the time, you’d left Yeonjun’s place to sit with him in a tiny restaurant on campus, the one you’d only visit to toast to each other’s heartbreaks. It had become a ritual — ever since your first year boyfriend dumped you after two weeks — to cry as much as you wanted and drink as much soju as your bodies could handle before stumbling back to your apartments. 

Having spent years suffering from an unrequited crush on his best friend, Sunghoon was always the one to comfort you. But that night was different; you were there to comfort him. It was easy enough to play the part of ‘boy whose crush likes someone else’ because he spent your entire friendship in that role. He’d had no problem accepting his fate, but his composure started to slip when you met Yeonjun. It was the first time you’d dated someone who Sunghoon had reason to be jealous of. In every way, Yeonjun was better than him—taller, funnier, hotter. Sunghoon knew he didn’t stand a chance. He took it personally, you liking Yeonjun instead of him, and let his jealousy consume him from the inside out. 

This jealousy led him to start telling you about Minjeong—lying to you about Minjeong, and his feelings for her. She was a girl from a college out of town that he saw on his Instagram Explore page. He followed her by accident, and by some stroke of luck, she followed back. Sunghoon didn’t really have feelings for her — he didn’t even know her — but she was a girl that you didn’t know, so you wouldn’t be able to meddle. 

It only took a few weeks for Sunghoon to become so upset about your relationship that he couldn’t hide his emotions anymore. So, in a fit of tears, he told you over the phone that things ended badly with Minjeong, and he was in urgent need of a soju ceremony. 

But the night was missing its usual comforts.

It was strange to be the one crying, to see you looking put together and ordering the food. To see you pouring the drinks and raising your glass to propose a toast to ‘Hoonie’s first heartbreak’. You were driving that night, so you only had a tiny sip of soju and let him drink as much as he needed, the way he always did for you, at the same table, in the same restaurant for years. 

Hours later, in your car, you entertained his drunken rambles, though he remembers how your lips were set into a frown that he wanted to kiss away while you gripped the steering wheel like you thought it would run from you. Sunghoon was more drunk than he’d been in a while, drunk enough to let you sling his arm over your shoulders and keep him upright until you reached his flat. 

The voices coming from Yeji’s room disrupt the memory. He’s thankful.

“Your brother’s going through something, so be nice to him this weekend.” His mother’s voice is her version of hushed—a loud whisper. 

Yeji’s response is harder to make out, but he doesn’t miss the way their mum says, “I mean it, missy.” 

A dramatic sigh rumbles through Yeji as she barges into his room without knocking. Sunghoon sits up, feeling an ache in his back and crossing his legs. 

“Mum told me to lay off you today, which is fine, but before I do, I need to tell you something.” 

Yeji pushes the door shut behind her, and the open window makes it slam, both of them flinching from the sudden noise. She pulls her hair out of a silk scrunchie and throws herself on the floor. A pang of irritation forms in his chest, knowing that he could immediately find the empty hanger in his wardrobe where the shirt she’s wearing used to live. 

“I hate you and your perfect golden boy image, Hoon. Would it kill you to fail a class for once? I don’t know how I’m supposed to carry on your legacy.” She’s looking up at him, her chin in her hands and irritation written in the crease between her thick brows. 

It’s impossible to know if it’s because of Yeji’s complete lack of boundaries or the fact that her ‘perfect, golden boy’ big brother is on track to fail three out of three classes and get cut from the hockey team, but Sunghoon immediately bursts into tears. 

“Oh, uh.. I’m sorry?” Yeji offers. “I was kidding if that helps.” 

“I’m alright, it’s okay.” The tears don’t stop stinging his eyes. “Why do you want me to change everything about myself?” 

With a frown, Yeji pours out her frustration and mild resentment. She doesn’t understand how Sunghoon effortlessly conquers every aspect of life while she struggles. Neither do their parents, who had been baffled by her plummeting grades since she moved to boarding school, especially when Sunghoon’s academic performance has only soared since he left for university. The weight of this perceived injustice pulls Sunghoon’s shoulders down with guilt as she talks about the expectations he has inadvertently set for her. 

“But other than that, I’m good.” She shrugs, sitting with her legs out, and leaning back on her palms. “How’s YN?” she asks. It’s clear from the brightness in her voice that she thinks she’s helping. 

Sunghoon cries again. 

Back on campus, he’s trying to scrape together what’s left of his academic career with the help of two of the smartest guys he knows, and their friend Jay. Though the word ‘friend’ feels a little strong at the moment given the way Jay’s goading him. 

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, sitting back in his seat. “There’s nothing you can do that I can’t,” he says, meaning every word. 

Jay scoffs, shrugging and raising his brow in a way that, over the years, Sunghoon knows to interpret as his ‘about to say something ridiculous’ look. “Pretty sure I could call YN right now, and she’d answer.” 

There’s a pit in Sunghoon’s stomach as Heeseung turns his head in the other direction like he’s been slapped, trembling with stifled laughter. At least Jake doesn’t hide his amusement, throwing his head back in a fit of giggles that draw nasty looks from the other students in the library. Sunghoon doesn’t waste his energy trying to argue because Jay’s right.

Now composed, Heeseung turns back to the table, flipping through some of Sunghoon’s course materials to find whatever his class was doing in class that week. The English Literature class he’s taking — The Modernist Movement: Joyce, Woolf, and Hemingway — is the same class he had to send a million emails over the summer to get enrolled in, but it’s the same one Heeseung aced two years ago. Lucky for him none of the boys seem to be in the mood to make fun of him for trying so hard to have a class in common with you, and then practically failing out of it before the term had started properly.

“This class is, like, beyond easy, dude.” Heeseung pauses to sniffle and twist the stud in his ear. “Everyone in my class aced it. How are you doing so badly already?” 

“I only took it because YN thought it’d be fun if we had a class together, but.. I kind of haven’t been going since we stopped talking.” Sunghoon shrugs, pretending to be unaffected. 

As if the mere mention of your name has some sort of summoning power, like saying Biggie Smalls in the mirror three times, you appear in his eye line, rounding the corner with a furious stride. Your demeanour crumbles when Jay waves at you, and you grin, waving back, but as soon as you look Sunghoon in the eye again, the rage comes back, and you smack a hand on the table when you reach it, leaning over to him. 

“Sunghoon, a word?” you ask.

He thinks you’re asking, but it’s hard to tell with the way you set your jaw afterwards, and the way the warmth of your signature vanilla scent hits him hard. Dazed, Sunghoon lifts a hand, pointing at himself. “Me?” 

“Does anyone else at the table answer to Sunghoon?” 

“Okay,” he says, somewhat pathetically, nudging Jay for laughing at him. 

As slowly as possible, Sunghoon pushes his chair from the table and stands up, following you to the corner of the references section where only anthropology students in scratchy thrift store knits, and Jay, come to check out encyclopaedias by volume. You look good, save for the rage written all over your face—which, honestly, Sunghoon thinks he likes.

Sunghoon isn’t sure what to expect, so he says, “Hey.” He’s being cautious, waiting a moment to gauge your reaction. “What’s gooooood?” His cheeks burn as soon as he closes his mouth around the vowel, but you laugh. You laugh, and it’s beautiful and happy, and you’re laughing because of him—or at him, but he’s glad either way. 

Annoyance quickly clears all traces of amusement on your face. “Were you ever going to tell me we’re spending next week at Mum and Dad’s?” you ask. 

Sunghoon gasps dramatically, clicking his fingers. “I knew there was something I’ve been meaning to do.” 

His attempt at lightening the mood falls flat, and you only nudge his shoulder gently, sighing. “Can you be serious? For once in your life, even for a second, can you please think about how the things you say affect me?” You’re frowning, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at your feet. “It’s not fair, Sunghoon. For you to keep saying things—making plans involving me and then acting like I’m the bad guy when I turn you down.” 

“I don’t think you’re the bad guy at all,” Sunghoon admits. “If anyone is in the wrong, it’s me, I guess.”

You scoff, looking at him like you hate him. “You guess? Are you serious?” You look furious, but you sound hurt and Sunghoon hates it. Hates himself. “I can’t have this conversation with you right now. Tell mum I’m sick, and it’s contagious.” You roll your eyes and walk away, leaving Sunghoon alone with his thoughts and judgemental stares from students in crochet scarves so long they graze the floor. 

He sighs, slumping against the wall. How does he keep getting it wrong with you? 

Back at the table, Sunghoon manages to act like he’s not falling apart and makes some serious headway on his missing assignments with Heeseung’s help before they call it a day as the sun starts to set. 

When he gets home, he lies down on his bedroom floor, spending hours poring over the conversation you had. Over the minute changes in your facial expression, the tone of your voice, and the endless list of things he should have done, rather than watch you walk away. 

The moment feels familiar, both identical to and worlds apart from what happened after you left three months ago. When he managed to scrape the last shreds of his dignity from the kitchen table, he dragged his feet to his room and lay down like he is now, face to the rug. That day, he left his door open and lay so still that Jake thought he was dead. Sunghoon remembers wishing he had been. 

For once in your life, even for a second, can you please think about how the things you say affect me? The words run on a loop in his mind, over and over, until he can’t remember the order of the sentence or where you put emphasis. They’re cutting all the same. 

Sunghoon sighs into the itchy fibres of his black rug before rolling onto his back. In the diminishing purple light of the setting sun. he looks at the walls of his room. At the Fleetwood Mac poster, he stole from Jay when they moved out of their first year dorm, that curls away from the wall towards the ceiling—a diagonal strip of shiny tape being the only indication of the otherwise invisible tear through the face of Stevie Nicks. 

He’s glad when his phone rings, cutting through the quiet, though the sight of your name and the anatomical heart emoji next to it only dampens his spirit. Reluctantly, Sunghoon answers the phone, holding it to his ear. 

“I just got off the phone with Dad..” You trail off. Tangible silence follows, so thick it weighs on his chest. “I’ll go home with you.” 

“You will?” 

“Yes. Goodbye.” 

Sunghoon reaches your flat at five in the evening. You don’t smile when you open the door for him, nor do you invite him in. Instead, you dump your bag at your feet and he cringes, looking from the floor to you. You’re aggressively beautiful and cosy-looking as you pull a jacket over the sweater you wore that night. Sunghoon’s heart aches in his chest and he wonders if you even realise. Suddenly, the memory of the last thing you said the morning after hits him like a truck: Then let’s not be friends at all. 

A familiar weight lands on his shoulder—your hand. Concern lines your eyes as you ask if he’s okay. 

With a lump in his throat, Sunghoon nods. 

In the discomfort of his car, the two of you sit in silence while he starts the drive home. 

“How’s Yeonjun,” he asks, eyes flicking towards you but regretting it immediately when he sees how you clench your jaw. 

“No,” you say simply, shaking your head. “You don’t get to ask me about him.” 

These are the only words you exchange until Sunghoon stops for petrol. He has enough fuel for the rest of the journey, but he feels like dying and thinks the fresh air might quell his thoughts of running his car off the road. Like always, the two of you get out and head into the kiosk, where he follows you wordlessly through the aisles, watching you debate on snack choices before settling on the same things you always get. Sunghoon pays for your snacks and you roll your eyes but don’t protest, mumbling thanks as you take them into your arms, leading the way back outside.

He knows he needs to tell you before you reach the house, but he’s not entirely sure how to say it—so he just does. “My, uh.. my parents think we’re dating.”

You stop so suddenly in front of him that he almost bumps into you. Stepping around you, Sunghoon keeps walking. 

Over the top of his car, he watches your face cycle through all five stages of grief until anger comes back around in the loop as you scoff. “Why do they think that?” Your face is devoid of expression now, the blankness over your features dragging a sharp chill over his spine. 

He stares blankly at you, processing. “Because I told them we’re dating,” he mumbles. 

“Why did you.. do that?” You tilt your head, eyes pressing shut in a long blink. “What are you even talking about? Why did you.. What?” 

A thin layer of sweat coats his palms despite the cold. Why did he do that? “We can stage a breakup during the trip or say we broke up right now,” Sunghoon offers. “Just one night, YN, please.” 

The wind whistles by, ruffling your hair and jacket that you hug tightly to your chest. Behind you, Sunghoon takes note of the group of girls standing by the pumps, all five of them jerking their heads abruptly when they notice him watching, suddenly finding interest in the scattered litter and flickering halogen bulbs in the steel canopy over their heads. 

You’re staring when he looks back at you, nostrils twitching with a sniffle before you sigh. “Or we could say that you’re a liar and end things there,” you say. “Or better yet, you go down there on your own and tell them the truth.”

Sunghoon’s gaze drops, his thoughts racing in his mind. He knows you’re right. At some point, his parents will have to find out, and it’d be better for them to find out now. Sunghoon sighs, nodding. “Alright,” he concedes. “I’ll take you back.”

An angry laugh comes out of you as you shake your head. “No need, I’ll walk.” 

The station you’re at is neatly nestled in the middle of nowhere, on a road so narrow he’s not even sure it has a pavement. You’re halfway through the three-hour drive, so there’s no telling how long the walk would be, never mind the fact that the sun is already setting and it’s deep enough into October for the wind to sting. 

“From here?” he asks, incredulous. 

“Yes, open the boot so I can get my bag.” 

Sunghoon can only bring himself to say your name, a desperate whisper. 

“Open the boot.”

He repeats your name as if it’ll make a difference, he’s pleading with you, begging—though he doesn’t know for what. 

You go to the back of his car where Sunghoon joins you, a pit in his stomach when you step away. With misty eyes, you look up at him and his heart breaks. “Please.”

Sunghoon knows you well enough to know that you’re not actually going to attempt the walk home but also knows that you won’t back down if he keeps challenging you. He nods, opening the boot for you and getting into the driver’s seat—your move. 

You stand there, unmoving, and long enough passes that he thinks you’ll actually leave. The boot closes softly and you join him in the passenger seat. You sigh, buckling your seatbelt. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

For the rest of the journey, you sit in silence as Sunghoon briefs you on the relationship, fighting a smile as he thinks about being your boyfriend—even if only for a night. You scoff when he ‘reminds’ you that you’ve been together for four months now and the only reason you haven’t been able to come home recently is that your schedules don’t match up very well anymore—which couldn’t be further from the truth as, before term started, you went out to celebrate the fact that your class schedules couldn’t be more suited for seeing each other. 

Finally, at Sunghoon’s childhood home, the two of you smile and laugh for his parents before going to bed. Your relationship has only made his mother more averse to the idea of you sharing a room under her roof than she had been when you were younger. He’s relieved about this, and in the solitude of his bedroom, he lies on the duvet of his twin bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about the last few hours. 

With his parents, you’d sat up in the living room watching TV. They sat on the couch together, his mum nestled in his dad’s side, while you two sat on the couch opposite, mirroring their position. If your complete stiffness was anything to go by, you were less than comfortable with his arm around you and Sunghoon felt terrible for begging you to go along with this. It was after midnight when you all went upstairs and you let him kiss your forehead before all but slamming the door to the guest room in his face. His heart twirled and his mum beamed at him before saying goodnight again. 

Now, at 3 a.m. he can’t sleep. Flinching at the knock on his door, he furrows his brows and goes to open it. It’s you. Standing there with your hair scraped away from your face in one of his t-shirts. Your eyes are red, brimmed with tears as you step into his room and sit on his bed. 

He closes the door softly, heart aching at the sight of you so upset, and when he sits next to you, his heart tears apart because you move over, putting a distance between you. It falls out of his chest onto the floor when he realises you’re not wearing your necklace. 

Sunghoon suspected you might have stopped wearing it, it only made sense that if you didn’t want him, you wouldn’t want the necklace he bought for you either, but at least earlier, your sweatshirt sat so high he couldn’t see if you had it on or not. 

It was a gift for your sixteenth birthday, after your first heartbreak. He was so upset and angry that you let some loser hurt you that way, upset and angry that someone could be loved by you and fuck it up. Sunghoon was inspired by Jay, who’d gotten a pretty necklace for his girlfriend, and talked about her cute reaction for weeks, how happy she was to have a piece of him with her all the time. It was a locket, with a picture of Jay in one side and a picture of her in the other so the pictures would kiss when she wore it. 

While at the jewellers with Jake, Sunghoon thought something like that might be a bit much for the two of you and eventually picked out an equally pretty piece with his first initial on it. He wrote a corny note to put in the box, something about how ‘boys come and go but Sunghoon is forever’ and gave it to you with trembling hands a few nights later—it was the first time he ever made you cry. Immediately, he thought he’d done something wrong and was ready to snatch the box and run back to the jewellers (even though he trashed the receipt). You hugged him and told him you loved him. Sunghoon’s been riding that high ever since. 

Until tonight at least. 

“Are you okay?” he whispers. 

“I’ll do it, Hoon.” Your eyes lift from the floor to meet his gaze. “For as long as you need me to, I’ll pretend.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Sunghoon feels lighter, an unbearable weight slipping from his shoulders. You haven’t called him ‘Hoon’ in ages, and he can’t tell if you’ve said it out of vulnerability, or even noticed that you’ve said it at all, but it warms his heart nonetheless. However, he’s not fully at ease, still curious about your sudden change of heart and why you’re crying. 

“What happened?”

You pull him into a hug, and his eyes bulge out of his head. “It doesn’t matter,” you say, the words muffled by the skin at the base of his neck. 

For as long as he’s known you, you’ve smelled like vanilla, a sweet warmth that grounds him. Yet it’s only after these months apart that he’s able to put a name to the sensation: home. The realisation of how much he’s missed this feeling, missed you, floods him with a rush of emotion so overwhelming he can’t find the words to press the issue. A moment passes before he remembers to hug you back, his arms finally wrapping around you, pulling you close, and you sink into his hold. Months ago, he would have kissed the top of your head and mumbled reassurance into your hair, but tonight, Sunghoon settles for stroking the back of your head and hopes it’s enough. 

“You can talk to me, you know? You can always talk to me.”

A heavy silence follows, sharp as a dagger—scraping his skin, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge and lodging itself between his shoulder blades. Sunghoon’s breath hitches in his throat when you cling onto him even tighter, shifting so close you’ve had to settle in his lap. His heart races in his chest, pounding a rhythm so loud it fills the room. 

Finally, you speak, assuring him that you know and that you’re okay. At this, Sunghoon holds you as tight as he can, and neither of you speaks for the rest of the night. You fall asleep like this, in his arms, so deeply that you don’t even stir when he lies down. 

Rubbing your back, he watches the clock on his nightstand, the piercing green LED digits cycling through two whole hours right before his stinging eyes until you wake up. Sunghoon presses his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep when you kiss his cheek and leave his room. 

For the entire morning, you stay in your room, and although Sunghoon is concerned, he decides not to bother you. In the afternoon, he sits at the dining table with his mum, listening as she talks about work. When she asks him, he gets up to make a cup of tea for her. It’s at that moment when you finally come downstairs, looking so effortlessly pretty. Your hair is still damp from the shower, and you’re bundled up in one of his old sweatshirts. There’s a bright grin on your face that leaves his heart thudding. 

“Baby!” you squeal when you see him, charging towards him and wrapping your arms around him from behind. “Good morning.” Your words are muffled against the back of his t-shirt, and the four-letter word, and the sugar coating it, make his cheeks burn. 

“It’s great to see you too, YN,” his mum says with a smile. “My night was amazing; I slept very well and had no dreams.” 

You let go of Sunghoon and walk over to the table, kissing his mum on the cheek and wishing her a good morning as well. “Sorry, mum, how are you?” 

His mother doesn’t seem to have the heart to correct you either, allowing your 3 p.m. ‘good morning’ to go unnoticed. 

Sunghoon carefully fills both mugs to the brim and, with extra caution, carries them to the table. He places a steaming cup of peppermint tea in front of his mum and a milky coffee in front of you. A warm smile spreads across your face as you mouth a ‘thank you’, and his knees turn to jelly. 

The next day, after eating an early dinner with his parents at the table, the four of you go out on a walk along the bike path you used to take for school. His parents have gone ahead, not intentionally, but because Sunghoon can’t stop you from dragging your feet. 

As with most things in the town where you grew up, nothing about the trail has changed. The leaves are yellowing in standard form for the season, and crunching under his feet with each step he takes. The only foreign experience is the silence that you’re determined to uphold. Everything Sunghoon says to you is met with either a hum, a nod, or no acknowledgement at all. At this point, he feels like he could drop dead at your side and the most you’d do is step over his body like a fallen branch. 

After letting you go ahead, the weathered slats of the wooden footbridge sag in the middle under his tread. It’s been like this for as long as he can remember and he wonders how nothing has been done about it. The stream rushes under it, loud and unruly, the smell of wet grass both comforting and suffocating as you look over the railing. It’s like something from a postcard, the low-hanging branches sweeping back and forth under the breeze, the grass lush and green around the path, murky water thrashing against the mud and rocks underneath with you in the middle of the frame, peering over the edge.

You keep walking when Sunghoon approaches, leaving him alone on the creaky bridge with nothing but the ache in his chest. He looks up, staring at the grey clouds in the sky through the gaps in the leaves, and sighs. 

Eventually, he catches up with you, grabbing your hand and locking his fingers with yours when his parents slow down. You stiffen, looking up at him with cut eyes and a creased brow. “What are you doing?”

Sunghoon matches your clipped tone. “Holding my girlfriend’s hand.” 

“No one’s looking, boyfriend.”

“You think my parents aren’t going to wonder why we’re lagging behind?” 

A scoff—your fingers remain defiantly stiff. “Do you think your parents are going to care whether or not we’re holding hands?” 

“My mum might after the show you put on yesterday afternoon, baby.” Bitterness covers the word like a blanket, a stark departure from how you said it. 

A long sigh rumbles its way out of you before you fix your lips into a strained grin. “Sorry, sweetheart, this is my first time pretending to be in love.” 

As your words hang in the air, Sunghoon’s emotions brew like a storm within him. Frustration gnaws at his patience. All hopes for a smooth week are dashed, though determination simmers in his chest with a strong resolve to make this work, to fix your relationship. It doesn’t stop the sharp pang of hurt piercing his stomach—he knows you don’t feel the same way, he knows you’re faking, but the word ‘pretending’ hits him like a truck anyway. 

“We held hands all the time when we were friends,” he points out.

Your smile drops immediately, hurt flashing behind your eyes. “Yeah, and now we’re not.” 

If there was a competition for who could hurt Sunghoon’s feelings the most, you’d be a shoo-in for first place. With distinction. 

“Exactly!” he says, feeling the sting of his own words. “Because now we’re dating.”

At the sight of his mum turning around, you switch up in an instant. Lock your fingers with his, wrapping an arm around his bicep, leaning into him, giggling. It’s forced but his parents are far enough away that all that matters is the curve of your lips.

“You two okay back there?” she asks. 

“Perfect! I feel like a kid again!” you call back, beaming up at Sunghoon in a way that makes his stomach flutter even though it doesn’t meet your eyes. 

The two of you don’t talk at all when you get home, with you hugging his parents goodnight and running up the stairs. 

“She’s not feeling too well,” he explains, nodding when his dad tells him to make you some tea. 

His parents spend the whole day at work, and you spend the whole day following him around like a shadow until the evening when they return. He doesn’t pretend not to like it.

Sunghoon helps you make dinner, turning leftover rice into fried rice with the help of some eggs and vegetables. It’s nice moving around the kitchen with you, watching you scramble eggs in his t-shirt and bump his hip with a playful frown when he eats some of the peppers you’re chopping. 

His parents watch from the table, cooing over the two of you and he does his best to fight the blush forming on his cheeks and neck. Embarrassed, he hugs you from behind, hiding his face in your neck—the scent of your coconut conditioner mixing with your vanilla perfume doesn’t do anything to stop the flush. 

Over a bottle of wine, the four of you eat together at the table, swapping stories about your days. Sunghoon tries to hide his surprise as you lie about the time you spent at the play park by your primary school, competing for height on the swings and spinning on the roundabout until you couldn’t stand up. You grin at him, and it meets your eyes as you hold his hand under the table, and kiss his cheek.

After eating, his parents head upstairs, leaving to clean up together. You hum a song he’s never heard as you load the dishwasher, carefully placing the plates and cutlery in the rack, shaking your head when he hands you the glasses you’d used. 

“Leave ours,” you say. “If you want.” 

Sunghoon nods, putting them back on the table, where you sit in the seat across from the one he was sitting in. He sits too, staying quiet rather than saying the wrong thing. You don’t speak either. It’s reminiscent of the past—the hours you’d spend in the same room, only speaking to share a funny post you’d come across or to ask if you were hungry. 

His eyes track your movements—reaching for the half-empty bottle on the table to pour yourself another glass, filling it to the brim. Before putting it down, you offer him some, filling his glass too when he nods. The three glasses of wine he’s already had must be the reason he wants to reach across the table and hold your hand, run his thumb over the soft skin on the back of it. 

Sunghoon doesn’t know why you’ve been so nice to him all day or why it makes his chest hurt. 

“You know you don’t have to be nice to me when we’re alone, right?” The words come out before he can stop them.

Over the top of your glass, your brows knit together. A sound of confusion, a low hum, comes from your throat as you try to finish your sip. “What?” you ask finally. 

“I only asked you to do this because of my parents, you know? You don’t have to sit or talk with me when they’re not around.” 

Sunghoon’s known you long enough to recognise the look that flashes across your face. The way your eyes narrow and your brows tug together, the little pout that sets on your lips before you speak; you’re hurt.

“Why can’t I just be nice to you because it’s the right thing to do?” 

Because it hurts, is what he wants to say. He wants to cry, to beg you to forget everything he said that day. “Because I don’t want to make you any more uncomfortable than I already have.” Is what he settles for. 

Your face softens. “I don’t feel uncomfortable around you, Hoon. We were best friends for ages, I don’t think you could ever make me uncomfortable.” You pause to take a gulp of wine. “Why can’t I just want to be nice to you?” 

Sunghoon has to chew on his cheek to distract himself from how much your word choice stings. The implications of were and all of your past tense. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“What for?” 

“Everything.” 

There’s a sadness in the way you run your fingers on the base of your glass. The way you chew on your lip, how your hair falls when you tilt your head and how it moves when you shake it. “It’s not your fault,” you say. “I don’t know anyone who would choose to have unrequited feelings for their best friend.” 

Wow, he thinks. You’re on a roll. Sunghoon wonders if you’re meticulously choosing your phrasing to upset him. Wonders why you feel the need to remind him that his feelings aren’t reciprocated as if he didn’t live through and spend hours reliving the day he confessed. 

“But I didn’t have to tell you about it. It was unfair of me to spring that on you when I knew about Yeonjun.” 

“Did you.. did you think I was going to leave him for you?” 

“Maybe?” Sunghoon chews on his lip—he has no idea what he thought would happen. “I think I thought I loved you enough for both of us, that you might play the part for fun or out of curiosity, and.. I don’t know, just learn to love me.”

“Hoon,” you whisper, frowning. “How could you even think about settling for something like that?” 

Sunghoon shrugs. “It’s not settling if it’s you.” 

Silence takes a seat at the table after he speaks, interrupted only by the ticking clock on the wall—a glittery mess of scrapbooking paper and washi tape layered over each other that Yeji had decorated at summer camp years ago. You’re picking at your fingernails, letting flecks of black polish fall to the table, stark against the varnished oak. 

“I know it’s not my place to ask,” Sunghoon starts after a while, hesitant and only continuing when you nod. “But what did Yeonjun say when you told him? About.. everything?” 

You take a long sip from your glass and sit quietly for so long that he thinks you’re not going to answer him—he doesn’t blame you. 

“I didn’t.” 

He waits for you to elaborate. You don’t. 

Sunghoon nods slowly, deciding not to ask any follow-up questions. Instead, he takes another drink, scrunching his nose at the bitter taste. “He didn’t ask why we stopped hanging out?” he blurts out.

“I told him we fell out but I didn’t say why.” You shrug, but your posture is stiff. 

“Where did you tell him you were going to be this week?” He knows it’s not his business at all, that he’s pushing your boundaries, but he can’t help his curiosity.

“Nowhere.” 

“You told him you were staying on campus?” 

“I didn’t tell him anything.” Your gaze shifts, avoiding his as you toy with the stem of your glass. You drum your nails against it, letting the dull clink ring out. 

“So you just left?” 

“Does it make a difference to you?” 

Sunghoon nods.

For a while, you tug at the drawstrings on your hoodie, pursing your lips to the side, considering this. “Yeonjun and I aren’t together anymore.” Your admission is so shocking that Sunghoon’s jaw drops. He tries to cover his surprise by coughing, his tongue sticking out like a small child. “I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you to think it was because of you.” 

Sunghoon’s thoughts move at lightspeed, too fast for him to catch onto any of them and process this information. His emotions compete with each other—disbelief, guilt, and a painful glimmer of hope he hadn’t dared to acknowledge until now all at the forefront. 

“Was it?” he asks. “Because of me?” 

You scoff—an incredulous sound that doesn’t match the sad look on your face. “I don’t know, Sunghoon. Do you think my boyfriend used me to make his ex jealous because of you?”

He’s not sure what he expected you to say, but this is.. Complete disbelief eclipses him as his heart sinks in his chest, shock, and guilt bubbling in his stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” he says after too long. “That I wasn’t there. That I haven’t been there.” 

“You didn’t know,” you say, gaze softening as you look up at him. 

“But I made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me about it.” 

You shake your head. “I made me feel like I couldn’t talk to you about it. All you did was change the friendship, I’m the one who ended it.”

“I still should’ve been there.” 

“You’re here now, right?” 

Sunghoon nods, earnestly. “Always.” 

Only one thing comes to mind when you repeat the word ‘always’ before taking a sip from your glass, downing its contents. Sunghoon gets up and crosses the room with wobbly steps to open the fridge, where he pulls out as many bottles of soju as he can hold in his hands and puts them down on the table. He goes back to collect some glasses from the cabinet, puts some of the leftover fried rice from dinner into the microwave, and brings it all over when it’s done, with bowls and utensils. You watch him with a fond smile as he opens a bottle and he hopes you think the flush on his cheeks is from all the drinking you’ve been doing. 

“Is it bad that I’ve missed doing this?” You’re grinning now.

Sunghoon shakes his head, raising his glass. “To YN’s fifteenth heartbreak.” 

You grin, clinking the rim of your glass against his. “To YN’s fifteenth heartbreak,” you repeat. 

Both of you down the glasses, and Sunghoon refills them, pouring the soju with an oddly steady hand. As you eat spoonfuls of rice and sip your drinks, silence settles over the room. The soft glow of the kitchen lights forms a warm ambience, a cosy familiarity that brings up simple memories—doing homework together at the table while gossiping about your classmates, the first New Year after you were both eighteen and had your first drink with his parents. 

For at least an hour, the only sounds are the occasional clinks of forks against bowls, glasses hitting the table, the faint hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of Yeji’s clock. Sunghoon’s eyes meet yours, and he can’t help but notice the slight change in your expression when they do. 

You clear your throat, running a hand through your hair. “This is my sixteenth, actually.” 

“What?” 

You take a small sip of soju, staring down at the table. “My fifteenth heartbreak was losing you. Yeonjun is my sixteenth.”

In the two days since your soju ceremony, Sunghoon finds himself sinking into the role of your boyfriend like a hot bath. But there’s no use pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending it doesn’t hurt when you kiss his cheek before bed, or when you reach out to push the hair out of his face or snuggle into his side on the couch; because it does hurt—a lot. It hurts to think that in three days when you put your bags in the boot of his car, you’ll sit in silence all the way home. When he drops you off at your flat, you’ll close the door in his face and stop talking to him again. These realisations are harder to confront when he’s alone in his room, like now. 

About an hour ago, you asked if you could borrow his car, saying there was something you needed to do on your own. It seemed important, so he handed over his keys with no question. Sighing, Sunghoon gets up from his bed and heads to the shower, where he jerks off to clear his mind. On his way back to his room, he notices the light leaking from the open kitchen door that illuminates the landing. 

He hears the lock on the front door clicking, and stands at the top of the stairs, dripping water onto the carpet while listening attentively. His ears perk up when he hears a gasp—his mother. 

“What’s this for?” she asks. 

“I just..” You trail off. “I know it’s not much, but I wanted to thank you both for always looking after me.” You pause, and Sunghoon holds his breath, waiting. Your voice trembles as you continue. “It’s been hard since my parents went back home, and I guess it was still hard when they were here, but you both supported me. I don’t think I could’ve managed without you guys. I want to make you guys proud, you know? And I’m trying, really, so this is me saying thank you. I’m sorry it took me so long.” 

He grips the railing by the landing, digging his nails into the wood until they start hurting—an ache in his fingertips that makes him wince. 

An odd feeling settles in his stomach, a bittersweetness tinged in his fondness for you, and the gentle shock of realising how much his parents have done for you. Growing up, you became an honorary member of Sunghoon’s family. His parents showered you with gifts during holidays and birthdays, which you often celebrated with them rather than your own family. 

The memory of your parents’ sudden decision to move across the country still lingers, and Sunghoon vividly recalls the tearful conversation he overheard at the top of the stairs. Your parents understood the enormity of their request but had earnestly asked if Sunghoon’s parents could continue looking after you. 

His chest tightens when you start crying. 

“You don’t have to thank us for anything, sweetie. Just you being here and taking care of our boy is more than enough thanks. You never forget our birthdays, and you always come and visit when you can. You’re doing a great job, and you should give yourself some credit,” his dad says, a little choked up. “We’ve always been proud of you.” 

Sunghoon’s eyes sting with tears and his skin gets dry in the spots where the water from the shower is evaporating. He presses his fingers to his closed eyes, forcing a few tears to fall and walks the rest of the way to his room with his eyes shut. He can’t hear anything through his closed bedroom door, which he decides is a good thing as he coats himself in moisturiser and swipes deodorant under his arms with intention to spend the whole night alone. Once he’s dressed, he gets into bed and pretends not to be bothered by the way his wet hair dampens his pillow. Under the duvet, he tosses and turns before sighing and heading to Yeji’s room.

In her absence, the room’s subtle transformation is stark. The sage green-painted walls, once a backdrop to the A3 faces of Wave to Earth and Beabadoobee, now bear the faint imprints of those missing posters. Tiny, shadowy rectangles are the only remnants of the 6x4-sized pictures of her and her friends, of her and Sunghoon, that she took away with her to school.

Her hairdryer is still on her desk where she’d left it for him to use and he sits in her stiff wooden chair, plugging it in. The airflow starts immediately, hot and loud, humming throughout the space as he runs his fingers through his wet hair, feeling cosy under the heat. His shampoo is fresh and soapy scented under his nose, and his reflection watches him in Yeji’s mirror, eyes red and concerned while his hair blows around his head. Sunghoon closes his eyes and finishes his hair, sighing as he lets his worries slip under the whir of the fan. 

Finished, he shuts off the dryer and opens his eyes, flinching at your reflection in the doorway behind him with a soft smile on your face. “Mum and Dad are going to open a bottle of wine if you want to join,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. 

Sunghoon can’t find it in himself to speak, only nodding in response. You smile wider but don’t move. He unplugs the hairdryer and leaves it on the desk where he found it before crossing the room. Without giving himself a chance to think about it, he pulls you into a hug and kisses the top of your head, smiling into your hair when you wrap your arms around his waist, holding him closer. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the bathtub, mumbling sleepily that you’re never going to drink again, and Sunghoon leans over the sink brushing his teeth, he’s glad you have the decency to cover your mouth as you speak. 

“Brush your teeth and go back to sleep then,” he mumbles around his toothbrush. 

You don’t respond. 

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, spitting foamy toothpaste into the sink, leaving bubbly, blue splatters on the porcelain. “And quit staring at me, I can feel your beady little eyes on the back of my neck and it’s freaking me out.” 

“But you’re so pretty,” you coo. 

There’s a flutter in his stomach and he rinses off the sink and his mouth, buying himself some time. With a hand on the Listerine, he lifts his gaze to meet yours in the mirror and stops short. You’re still staring at him, features soft and glowing under the afternoon light. You look like an angel; a gentle smile spreading over your lips, and a sleepy glint sparkling in your eyes, wide and gorgeous as you watch him. Sunghoon gulps, mumbling his thanks and looking back at himself. He hopes you can’t see the flush on his cheeks. 

“Go back to sleep,” he says. 

“Will you come and lie down with me if I do?” Your voice is a sleepy drawl, coming out in a slow, high-pitched slur, and your eyes are closing on themselves. 

Lying down doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, especially not if it’s with you, so he nods. “If you brush your teeth, then yeah, baby, I’ll lie down with you.” 

You chuckle softly at Sunghoon’s agreement, the sound carrying a mix of exhaustion and genuine amusement, showing no repulsion to him calling you the B-word. He didn’t mean to, it’s been a confusing few days. You nod, saluting to him and getting up to join him by the sink, using your hip to bump him out of the way, but he feels like he’s glued to the spot. 

“Move, baby,” you mumble sleepily, reaching for your toothbrush. “We can cuddle in my bed,” you suggest, to which Sunghoon only nods, taking your words as a cue to unstick his feet from the floor and go to your room, playing the word ‘baby’ on a loop in his head. 

He stands in the doorway staring at your bed, the duvet is all crumpled in the middle, and the pillows are in an L shape at the top corner. He sighs, he can’t go on like this, can’t stand around hoping even a tiny part of you called him ‘baby’ and it meant something for you as it did for him. It’s not fair for him to project his feelings on you like this, but he can’t help it. You’re already pretending for his parents, so would it be so bad to pretend for his sake as well? Even if only until the day after tomorrow when you leave? 

The sound of the bathroom door shutting behind you snaps him out of his thoughts, your bright smile making his heart race when you tug him by the sleeve to your bed where the mattress dips underneath you as you curl into his form, resting your head on his chest and falling asleep. You’ve shared the bed before, countless times, but he knows you’ve only asked him because you’re tired. Because your brain is foggy with drowsiness that clouds your judgement, not because you want him there, not because you miss him when he’s two doors down the hall, tossing and turning at night thinking about you. He wonders absently if you can feel his aching heart beating through his chest, a painful, yet all too familiar rhythm that pulls his own eyes shut, plunging him into a deep sleep too.

It’s dark in the room when he wakes up, the sun already down behind the curtains and the soft yellow of the bedside lamp casting a glow around the space. You’re staring up at him, smiling and you don’t look away when he catches you. “What is it?” he asks, voice thick with sleep. 

“Nothing,” you mumble. “I just missed you.” Sunghoon has no time to respond or even register what you said before you clear your throat, speaking again.  “Come on, dad’s cooking tonight, he’ll need help.” 

Helping Sunghoon’s dad with dinner always looks an awful lot like Sunghoon eating snacks on the kitchen counter and staring at you as you help his dad cook. Tonight is no exception, he’s sitting on the island, and his snack of choice is a family pack of Chilli Heatwave Doritos his mum bought for Yeji. He’ll have to remember to replace them before leaving seeing as he’s reaching the halfway point. 

You go back and forth with his dad about measurements, with you rummaging through the drawers for measuring cups while his dad says it’s best to trust your gut. Reluctantly, you nod, chewing the inside of your cheek as you watch him eyeball the seasoning. 

The gas stove turns the kitchen into an oven, and you complain about it while opening a window, pulling your hoodie over your head and leaving it in Sunghoon’s lap. Time stops when you grin at him, the light from the stove hood illuminating the necklace you’re wearing, his initial resting on your chest and glowing under the light. He chokes around a crisp when he sees it, catching your attention with his coughing. 

“You’ll spoil your dinner, snacking like that, baby,” you scold, using a hand to push his knee. “We’re almost done, I swear.” 

All he can do is nod, cheeks burning as he folds the crisp packet over before putting it back in the bread bin where he found it. 

“Wow,” his dad says, resting his hands on his hips and shaking his head in amusement. “Being in love looks good on him, he’d never have listened if I said that.” 

It’s already your last day when Sunghoon picks up Yeji from school. She grumbles for the entire half-hour drive and all the way to the front door about why the two of you couldn’t have started the trip today instead of ending it, but all of her irritation dissolves when she sees you in the hallway, leaving the front door wide open to fling her arms around you. You and Yeji exchange compliments for a while — You look so pretty. No, you look so pretty. I love your hair. I love your hair. — as Sunghoon locks the door and watches with a smile.

“God.” Yeji sighs, holding you by the waist and craning her neck up to look at you, as you push some of her hair from her face, pinning back her wispy bangs with the palm of your hand. Yeji giggles. “I’m so happy you two are together, even though I have no idea what a girl like you sees in my loser brother.” 

Sunghoon rolls his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Despite his mild irritation at Yeji’s words, he finds the sight of you with her so adorable his stomach flutters. Over the top of Yeji’s head, you look at him with a fond smile. “He’s not so bad.” 

It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but Sunghoon takes it to heart. 

Like always, Yeji manages to capture your undivided attention and the two of you giggle and whisper with each other all afternoon while Sunghoon watches, too enamoured by the sight to care about being left out. An hour or so passes like this, until his parents get home from work, excited to see Yeji after a few weeks, and you leave her side, coming to cuddle with Sunghoon instead. 

It’s nice being home with everyone, laughing and sharing a meal before his family walks the two of you to his car with at least a month’s worth of cooked food for you to share at university. Yeji makes you pinky promise that she can visit you and waves with a pout on her face until the car is out of view.

Contrary to what he’d been expecting, the drive back is nice. Your playlist is on, and you’re telling him about all the new songs you added, catching him up on things with Chaewon and Yunjin, and all the things you got up to in the time you spent apart. You tell him about a new café that opened up near your place and how you’ll have to go together when he has the time, and Sunghoon bites his tongue before telling you that he always has time for you. The first half of the trip goes on like this but you start dozing off around the halfway mark, your sentences becoming few and far between, eventually turning into half-mumbled thoughts that end prematurely. 

You’re still asleep when he reaches your flat, head propped up against the window with your soft lips parted, looking too pretty and cosy to wake up. Instead, he drives in circles around your block, deciding to wait for you to wake up on your own. It only takes a half-hour but you blink your eyes open, stretching your neck before looking around and out the car window, recognising the street. You don’t say anything, only smiling when you look at him, a small curve of your lips that makes his heart race.

He gets out of the car with you, opening the boot to get your bag before pulling you into his chest for a hug, liking the way your arms settle around his waist. “Thank you,” he mumbles into your hair. 

Sunghoon doesn’t follow you when you take your bag from him, only watching from the back of his car. You don’t notice until you reach the main door, looking over your shoulder and frowning at him. “Aren’t you going to walk me up?” 

The two of you walk in silence up four flights of stairs as the lift in your building is out of order. Your bag feels much heavier in his hand now than it did outside. At your door, he watches you dig around for your keys, sighing with relief when you find them. 

“Do you want to come in?” you ask from your open doorway.

“I—uh—I have training in the morning and I’m already pretty tired, so..” He trails off.

Unfazed, you nod. “Right, of course. I had fun this week.” 

“Yeah, me too.” 

You smile at him, sweet and sincere. “Text me when you get home, yeah?” 

Sunghoon nods, saying goodbye. Out of habit, he doesn’t leave your doorstep until he hears the lock click shut, and walks back to his car with his head down. 

True to his word, he sends you a text to let you know he got back to his place safely and you read it immediately but don’t reply. It’s empty in the apartment, Jake is out with his football team and the space is larger than usual in his absence. Far too tired to even consider going out and joining him, Sunghoon goes through his night routine, putting his phone on the charger and stepping into the shower where he spends entirely too long wishing he could live in this week forever as he scrubs his body. With brushed teeth and damp hair, he goes back into his room where his phone lights up with a notification; a text, from you.

YN🫀: i’m glad you got home okay, i just got into bed :) i don’t want to make you uncomfortable or overstep or anything and you can say no (obviously).. i’ve been missing you so much and didn’t know how to reach out or if you wanted me to but i had soooo much fun this week and spending time with you again made me happy, so i’d like it if we could keep hanging out, like before yk? ik it’s a long shot ahahaha but just say you’ll think about it? 

hoonie: You’re not overstepping at all, I’ve missed you too, so bad. I had soooo much fun this week as well and I’d like it a lot if we kept hanging out, thank you for agreeing and coming along 😚 If you’re free after Lit tmrw you could come over? Or we could go out and do something, whatever you prefer

hoonie: I missed you so much.. 

hoonie: 🤍

The texts greet you as the first rays of Monday morning light filter into your room, instantly lifting your mood. Your bright smile doesn’t escape Chaewon’s notice as you find her in the kitchen, bathed in the soft light seeping through the sheer curtains. The kettle is boiling with a loud rumble that fills the whole room and leaves her yelling as she speaks to you. 

“Good trip?” she asks, coming over and hugging you. “Never leave me for that long again,” she mumbles into your shirt. 

“It was a week, Wonie,” you say, rolling your eyes even though you missed her too. 

She leans away, looking at you with knitted brows. “It was nine days.” 

“The longest of my life.” 

Chaewon pulls air through her teeth, tilting her head and releasing you. “That bad, huh?” she asks, walking back to her seat at your tiny square table and shooting you a look that tells you to join her. 

During your trip, you gave her nightly updates over text, so you know she knows how much you enjoyed yourself, but you elaborate anyway, sitting across from her. 

“No, not at all,” you say, shaking your head and trying to fight a smile. “I had fun.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, you have to bite your bottom lip to stop the grin curving them; it doesn’t work. 

Chaewon raises a suggestive brow, crossing her arms over her chest. “How much fun?” 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“I didn’t even say anything!” she defends, holding her hands up. “I made an implication. It was only a matter of time, you two have that whole.. lifelong best friends to lifelong lovers thing going on, and it’s hot.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You’re telling me, you spent nine days playing lovers with Sunghoon and you still don’t want him? You’re a lost cause, people would kill for that chance,” she says, tilting her head. “I think I would kill for that chance.” 

“Don’t touch him.”

“Oh?” 

“Jesus, Chaewon, it’s not like that. Hoon’s too sensitive for your roster.” 

“I never said it was like anything, you’re the one who’s dangling me over the ledge for saying I want to fuck your hot best friend.” 

“Sunghoon isn’t hot; he’s..” You find yourself at a loss for words, unsure how to continue your lie. Of course, Sunghoon is hot, you’ve known since you were seventeen and spent the summer at your grandparents’ house, only to come back to find your previously scrawny best friend having ditched his LEGOs for dumbbells. You sigh. “Just leave him alone.”

Chaewon grins, eyes sparkling as she leaves the table. “Okay,” she says in a singsong voice, leaving you and the irritation in your stomach alone in the kitchen.

You sigh, pressing your eyes shut and trying to will away your discomfort. It’s not like Chaewon would actually try anything with Sunghoon. Right? Even if she did, it wouldn’t bother you, nor would it be any of your business. They’re grownups and reserve the right to explore their options. Still, there’s a nagging feeling you can’t shake, an uninvited guest in the back of your mind. 

When you check your phone, you realise you have half an hour before you need to head to campus, so you leave to get ready and text Sunghoon back on the way to your room.

you: sounds good, see u later 🤍

After showering, you stand in front of your wardrobe, towel hanging from your body as you pick an outfit. For some reason, you feel under pressure, picking a pair of jeans that do the most for your ass and a low-cut top that Sunghoon once — drunkenly — said he loved on you.

You have the residual sting of mouthwash on your tongue, and one foot out the door when your phone vibrates in your hand. 

hoonie: Do you want to head to class together? 

you: sure! i’m omw out, where should i get you? 

hoonie: .. I’m outside your building :D 

Breathing a laugh through your nose, you don’t fight the giddy smile on your face as you make your way downstairs to meet Sunghoon. Through the glass in the main door, he’s standing at the edge of the pavement and kicking a stone between his feet. The top of his puffer jacket covers the bottom half of his face, and the draught nips your skin when the door opens. Two girls you vaguely recognise stumble in with smudged makeup and heels in their hands, smiling at you while holding the door to let you out.

“Hey!” you call out, jogging over to him. 

Sunghoon turns around, his head poking out of his jacket to grin at you, holding a travel cup and an abundance of tinfoil in your direction. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d have eaten anything yet, you don’t normally in the morning,” he says, a sheepish smile spreading over his lips when you take it. “Matcha. Ham and cheese toastie.” 

“Did you make these?” you ask, inspecting the familiar cup and appreciating the warmth it provides. 

He hums, nodding his head.

You ignore the heat spreading over your cheeks and thank him with a hug, grinning when he offers to hold your drink while you eat on the walk. The toastie is still hot, the cheese coming close to burning your tongue as you chew, but you appreciate it wholeheartedly, humming contently with each bite. When you’re done, you shove the foil into your pocket, taking your drink from him and smiling around the sweet taste of a matcha latte as he tells you about his schedule for the day. 

“I’m meeting with Coach after class to talk about my grades, but I’m all yours after that.” 

“Talk about your grades? What’s wrong with your grades?” 

Sunghoon groans, head falling back and highlighting the bump of his Adam’s apple. “My grades are.. I failed my coursework this month, so I have resubmissions during finals, and I think he’ll bench me if I fail again.” 

He sounds like he’s being serious, and if the look on his face is anything to go by, he is. The news creases your brows because for as long as you remember, Sunghoon’s grades were your parents’ favourite point of comparison.

“Really?” you ask. He nods. “What’s up? Is something the matter?” 

A humourless laugh slips out of him before he pulls air through his teeth. “Yeah, my best friend didn’t talk to me for three months.” 

“Oh..” Guilt stirs your stomach as you look up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not blaming you, it’s not like I was trying to talk and you ignored me.” He nudges your arm with his elbow, giving you a warm smile. “But if you feel as guilty about it as you look, you can tutor me for Lit.” 

“Deal.” 

Sunghoon grins, wrapping his arm over your shoulders and holding you close; the action itself isn’t unusual, but the increased heart rate it brings about is. “You’re too good to me,” he says, holding onto you for the rest of the walk to class.

At his request, you sit with Sunghoon in the back row, watching as the lecture hall gradually fills up in front of you. He seems well-prepared, with his laptop and a small notepad and pen neatly arranged on the desk in front of him.

Throughout the class, your eyes inadvertently track his every move. He diligently types up colour-coded notes, occasionally pausing to write things in his notepad before continuing to type or stopping entirely to listen. There’s something melodic about his actions and the way his fingers run over the keyboard. 

During a five-minute break, you glance at his screen. What you find is more than just lecture content; it’s a document adorned with Sunghoon’s own musings about Hemingway’s style and carefully analysed quotations that go beyond the class discussion.

“How are your notes so good?” 

“I picked up the book over the summer when you mentioned it,” Sunghoon replies with a shrug, a shy smile playing on his lips as he leans back in his seat. “I liked it.” 

A slow nod is your response, though your thoughts swirl like autumn leaves in a breeze. The last time Sunghoon read for leisure, you were in primary school, buddy reading Diary of a Wimpy Kid. But this—this is different. You can’t help but stare at him, awestruck as you take him in. His eyes are wide, shining amber in the sunlight as he pushes some of his hair from his face, frowning when it falls back where it was. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mumbles. 

Sunghoon takes a new line in his document and points at the screen where you watch the cursor move through the words he’s typing: I would’ve read and annotated the Bible if you wanted me to..

There’s no time to digest what he wrote or the funny feeling in your chest as you reread it before he deletes the whole sentence, pressing his lips together and looking out the window. Speechless, you stare at his side profile, willing your heart rate to slip back to normal. Steep-sloping nose, plump lips flattened into a line, two points of the triangular mole constellation on his face. Analysis worsens your condition, breath hitching in your throat before stopping entirely. Warmth and trepidation blend within you, fuzzy enough at the edges to seem like one thing—a single force that makes your palm itch with desire, desperation, to reach out and run a finger over his features, feel the bump of the mole on his nose — the most prominent — against your skin. 

You remain this way — silent, watching — even when your lecturer resumes the lesson, and Sunghoon starts typing, writing, and listening again. Polite enough to pretend he doesn’t notice your gaze searing into his face.

After class, and his meeting with Coach, you let Sunghoon lead the conversation and the way to your flat, where you find Chaewon and Yunjin sitting on the couch, whispering to themselves while the two of you study at the coffee table. It’s uncomfortable, an awkward height, too high for the way you’re sitting but you feel calm under the supervision of Chaewon and Yunjin—you won’t do anything to merit teasing in front of them, no matter how badly you want to feel Sunghoon’s face in your hands or stroke his cheekbones with your thumbs. 

To the best of your ability, you answer the questions he has for you—he’d written a ton in his tiny notepad during class, his own concerns clear with each neatly-penned iteration of: How to see actions/dialogue for what they are and not what I want them to be? written in the margins and you try not to feel heartbroken for him.

Three hours have passed by when you walk him to the door, the two of you wrapped up in a bubble so secure you’re surprised to find Chaewon and Yunjin still sitting on the couch. They don’t say anything about Sunghoon in his absence, or the fact he’d given you his sweater when he noticed you were cold. You’re not sure why their silence disappoints you.

Instead, Yunjin asks you about trivial things like dinner while Chaewon sits in silence. 

“What flavour for ice cream?” Yunjin asks, rolling her eyes when you tug on the blanket but not complaining. “And don’t say something ridiculous like mint chocolate, YN.” 

“That happened once! And it was three years ago.. How was I supposed to know you hate fun?” 

Chaewon leans into you, letting you curl your limbs around her from behind as you rest your chin on her shoulder, liking the way her clean scent tickles your nose. 

“Mint-cho isn’t that bad,” she starts. “It’s a little jarring, sure, but it’s kind of sweet. Like watching people come to terms with their feelings for each other.” 

You nod your head, humming in understanding and furrowing your brows when Yunjin scoffs, staring straight at you. Her tone is equal parts cutting and loving, so you know she’s not trying to insult you, but don’t know what she means when she says, “It must be so nice to be as oblivious as you.” 

Yunjin never elaborates, and you never ask, actually feeling the statement’s journey in through one of your ears and out the other when dinner arrives. The three of you share pizza, ice cream, and secrets — the three pillars of 20-something-teenage-girlhood — at the kitchen table, with Chaewon sitting in your lap and picking pepperoni from your slices. 

It’s only hours after Yunijn’s gone home, that her words circle back to you, the statement and all of its weight perching on your chest with all the debilitation and persistence of a sleep paralysis demon.

“I think I’m getting sick,” you say as soon as she opens her door. “It’s been coming on for a while now, at least a week, maybe more.” 

Unimpressed and exhausted, Yunjin looks down at you through half-closed eyes. “Do you..” She pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing. “Do you have any idea what time it is right now?” 

“Yes. It’s three a.m.” 

“Exactly. See a doctor if you’re sick, I’m going back to sleep.”

“This is an emergen—” Yunjin cuts you off by pinching your lips together. “It’s three in the morning,” she reminds you. “You can’t yell like that in my hallway, come in.” 

You nod, crossing the threshold and taking off your shoes next to hers. “Sorry,” you whisper when the door is closed. 

Using her hand, Yunjin lifts your chin, squinting as her eyes adjust to the light when she flips the switch to inspect your face. “You don’t look or sound sick,” she mutters, flicking the light back off and going to her room. “What are your symptoms? And why did you come here?” 

You don’t have an answer for her last question so you ignore it, following her and tripping over a pair of her shoes in the process. “My cheeks start burning like crazy and my heart races, sometimes it gets hard to breathe.”

“You seem fine to me.” 

A shoulder-slumping sigh slips from your lips. “That’s the thing. I’ll be fine and then Sunghoon shows up with his pretty smile and perfect hair and I feel like I’ve run a marathon.” You know how it sounds, choosing your wording meticulously to let Yunjin be the one to say the words out loud instead of you—it’ll be easier to confront that way. 

From the doorway, you watch as she arches a brow, her interest piqued. “Oh?” 

“I know.” You nod, head bobbing rapidly in furious agreement. “It’s only a matter of time before I cough up a lung and die in his bedroom.”

At your words, Yunjin doesn't reply, only lifting her duvet and getting cosy underneath. You feel like you’re glued to the spot, waiting for her to say something, anything, but nothing comes. All she does is pat the empty spot in her bed. 

“What are you smirking for?” you ask, entering the room properly and closing the door. 

Her response only comes after you’ve taken your jacket and hoodie off, sitting next to her under the covers. “It’s nothing,” she says, laughing. 

“Tell me.” 

Yunjin sighs, resting a hand gently on your shoulder. You think it’s meant to be comforting but it’s the opposite. “You’ll be fine, I promise. Lovesickness isn’t deadly.” 

Feeling the weight of her reassurance, you settle down properly and sigh when your head hits the pillow. Lovesickness. Hmm. 

Closing your eyes, you try to sleep but can’t help tossing and turning as Yunjin snores behind you. You pat blindly around the end table for your phone, grabbing it and wincing at the brightness of your screen. Chewing on your lip, you open Google, looking up ‘lovesickness’ and frowning immediately at the results. Endless negativity fills the screen, terrifying words like ‘unrequited love’ forming a pit in your stomach. There’s nothing negative about what you feel for Sunghoon, nothing unrequited—you think. 

It was obvious during the trip, painfully so. In the way he’d tuck your hair behind your ear when his parents weren’t there to see, or how he slipped up and called you ‘baby’ in the bathroom, blushing when you said it back. You can’t fake something like that.. Can you?

Yeonjun did.

Shaking your head, you open Instagram to distract yourself. Jake’s story comes up first; he’s at a party where Jay is losing a game of beer pong, and at the other end of the table is Sunghoon grinning with a bright red lipstick kiss on his cheek. You lock your phone, using your hands to press on your belly to stop the stirring. 

Oh, you think. Lovesickness. 

When you wake up, the first thing you do is check Jake’s story again. The video is still there and that terrible stir in your stomach churns on, burrowing deeply into a pit of canyon-like proportion—so vast there’s a safety railing lining its edges. 

You eat breakfast in silence with Yunjin, zoning out mid-chew to figure out the origin of these feelings and how to handle them. Suddenly, the moment hits you clear as day, vivid like you’re watching it on a screen—it was your third night at his parents’ house, after your walk. 

You felt bad about how you acted, and what you said, so went straight up to your room. With nothing but the bedside lamp turned on, it was dimly lit, shadows cast on the walls as you sulked, replaying everything in your head. Guilt wrapped its long arms around your body, making you feel sick as you thought about it all. About the hurt etched over his face with every word you said, and the frown that stuck around for the rest of the walk as his hand clung limply to yours. 

There was a knock at the door, so gentle you almost missed it, and Sunghoon was standing there when you pulled it open, chewing on his lip with a mug in his hand. Steam skated over the opening, a rich chocolatey smell hitting your nose but the real kicker was the mug itself. In its place on Jake and Sunghoon’s mug tree, it was unassuming, a regular white mug, but upon meeting hot water, the face of young Sunghoon appeared, grinning with his tiny glasses on. It was a gift from one of his old coaches and though he never used it, it was your absolute favourite cup in the world. 

You felt soft around the edges when you looked up at him, his eyes wide and unsure as you met his gaze—he brought that mug three hours across the country so you could use it again. The thought shifted your heart into a comfortable position, settling in your chest with overwhelming warmth and an increased rate. 

“Hi,” you said, clearing your throat. 

“Hi,” he repeated, holding the mug out for you to take. “It’s still hot so be careful.” 

Nodding, you covered your hands with your sleeves, taking the cup from him and asking if he wanted to come in. Sunghoon nodded, shutting the door behind him and standing by the bed, watching you set the hot chocolate on the bedside table as you sat down. The two of you stayed like that for a while, with him only moving when you patted the spot next to you on the duvet. Your train of thought escaped you as soon as he sat down, the warmth of his familiar fresh, citrusy scent taking over and becoming the only thing you could register. The smell of summers with him, long days at the beach and short nights spent on the couch at random parties, cuddled into his side with his arm over your shoulders. The smell you’d come to associate with comfort and home—with Sunghoon. 

“It’s not fair for me to treat you like shit just because I’m annoyed, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that earlier. I’m sorry.” 

A crease ran over Sunghoon’s thick brows as they tugged together, he shook his head. “You don’t have to apologise. I roped you into this whole thing and didn’t even try to think about how you would feel. I’m sorry.” His eyes carried a mix of regret and sincerity, mirroring the weight of his words.

“Anyway, I only came to bring you that,” he said, pointing at the cup. “And to check up on you, I’ll get out of your hair for tonight.” Sunghoon wiped his palms on his pants before standing up, reaching behind him to pick up the cloth he brought. For a moment, he stood there, staring down at it in his hand while you thought about telling him to stay, telling him that you wanted him in your hair—whatever that meant. But he spoke before you had the chance. “You left this, at mine, after.. well, you know. I’m sure you left it intentionally, I mean it was folded up perfectly on the end of my bed, so I know you did, but it didn’t feel right keeping it, you always wore it more than me.” 

Sunghoon extended his hand, holding it out to you and you knew exactly what it was as soon as the fabric touched your skin after so long. It was the shirt Jay bought him for Christmas in first year—they were roommates still trying to get a feel for each other. For a few weeks, Sunghoon had been pestering you about what he should get for Jay, saying it didn’t feel right not to get him anything, and you suggested a targeted t-shirt, one you’d been laughing at all day after seeing an ad for it on your timeline. Sunghoon was sceptical, but bought the red shirt anyway, hoping Jay would find BEING DAD IS AN HONOUR, BEING PAPA IS PRICELESS funny. He did. And Jay bought Sunghoon a targeted shirt too, your favourite. It was black and two sizes too big, with I NEVER DREAMED I’D BE A SEXY FIGURE SKATER BUT HERE I AM KILLING IT written over the chest. 

“Goodnight, YN,” Sunghoon said, crossing the room to leave but hesitating before closing the door. He poked his head through the opening and sighed. “I really am sorry.”

That night, you fell asleep in the shirt, the thinning, yet cosy, fabric wrapped around you like a hug as your heart started to beat a new rhythm, one that eerily echoed the five-foot-eleven figure skater who you let break it. 

This morning, Yunjin claps her hands in your face, seeming irritated when you look over at her. “You have class in an hour, what are you doing?” Before you have the chance to speak, realisation covers her face. “Oh, the feelings.” 

You nod solemnly, too caught up in the butterflies raiding your stomach to come up with something to say. 

At lightspeed, you scarf down the rest of your food, apologising for showing up so late as you head out the door. When you get home, you take the fastest shower of your life and feel grateful Chaewon isn’t around to tease you about the smile you can’t wipe from your face thinking about Sunghoon—you’ll text her later.

You run to campus, feeling the brisk autumn wind beating against your face while the rest of your body overheats under your jacket, hoodie and long sleeve. Despite the discomfort and ache in your lungs, you don’t stop until you reach the door of your lecture hall, huffing and puffing into the faces of classmates who don’t take any notice. Of course, in a stroke of pure luck, your lecturer is late, and you realise bitterly, that all of your huffing and puffing was in vain—you would have gotten to class with time to spare even if you walked.

It’s not a total waste though; you use the time to update Chaewon. 

you: i have news wonie..  i like sunghoon

wonie: …………….. fork in the kitchen yn what’s the news? 

wonie: OHHHH news to YOU.. can i call? 

She calls you immediately. You answer without thinking because your lecturer still hasn’t arrived, and there’s no one sitting close enough to hear or notice you taking a call. 

“Are you going to tell him?!” Chaewon’s voice is so loud you wince, pulling the phone away from your ear. 

“I don’t know.” You shrug even though she can’t see you, still holding the device at a distance just in case. “I don’t have any confirmation that he still.. likes me. It’s been a while, and I was pretty mean that day. 

Chaewon groans and you can picture her throwing herself onto her bed, exasperated. The rustling that comes through the receiver only frames the image, hanging it up. “Did you have to tell him to get a grip?” 

“You know..” You trail off, chewing on your bottom lip. “In hindsight, probably not.” 

A beat passes, she’s thinking. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll help you.” 

“I.. have never been so worried in my life.” You sigh, picking at your freshly painted nails. “But I know you’ll do something no matter what I say, so do what you want, Wonie, but please be subtle about it.” 

Chaewon squeals down the phone. “I love youuuuu!” And it’s the last thing she says before kissing the mic a few times and hanging up. 

Slumping in your seat, you don’t have any time to stress about Chaewon’s plans because your lecturer walks in, with a travel cup in her hand and a paperback tucked under her arm. 

She apologises for being late, running a hand through her hair as she announces that you’ll be watching a film, an adaptation of a book you read at the start of term—Ian McEwan’s Atonement. You spend the first hour of the movie falling in and out of sleep until a text comes through from Sunghoon, and sheer excitement keeps you up.

hoonie: Wanna study together after class? 

you: of course!!!!!! 

hoonie: 🤍

The rest of the movie goes by in a drag, and you come away from it with a mild irritation towards Saoirse Ronan.

you: class just finished, heading to lib rn 

hoonie: Shit, still in the locker room, sorry !!! Omw, can you get a table? 

you: i’ll try..

It takes a while but you find an empty booth on the second floor, and set your bag on the plush green seat to take pictures of your surroundings to send to Sunghoon. You sit on the side facing the stairs so he can see you when he arrives. The thought of seeing him makes your heart race and you try out a few natural-seeming poses for when he’s here, cycling between resting your palm under your chin and sitting with your arms crossed a few times until the top of his head comes into view. 

Seeing him knocks the wind out of you as he approaches the staircase, taking them two at a time with his damp hair clinging to his forehead and neck. It doesn’t help that he’s wearing a tight black vest, and his sweats are hanging low on his hips. A breath you didn’t realise you were holding slips out when he lifts his head, spotting you immediately as a grin spreads over his lips and he raises his arm to wave, the veins in his forearm peeking out to say hi too. You can’t tell if it’s his lack of winter wardrobe or your newfound appreciation for him that’s making his biceps look so huge but it’s hard to look away, even when he reaches the table. 

“Are you hot?” you blurt out. 

Sunghoon laughs, raising a brow and something about the way he’s looking down at you makes your cheeks burn. “Depends who’s asking.” He takes his backpack off, leaving it on the table as he sits down, dumping his jacket and hoodie in a pile beside him.

“I’m asking,” you mumble. 

“Then, yeah, I’d hope so.” 

Is he flirting? It sounds like he’s flirting. Flirt back! “Nice arms.” 

He looks down at his biceps for a beat before looking at you warily. “Are you flirting with me?” He can’t fight the smile twitching at the corners of his lips but he tries his best, pressing them into a straight line.

“A little. They are nice though,” you admit.

Sunghoon grins. “Thanks, I’ve had them for a while now.”

You can’t come up with anything to say, too distracted by the way his smile reaches his eyes, lighting up his whole face and forcing a flustered heat to spread over your cheeks and neck. It’s only when you look away from him that you remember what you’re here for. It’s a study date, not a study date—there’s a difference. 

You hand Sunghoon the material you’d printed for him over the weekend, excerpts from texts you’d studied in class, so he can practise close reading and proper citation. As he makes his way through them, you can’t help stealing glances, smiling at the way his tongue sticks out a little while he focuses, or how he twirls his pen in his fingers while he’s thinking. You aren’t making the best use of your time together, copying out the slides from class yesterday, but you can’t help noticing the way he watches you when he thinks you can’t see. The small smile on his face while he does so only flusters you, an odd weakness settling in your knees as your cheeks heat up. 

After a while, Sunghoon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Could you stop watching me?”

“If you noticed me watching, that means you’re watching me.” 

He shrugs, chewing on his lip. “Well, yeah. I’m always watching you,” he says like it’s a given. “But you don’t normally watch back, it’s distracting.” 

“You’re distracting.”

A playful smile curves his lips as he arches a brow, smugness painting his face. “Am I?” 

Too scared to verbalise your response, you nod slowly, hoping you don’t look as wound up as you feel. 

Sunghoon’s eyes flick over your face, flashing with something you don’t recognise. At least not from him. He sits back in his seat, assessing you and eventually shaking his head. 

“You know,” he says, eyes glowing with something you do recognise: cockiness. “If my sexy arms are getting to you that much, I can always put my hoodie back on. Wouldn’t want my little tutor getting distracted, would I?” 

Oh. 

Your stomach turns with want, mind reeling from his tone and the way his gaze lands on your lips. Sighing, you roll your eyes and try to seem unaffected. “Sunghoon, I never said your arms were sexy.” 

His phone starts to go off, buzzing against the table and he turns it over immediately, screen down on the surface as he shifts his focus back to his work. He chews on his lip while he does, eyes flicking back and forth between his phone and the words on the page. Curious, you lean over the table, elbows propped up as you rest your chin in your hands. He doesn’t spare you or his phone, which vibrates another four times, a glance.

“Are you going to get that?” 

Sunghoon shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

You hum, letting just enough curiosity seep into the sound that he’ll elaborate without being asked to. It doesn’t take long for him to deliver.

“It’s just Chaewon,” he says, running his hand through his hair and lifting his head. Sunghoon smiles. “We’ve been texting a lot these days.” 

“Cool.” You nod a few times, aiming for nonchalance but hitting bobblehead as you wait for him to continue. He doesn’t, only humming in response, nodding too. 

After a beat, he picks up his phone, angling it just high enough that you can’t see the screen. He reads the messages, an exhaled laugh coming from his nose as the tips of his ears redden—Fuck. This is worse than you thought. 

Chaewon’s commitment to girl code runs deep—she’s been rebuffing Jake since first year when she overheard a girl she’d never seen before telling her friends she thought he was cute. So you know without having to read the texts that nothing she’s saying is even remotely flirty, you can smell the auto-caps and use of the word ‘buddy’ from across the table. 

What you hadn’t counted on, however, was the potential for Sunghoon’s feelings to shift. If they really have been texting more, can you rule out the possibility that he might like.. her? Chaewon is a catch, beyond a catch, and you’d already turned Sunghoon down. Brutally. Of course, he’d move on, he has moved on. 

The rest of the study session is spent manifesting, writing Park Sunghoon over and over in the back of your notebook. You fill three pages while brainstorming ways to snatch a lock of his hair until he suggests that the two of you call it a day. He walks you home, telling you about how Jake’s been bribing him with food to get a ride to the LEGO store across town for the new Marvel set. 

“With or without the meals, I would’ve taken him, but his ramen is my favourite, so..” Sunghoon says, climbing the last step of your building and holding the door open for you. “He even brought a slice of tiramisu to the rink for me after practice.” 

“You’re terrible,” you say, frowning up at him as you search for your keys. “Do you want to come in?” 

Sunghoon chuckles, shaking his head. “I have a meeting with one of my lecturers soon, I’d have to leave in—” He pauses, rolling up the sleeve of his jacket to check the time. “—eight minutes.” 

“I’m cool with that if you are,” you mumble, suddenly shy. 

A bright smile spreads over his lips and he nods, following you in. 

Chilled by the harsh wind, the only thing on your mind is a hot drink as you lead Sunghoon to the kitchen. He shakes his head when you offer him one, sitting on the countertop and exhaling into his palms before rubbing them together. You can’t help but frown at the sight, feeling guilty that you can’t change the weather to suit him. At your thought process, your brows raise. Wow, you think. Is this who you are? 

You busy yourself with the selection of hot drinks you and Chaewon have accumulated, eyeing each container from top to bottom. A purple tub of Cadbury’s hot chocolate that you’re sure is on the brink of expiration, coffee—sachets of the instant stuff you’ve grown to like since leaving home, Earl grey from one of many brands, or the fancy silk tea bags Chaewon’s mum brought home from a trip—rooibos or plum-apple-cinnamon. 

Craving something sweet, you settle for hot chocolate, pulling the heavy container from the cupboard next to Sunghoon’s head and setting it beside your cup. He’s on his phone, scrolling too fast to take in anything he’s seeing and he shakes his head when you ask if he wants something to drink. 

On the dish rack, Chaewon’s mug catches your eye, so you pick it up to dry it off and put it down next to yours. “I’m going to check if Wonie wants any,” you say, wiping imaginary crumbs from the counter onto the floor. 

Sunghoon only clears his throat, shaking his head. “She’s not home, one of her acrylics popped off so she’s at the shop waiting for a cancellation.” 

The information itself isn’t jarring but hearing it from Sunghoon is. You put on what you hope is a neutral smile and nod, taking milk from the fridge and assembling your drink on autopilot while thinking of ways to redirect the conversation. 

“If you knew you’d have to go back to campus so soon, why’d you walk me home?” you ask, watching your cup spin in the microwave. “I could’ve walked on my own.” 

Sunghoon is already looking at you when you turn your head, his cheeks puffed out with air as he blinks slowly. Because I love you, is what you hope he’ll say. You think you need him to say it. 

“Because you don’t have to do anything on your own when you have me,” he says instead, and it’s infinitely better. 

The words seep through your every fibre, his intonation and lucid affection making a home for themselves in your heart, spreading warmth from head to toe. Your smile becomes a radiant grin, only brightening when he shakes his head, smiling down at his feet. 

Sunghoon hugs you in the kitchen when it’s time for him to leave, his arms holding you tight to his chest as he rocks you back and forth. You inhale his scent, all warm citrus under freshly washed cotton and something exclusive to him.

Wiping the smile from your face feels impossible. You don’t let go when he does, and a sweet laugh — a giggle, you think — tumbles out of him as he mumbles that he really has to go. Still, you cling onto him, taking clumsy steps backwards, with your arms locked around his waist, to your front door, smiling as you watch him put his shoes on. 

“You don’t have to walk me downstairs, honestly,” he says, looking down at you in the doorway.

“I want to.” 

His lips quirk up at the corners, a full smile breaking through and causing your stomach to flutter with so much force you’re sure it’s visible through your shirt. His eyes fall to your lips, lingering, before he clears his throat, looking away. 

“I’ll text you when I get to the door, promise.” 

You lock your pinky with his. “Send a selfie, just so I know it’s you and not someone else using your phone.” 

Sunghoon’s head falls back in a laugh. “Should I just call you? That way you can make sure I get back to uni in one piece.” 

You nod.

“That wasn’t anything with Chaewon earlier, I just needed advice on some girl stuff..” He trails off, searching your eyes. It’s obvious that he’s telling the truth, that he wants you to believe him. You do. “I wasn’t sure if that was something I could talk about with you.” 

Girl stuff. Hmm. You try not to read too much into it and look at the bigger picture instead—your best friend is going through something and doesn’t feel like he can come to you about it.. You squeeze his pinky reassuringly, a flutter in your stomach when he smiles. 

“You can talk to me about anything,” you say, meaning it. 

Sunghoon presses his lips together, humming and unlinking your fingers. “Next time,” he says after a beat, waving at you. 

You shut the door, locking it while watching through the peephole, he leaves as soon as the lock clicks shut. In the kitchen, your hot chocolate is cooling down, and your phone rings in your back pocket. Sunghoon’s calling. 

Hanging out with Sunghoon. Making sure he sticks to the time-blocked schedule you made for him. Quizzing him on biology terms until he gets restless. If the last two weeks were an episode of Family Feud, those would be the top three answers to the question: Name something YN is doing right now.

Thankfully tonight, it’s the first one. 

You’ve been sitting on the couch for so long, Jake has both left for football practice and arrived from football practice. Conversation ebbs and flows—an hour or so of nonstop talking, followed by another hour or so of comfortable near silence. 

It’s during a quiet hour that Sunghoon sits up straight, clearing his throat before saying, “Let me ask you something. He retreats to the other side of the couch, turning to face you with his whole body. “I don’t want things to be weird after I ask, so no matter what your answer is, I won’t bring it up or ask again.”

Arching a curious brow, you nod. “You can ask me anything,” you say, meaning it.

Sunghoon’s face is impressively blank—minus the motion of sharp teeth worrying plush lip, there’s absolutely nothing behind his eyes that seem to stare right through you. 

Eventually, he asks, “Can I kiss you?” He says more. Big, scary words like for closure and moving on, but they don’t register. They don’t matter. 

Your heart pounds at the base of your throat as you find interest in your hands that sit in your lap. Even without looking at him, you can’t get over the slight crease he had in his brow and the slight tremor in his hands. 

“For closure,” you repeat, though your voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from you, muffled under the thump of your heart. 

Sunghoon nods. “For closure.” 

A humourless laugh sneaks past your throat as you look at him. You shouldn’t have. In the lamplight, Sunghoon is golden and glorious. Warm light casts one side of his face, diffusing gently over the steep slope of his nose, highlighting his moles and the look in his eyes, gentle and curious all at once. Unwillingly, your gaze falls to his lips, parted, tempting. 

One firm nod of your head brings Sunghoon’s hand to your face, his palm cupping your cheek with soft skin as his thumb traces your cheekbone. You grow anxious under his stare, under the drag of his eyes over your features, taking them one at a time like he’s committing them to memory.

Leaning in, your eyes flutter shut as your lips meet his and he freezes, mouth completely still on yours. Delicately, your tongue traces the seam of his lips, soft and plump, until they part for you, moving with yours. Sunghoon’s kiss is unpolished when it reaches you. It’s hesitant but tender, clumsy but sweet, he’s trying and he’s perfect; your favourite. 

The kiss is.. it’s everything. It’s the racing of your heart, the thudding, the vibrant buzz you can hear, feel humming against your ears. It’s a rush of blood to the head, a lightness all over that pulls you out of your body. It’s Sunghoon’s soft lips curving into a smile against yours, his gentle hold on your face never letting up as he holds you as close as he can manage, and it’s every bit as lovely as the rest of him.

Palpable is the heartbeat of your friendship, beating to a lull under the surface of the kiss, fizzling out into nothing, a steady silence, flatlining to give way to something more, something bigger. 

Every brush of your lips against his is a revelation, a confession. You’re all I’ve ever wanted, you tell him with your kiss. You’re everything I need. His free hand finds yours, locking your fingers and squeezing, the action timed well enough to make you think he hears you, to make you think he’s saying, we’ll be okay, I still love you. 

With that, he pulls away, a delicate tension piercing the air. Blown eyes and laboured breathing—he’s beautiful, fuzzy around the edges with warm orange and all of the love in your heart. Breathless, you chew on your lip, cognisant of Sunghoon’s hand in yours and the sparkle in his eyes as he looks at you. 

Belatedly, you squeeze his hand back, smiling. “Was it everything you ever dreamed of?” you whisper, part teasing, all curious.

Abruptly, Sunghoon stands up, letting go of you in the process. “I have to go.” 

You want to stop him, you think you’re supposed to. To grab him by the arm and kiss him again, to yell in his face that you love him until he understands. But you don’t. Instead, you stay seated, staring at Sunghoon’s back and following him with your eyes out of the room and down the hall until he’s out of sight. 

It’s your first time being so upset after a kiss, and you can’t tell if it’s his leaving or the mention of him moving on that’s tripping you up so much. That’s causing melancholy to crawl from the shadows, sinking its jagged nails into your skin to pull you under. 

You love him. He’s gone. 

Eyes stuck on the doorway, time stretches over the room around you, thick and malleable, wet and cloying—clay stuck under your nails for days as the fire in the kiln rages on. 

Sighing, you get up and wait at his door. You ball your hand into a limp fist, knocking weakly. Sunghoon doesn’t reply. You try again, harder. Still nothing. 

Barging into the room, you find him sitting on the end of his bed with his face in his hands. 

“Don’t move on.” The words come out before you realise and Sunghoon lifts his head, squinting at you. 

“Huh?” He tilts his head, watching closely as you approach him, tipping it back enough to meet your eyes when you stand over him. 

You take a breath, holding it until your head starts to spin. “I don’t want you to love someone else, Sunghoon. Please don’t move on.” 

The stillness that follows is disconcerting, a long quiet you can feel on your skin, amplifying the blank stare on his face as he looks up at you. His eyes flash, a spark of hope behind them so bright it stings to look at.

“Do you..” He trails off, his lips moving to form the next word though stopping short.

“I do,” you whisper, nodding. “I’m sorry for taking so long.”

An exhaled laugh comes from his nose as he grins, shaking his head. “You like me?” he asks, excitement and disbelief fighting for authority over his voice, his hands holding your waist and pulling you down into his lap.

“I love you,” you admit, settling on his thighs. 

“You do?” His eyes are wide and gleaming, searching every feature on your face before settling on your own.

You nod. “So much.” 

Sunghoon’s chin tips up, his lips pressing against yours, excited pecks that can’t turn into much more for the smiles on your faces. You rest your arms on his shoulders, hands clasping behind his head, nervous fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“So.. will you be my boyfriend? For real?” 

Tilting his head, he tries and fails to fight a smile. “I will. I’m a little bummed though.” 

“Why?” You raise a brow, and the word tips up at the end with it. 

“I wanted to be the one to ask you.” Sunghoon’s honesty warms the room, endearing you completely. 

You grin, loving the heat spreading over your cheeks. “Ask me anyway.” 

“Please can I be your boyfriend?” 

In the weeks that followed, it became immediately clear that boyfriend Sunghoon operated on a pendulum swinging between sexual ferality and terror. He’d get distracted during study sessions at home, finding more interest in biting at your neck than stream-of-consciousness prose, but closed his eyes if a sex scene came on TV. He’d buck his hips against yours while making out but flinch at the sight of condoms in the store.

He wasn’t ready to have sex and didn’t know how to tell you, so you took matters into your own hands, asking if you could wait until after his results for resubmission came in, saying you didn’t want the distraction for either of you. Sunghoon agreed, pecking your cheek and holding you tight to his chest. 

The only thing was that your lecturer hadn’t given him an exact date, so every morning, you held your phone in a vice grip waiting for Sunghoon to update you, and every morning, you got the same text: Nothing today, baby ☹️ 

This morning, you’re brushing your teeth when he texts you, in all caps: NO FUCKING WAY I GOT A 98 !!! LOOK !!!

When the picture comes through, it’s of him in the mirror and you choke on mouthwash at the sight. He’s smiling, bright and beautiful, in a black vest that he’s holding up a little to show his stomach, though his palm is in the way of his toned abs, and it cuts off right at the top of his grey sweatpants. 

Your mouth goes dry as you click on it, fixating on every little detail you can find: the thickness of his fingers against his phone, the dip in his collarbones, the breadth of his shoulders and the cinch of his waist. In a fit of desperation, you try swiping at the bottom of your screen, willing the picture to magically extend. It doesn’t. 

hoonie: Finger slipped.. You like?

you: mm.. 

you: 98??? HOLY SHIT, LOOK AT YOU!!!

hoonie: All you.. do you like the picture?

you: i love it………….

hoonie: My girl 🤍

Another picture comes in, and sure enough, through the glare of his laptop screen, you see: Course name: The Modernist Movement: Joyce, Woolf, and Hemingway. Marks Awarded: 98.0.

you: well done baby !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

hoonie: Thx 😁

hoonie: Can I have my prize now ha ha .. haha 😈

you: just for that emoji, no you absolutely cannot.

Your resolve isn’t strong enough when it comes to Sunghoon, because purple devil emoji and all, you show up at his door with condoms in your bag and a bouquet of lilies behind your back. 

The door creaks open and Sunghoon greets you with a grin. “Hey, gorgeous. You proud of me?” 

You beam at him, holding out the flowers. “I’m very proud, Hoon, well done.” 

“I don’t want to ruin the moment,” he starts, taking the bouquet from your hands and sniffing the flowers with an approving smile. “But hearing you say you’re proud of me is awakening something I didn’t know existed.”

“A good something?” 

“Mm,” he hums, arms finding your waist before he pecks your lips. “A very good something.” 

Sunghoon’s words hit your lips and your core, a desperate heat flooding your stomach as he kisses you deeply, his body pressed tightly against yours while he pulls you into his apartment. He kicks the door shut with his foot, slipping his hand under your jacket to settle in your back pocket, not quite squeezing but holding your ass as gently as he can manage. 

He breaks away from you, love in his eyes as he stares down into yours, catching his breath. “I don’t think we own a vase.” 

In his kitchen, you rifle through cupboards to find something to hold the flowers, eventually finding a whiskey decanter in the cupboard under the sink, and holding it up for Sunghoon to see.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “It’s Jay’s. It’ll work right?” 

You nod, taking it to the sink to rinse it. Sunghoon wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder watching you fill the decanter with water and flower food before grabbing the bouquet. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your neck and you struggle to stay focused as you cut down the stems on the flowers, arranging them neatly. 

“Can I take a photo?” he asks when you’re done. 

He’s smiling when you turn around to look at him, a soft curve of his lips that makes your heart race, a deep tenderness in his eyes when you meet them. You smile too. 

“They’re yours, baby, do whatever you want.” 

“A photo of you with the flowers,” he clarifies. 

Warmth settles in your chest, a grin spreading over your lips from ear to ear. You nod, taking the decanter in your hands when he lets go of you, holding the flowers up beside your face and smiling for his camera. As his phone shutter clicks away, you steal glances at his face behind it. He’s watching the screen with a smile, telling you how beautiful you are.

“I want pictures of you too,” you say, handing the flowers over. 

“I’m yours, baby, do whatever you want.” 

Sunghoon poses for your photos, smiling sweetly in some and sniffing the bouquet appreciatively with closed eyes for others. He’s glowing and he’s beautiful and your heart triples in size while taking picture after picture until your phone tells you it has ten percent. 

“Thank you, YN,” he says. “I’ve never gotten flowers before, I love them.” His arms settle around your waist, lips pressing against yours before you have the chance to respond. 

You try anyway, mumbling against his lips that you love him. In response, Sunghoon grins, but the feeling of his cock growing hard against you is distracting, a lust-coated thorn in the side of the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. With locked lips and uncertain steps, the two of you bump into corners and trip over your own feet, stumbling to his room and parting only to tear his hoodie over his head.

Breathless, you pull away, eyes trailing over him and picking up on everything, from the tremble in his hands to the lust-addled worry in his eyes. He’s nervous, you think—though it escapes you, the last word coming out like a question.

Sunghoon scoffs, his hands resting on your waist under your shirt, skin clammy against yours. “Of course, I’m nervous.” 

“You don’t have to be.”

“I just want to be good for you.” 

“Don’t worry about that, let me take care of you, Hoon.” Your palms drag up his torso — firm abs through soft cotton, defined chest over racing heart — to rest on his shoulders. “Sit,” you say when he nods. 

He gulps, taking a seat on the end of his bed under your gentle push, eyes widening when you sink to your knees between his legs and reach for his drawstring, pulling the ends to untie the knot. 

“Wait,” Sunghoon says, breathless, scrunching up his face and dropping his head. “Let me calm down, baby. At this rate, I’ll come just seeing your hand on it.” 

You giggle, resting your head on his thigh and wrapping the drawstring around your finger.

“I’m serious, YN,” he mumbles, laughing as he takes his vest off. “I need a minute.” 

Sunghoon’s eyes are pressed shut as he tries to collect himself, lips pouty and kiss-bitten, slightly parted with ragged breaths slipping out. You wait patiently for him. He’s so pretty like this, with the crease in his brow and the pretty pink flush dusting his cheeks as his chest rises and falls. You can’t help but smile, leaning into his touch when his hand rests on top of your head, his blunt nails grazing your scalp. After a while, he seems more at ease, his eyes finding yours and he smiles shyly, telling you he’s ready now and lifting his hips from the bed to let you pull his sweats and underwear down. 

Free from the constraints of fabric, his cock slaps his stomach with a wet sound as the tip meets his skin, leaving a pearlescent streak over his abs. The sight makes your mouth water and you can’t look away. “Pretty,” you whisper.

Wrapping a hand under his tip, you swipe it with your thumb, taking time to memorise the flutter of his eyelids, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the soft sigh he lets out. You stroke him slowly, liking the way his breath picks up as his brows knit together before you take him in your mouth. It’s a tight fit but you do your best, spurred on by the way he tugs at your hair and stutters through a holy fuck as you take as much of him as you can. 

Sunghoon goes silent, only squirming when you use your hand to stroke him near his base. Self-conscious about his lack of vocal affirmation, you look up at him through your lashes, and the pure bliss on his face is unbearably attractive. His eyes are rolled back under furrowed brows, his mouth hanging open as he throws his head back.

“Am I doing okay?” you ask, using the moment to catch your breath.

He nods, inhaling shakily and screwing his eyes shut while his hips buck up into your fist. “I’m.. You’re doing such a good job, baby, so good.”

Satisfaction courses through you from the praise, a high that dulls the ache in your jaw. Still watching him, you massage his balls in your palm, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his tip when he whines. You tongue at his slit until he thrusts back into your mouth, tip hitting your throat, and he gasps when you gag, his arm coming up to cover his eyes. A belated apology slips from his lips, mumbled as he strokes your hair with a shaking hand and goes quiet again. When you speed up, his breath stutters, the muscles in his thighs contracting around your head as you suck and lick and drool on his cock. 

A moan of your name, and his hand holding your hand down, are the only warnings you get before Sunghoon comes, spilling his load right down your throat. Whining, his hips buck up against your face, pushing further and further until he falls back onto the mattress.

Your throat is hoarse and aches while you use the back of your hand to wipe at your lips, enjoying what’s left of his taste on your tongue. Deep red tints his neck and chest, a pretty flush gleaming under the sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s mesmerising, as he tries for air through swollen lips and looks up at you through squinted eyes. He reaches for you, cute grabby hands tugging your shirt and pulling you down so you’re lying next to him with your head on his chest. 

“You’re amazing, baby, so good for me,” Sunghoon whispers, eyes fluttering shut as you drag your nails over his torso, feeling the subtle heave of the slick, sculpted muscle over his stomach and chest. 

Pride heats your chest, satisfaction rolling over you like a wave. “Really?”

He hums in affirmation, nodding his head. 

“You were so quiet, I couldn’t really tell,” you add, hungry for more praise. 

“The walls are so thin in here, I just got used to being quiet,” Sunghoon says, frowning. Hand meeting your chin, he tips your head up towards him, pressing a soft kiss to your lips and mumbling, “I’m sorry. You were perfect, I swear.” 

It’s a sweet kiss. Until lips move harder and hands get lower, desperate as he thumbs the top of your leggings, palm unmoving but a dangerous heat blooms in your stomach anyway.

“Can I..” Sunghoon pinches you softly through the material, unsure eyes boring deep into yours. 

You nod. “You can.” 

Slipping under your waistband, his fingers skate across your skin dipping between your thighs. He grazes your slit, satisfaction clear in the groan he lets out as he feels the wetness there, pulling it over the length of your slit to cover your clit. Your breath hitches, a strangled gasp, pleasure and surprise meeting in your throat under the pressure of his thumb on your clit, the gentle sting of his finger pushing into you. 

What Sunghoon lacks in experience, he makes up for with the sheer length and thickness of his fingers. It’s almost jarring, it’s enough to force your eyes closed and bring a sigh rumbling out of you, ache and relief settling between your legs, where he curls a finger against your walls and drags slow circles over your clit. 

“Can you take these off, baby?” he asks, hand away to touch your leggings. 

You don’t waste a second, sitting up to pull them off, throwing them and your underwear across the room. Sunghoon licks his lips, tugging at the hem of your shirt. 

“And this? If you want..” 

You nod, pulling it off immediately to let it join the rest of your clothes in a heap on the floor. The way he gulps is a confidence boost, his dilated pupils taking in every inch of your body, though his gaze always pulls back to your bra—white and lacy, thin enough for your nipples to push through the fabric and Sunghoon can’t seem to get enough, though he waits until you’re lying down again to touch you. 

Sunghoon props himself up on his elbow, leaning over you. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, dragging a finger over the lace at the top of your bra, toying with the material and the little bow sitting between your breasts. His eyes flick up to meet yours. “So beautiful,” he repeats. 

Hiding your face in his chest, you mumble, “Thank you,” into his skin while trying to ignore the heat spreading over your body wherever he touches you. His hand trails from your arm to your waist, resting on your hips to slip over your ass for a beat, where he grabs and squeezes the flesh there before coming back around to slot between your legs—you lift one of them, resting it over his body, and he’s smiling sweetly when you look up at him.

Sunghoon’s movements are unchanging, though the sensation is heightened by the unbridled desire in his lidded eyes that urges white heat to lick over every inch of your skin—this time he pushes two fingers into you.

It doesn’t get better than this, you think. But it does, quickly. 

Leaning over you, his eyes flick across your face, one feature at a time as he chews on his lip. Reaching up, you push some of his hair from his face, holding it back and saying, “Relax, baby.” 

“Don’t want to hurt you.”

Moving your hand, you blink when his hair flops back over his forehead, tickling your eyelashes. His eyes are focused now, staring straight down into yours, want and worry flashing behind them. 

“You won’t, I promise,” you say, locking your pinky with his, feeling relieved when he smiles.

Sunghoon pushes in slowly, his name slipping from your lips when he exhales shakily, head falling forward. The sting, the pleasure, make it hard to breathe, molten desire taking hold of your lungs as he carves out a place for himself as far as you’ll take him, all the way to the hilt as slow as he can manage. 

A moan tears out of him, lewd and whiny as his hair tickles your collarbone, head falling into the crook of your neck. His skin is hot and damp against yours, his breath burning your shoulder as he tries to calm down. It’s difficult to register much else, tethered only by the sound of his voice when he asks, “Am I hurting you?” 

“Hoon,” you whisper. 

“Can you look at me, baby?” He lifts his head, resting a hand on your cheek. You blink your eyes open, gaze locking with his, where concern pushes through his desire. “Am I hurting you?” he asks again. “Are you okay?” 

You nod. “I’m okay, just..” You sigh. “Full. Need a minute.” 

Sunghoon kisses you, lips moving gently with yours, passing breathy whines between your mouths until you feel yourself relaxing. Pulling his plush bottom lip between yours, you suck on it, nodding. “Want you to move, baby,” you mumble. 

He scans your face, eyes meeting yours as he pulls his hips back. He’s slow, so slow with his thrusts that your belly turns with want, your fingernails sink into the taut skin of his back, and jagged sobs fall out of you with each drag of his cock along your walls. 

Everywhere his skin touches yours is set ablaze with scorching heat, goosebumps pushing past the surface as his breath fans your neck and his sharp teeth graze your skin. He bites hard enough to sting, and you wince as his tongue flicks over your bitten flesh to soothe you.

You were so worked up earlier, writhing against the sheets and coming undone in his palm, so bliss quickly pushes through the ache between your legs. “Good, Hoon, feels so good,” you manage, struggling to convey how perfect it is.

“Just want to make you feel good.” His words melt into each other, vowels soft and elongated as they curl around each other. He’s working up a steady rhythm, his tip consistently nudging you where you need it—the spot that makes the room blur around you. “That’s all I want.” 

Before long, the knot in your stomach pulls you up from the mattress, arching your back towards the ceiling. Mouth to mouth, chest to chest—it’s the closest you’ve ever felt to someone else, the closest you’ve ever been. The thought alone knocks the wind out of you, and his persistent whining does nothing to help.

Your want and adoration for Sunghoon run bone-deep, inching up your spine and creeping over your shoulders, intertwined with an all-consuming pleasure that turns the heat in your stomach molten as a shudder zips through you. Even though you can’t find the words to let him know, he lifts your hips from the bed to fuck you deeper, harder, into the mattress until shaky orgasms pull both of you under. 

You let him fall into you, fingers curling around his hair, whispering I love you into the skin of his neck as he comes, most of his weight on top of you while you catch your breath, relishing in the fullness you feel as the last waves of your high pull back. You stay like this for as long as he needs, his head coming up from the crook of your neck to smile at you before pressing his lips to yours. A sleepy haze fills the room around you, tongue swiping tongue as you giggle happily into his mouth. 

After a while, he gets up, tying the condom to throw it away and comes back with his shirt. He uses it to clean up—gentle between your legs, pressing kisses to your calves while he does. Sunghoon’s tenderness wraps around your heart, and love clouds your vision, forming a blurry trail that follows all of his movements, glowing like something from a dream, ethereal, an apparition. 

The bed dips beside you, his arms around you, pulling you in so his chin rests on your head. You push your cheek into his chest, hoping the two of you will meld into one—the thought makes you warm all over, a fuzziness that reaches every part of your body while he presses kisses into your hair, rubbing your back. 

“I love you,” he says, voice as soft as the rest of him. “I’m glad I exist.”

mama park: Hi lovely 😍 missing you lots, wondering when you’ll be home for Xmas………..love ma

Sunghoon stirs, nose scrunching as he snores softly into the quiet of a winter morning. His chest rises and falls steadily under your head and he doesn’t move when you sit up. The lamp on his desk is still on — neither of you could be bothered getting up to turn it off last night — and under its dim glow, you admire him. Perfect lips gently curved—long lashes kissing the skin under his eyes. 

Love hits you from all angles, warmth all over from head to toe despite the chill in Sunghoon’s room. You can’t help but grin, leaning up to nose along the underside of his chin, his natural scent so soft yet dizzying as you nuzzle into him. He stirs again, turning his head this way and that before resting, you feel a bit bad, deciding to leave him be and text his mum back. 

you: hi mum !!! missing you sooooooo much :((( will be home asap

mama park: BTW Sunghoon told me everything. I raised such good actors LOL make sure he looks after you and keeps you happy!

you: i’m so sorry we lied to you..

you: but i’m really happy with him and he loves me a lot

you: i love him so much .. never been so sure of anyone in my life

© zreamy (2023), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let my know your thoughts !

permanent taglist: @asahicore

[woso-dreamzzz]

Travel Day IV

Keira Walsh x Kid!Reader

Summary: You get a bit confused with your family

"Do you only have a mummy?" One of the girls in your new class asks.

You frown as you think.

This new school is different. You wanted to go to the same school as Liefje but there weren't any spots available so you're at this one. It's closer to home as well which is easier for your mums.

"I have Mummy," You tell the girl as you reach for the blue crayon," And a Mum..." You think for a moment. "And kind of a Daddy."

The girl nods a few times as she sprays glitter glue all over her picture of a unicorn. "I have a mummy, a step-mummy and a daddy too."

"I don't have a step-mummy," You say decisively," Just Mummy, Mum and kind of Daddy."

Clearly the girl doesn't understand and you don't really feel like explaining it so you don't.

You just go about your day.

You even forget about the conversation entirely as Keira picks you up from school and takes you back to her house.

Dinner with Keira is easy like always just like bath time and bedtime where she reads you your special story about a little girl footballer being better than all of the boys on her team before tucking you.

She dresses you like usual the next day in your uniform and snaps an obligatory picture to send to Lucy once she's dropped you off.

You're both early like you normally are and mill around while you wait for the gates to open.

"Oh, Keira," Another one of the mummies says as she sidles up close and strikes up a conversation.

If Lucy were here, she'd let you run off with some of the other kids and play by the bike shed but Keira's always been a bit more cautious about you.

She likes you to stick to her side so you don't get up to mischief so that's where you stay, swinging your joint hands around as you kick a little rock.

"You put in so much effort getting her to places on time," The other mum continues though you've mostly tuned her out in favour of watching some of the older kids drive their new bikes straight into the shed. "It's such a shame that you don't get any help."

Keira frowns, holding your hand a little tighter. "What do you mean? I have help. Lucy-"

"I meant from her father," The woman cuts her off quickly," It's such a shame that he's never around."

Keira tugs on your hand a little bit until you're pressed up against her leg and she lets go of your hand to lightly run her fingers through your hair.

"She doesn't have a father," Keira says stiffly, drawing you as close as she possible can," It's just me and Lucy."

"Oh." The woman's mouth shuts with an audible click. "But I thought...Mia said that y/n talked about her daddy."

"She doesn't have a daddy," Keira says and you frown at that.

Ordinarily, you would argue about it but the way Keira's holding you makes you stay silent.

This is clearly an adult conversation.

It's short and snappy and Keira guides you away before kneeling down in front of you.

Her voice is soft as she speaks. "What's this about a daddy, huh? You know you don't have a daddy."

"I do," You insist," I do!"

"Peanut, baby, you don't. You have me and Mum. Remember? No daddy."

"Mum is my Daddy!"

"What?"

"We were learning about families," You say as Keira draws you close so you can rest your head against her," And the teacher said about how mummies are the ones that carry the babies. You carried me. I know because there's pictures. And daddies are the ones that look after the mummies what that happens. So Mum must be my Daddy because she looked after you."

"Y/n..."

"And Mum likes being Daddy! She says so!"

Keira closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath as she tries to keep a lid on her thoughts. "Families don't always need a daddy," She says softly," A family can be two mummies and a little girl."

"Are you sure? My teacher didn't say that."

"Well that's what our family is like and that's what Liefje's family's like. I don't think having two mummies makes it any less a family, alright? You don't need to have a daddy for our family to be right."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay, Mummy."

The gates open to let the kids into the playground but Keira keeps you close to her side for a few minutes longer, sucking up the affection and your hug until she finally sets you off.

Your words about Lucy being your daddy play on her mind as she drives to training. It's the thing that's in the forefront of her thoughts the moment she sees Lucy's face.

"Has our daughter told you that she thinks you're her daddy?"

It's not the best thing she's ever led with but Keira can't help herself.

"What?"

"Our daughter. She's under the impression that you are her father."

For a moment, Lucy looks floored - a shocked look on her face and eyes wide. But then, as Keira should have expected, Lucy grins.

"She thinks I'm her daddy?"

"Don't start."

Lucy's grin only widens. "A daddy? This is great!"

"I'm already regretting telling you."

"Do you think the dad will let me into their groupchat now?"

[hamilton-here]

ORDER UPPPPPPP !

Uhhhh lemme get a one piece lewis hamilton fic with nico rosberg’s sister and their kid with the “I’m so hungry I could eat a..” but it’s the 2016 world championship and its’ a whole ass mess 😩☝️ ik reader be shaking her head like dayum.. here we go..

𝐹𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓎 𝐹𝑒𝓊𝒹

Authors Note: Hi all! Here’s a short one-shot. Still have many to go. Lewis finished P4, very proud! Now just praying for Silverstone. Lots of love xx

Summary: A family dinner spirals into chaos after Lewis and his wife unwittingly ignite an old rivalry with a TikTok trend that sends Nico and Lewis into a petty war all over again.

Warnings: slight angst

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The soft hum of your blow dryer filled the bedroom, blending with the occasional taps of your child’s fingers against your phone screen and the quiet shuffle of Lewis tying his boots in the corner.

It should’ve been a peaceful moment of getting ready for dinner, surrounded by your little family but your chest was tight, and the reflection staring back at you in the mirror wore the expression of someone heading into battle.

Your brows furrowed as you struggled to tame an uncooperative section of hair, the strands slipping stubbornly out of place no matter how much heat you applied.

Maybe it wasn’t the hair. Maybe it was the fact that this dinner - this dinner was going to be a test. A delicate, exhausting balancing act that you had been mentally rehearsing for days.

You weren’t nervous. You were prepared because you had to be.

From where they sat cross-legged on your bed, your child swung their little legs back and forth in an endless rhythm, giggling at TikTok audios that blasted from the phone’s speakers at half-volume.

They were completely unaware of the political minefield you were about to drag them into a dinner where every polite smile would be razor-thin, every conversation a tightrope walk over unresolved history.

Lewis, on the other hand looked completely unbothered. He perched in the armchair near the window, carefully lacing up his boots like it was any other casual night out, like you weren’t about to throw him into the same room as Nico. Your brother. The one person who could still pull sharp edges out of Lewis with frightening ease.

“Okay,” you started, voice firm but your back still to him as you fussed over the final curl. You weren’t sure if you were talking to yourself, to him, or to the universe at large.

“I need you to behave tonight.” Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the amused tilt of his head as he leaned back, fingers now idly spinning his car key around his thumb. “I always behave.”

You spun on your heel so fast the curling iron in your hand nearly smacked the dresser. “No. No, you don’t. You behave until you don’t. Until Nico says one thing - one tiny thing and suddenly it’s like 2016 all over again and I’m sitting there watching you two throw verbal grenades across the table.”

Lewis’s grin pulled lazily across his face, sharp and unapologetic. “Babe, I’m chill.”

“You are not chill,” you snapped, pointing the curling iron at him like a weapon. “You are the opposite of chill. You simmer until you boil over and suddenly, we’re re-litigating Abu Dhabi over appetisers.” He held his arms out as if to display his innocence. “I’m chill. I’ll be good.”

You shot him a deadly look, stepping closer now, because you knew him. You knew that smug smile meant he was already thinking of a hundred things he could say. “Promise me,” you said, planting your free hand on your hip. “No side comments. No smug remarks. No snarky digs and most of all -”

“Mummy, what’s snarky?” Lewis’s and your child interrupted without looking up, too engrossed in their phone to realise they’d cut the tension like a butter knife through soft cake. You sighed, casting a glance over your shoulder. “Daddy. Daddy is snarky.” Lewis grinned like he’d just been handed a badge of honour. “Damn right.”

You levelled him with your stare. “I mean it. This is family dinner. For our child. These are the moments they’ll remember. I want them to remember laughter, not you and Nico trying to kill each other with bread knives.”

Lewis finally stood, crossing the room in three long strides to wrap his arms around you from behind. His hands splayed across your waist, the press of his lips soft against your bare shoulder. “Relax, love,” he murmured, resting his chin atop your head. “It’s just dinner.”

You turned in his arms enough to catch his gaze in the mirror. “It’s never just dinner with my brother. You know that. I know that. The whole paddock knows that.” There was something in his eyes something softer, weightier beneath the cheeky surface. He kissed your temple next, lingering a little longer this time. “I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

You narrowed your eyes, unconvinced. “I swear to God, Lewis, if you so much as breathe in a passive-aggressive tone tonight, I will switch cars with Nico and leave you stranded at the restaurant.” He snorted, pressing another kiss to your temple, amused. “Babe, you love me too much for that.”

From the bed, your child finally looked up, beaming. “I love Daddy too much too.” Lewis winked at them in the mirror. “See? I’ve got backup.”

You exhaled, shaking your head with a small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips. He was infuriating. He was impossible. He was yours. “Just…try. Please.”

“I will,” he promised, voice soft but with that maddening glint still lingering behind his eyes. He leaned into whisper, “Unless he starts first.” You slowly turned your head to glare at him.

“Okay, okay! Kidding. Promise.”

Your gaze lingered on him a beat longer, searching, waiting, before you finally nodded, letting the warmth of him seep into your frayed nerves. You knew him too well - knew how much he still carried from that championship, the grudges he’d carefully buried but never truly let go of. But you also knew he would show up for you, for your child, even if every inch of his pride told him to pick a fight.

For now, that was enough.

You pulled away gently, grabbing your bag from the dresser. “Come on, we’re going to be late.” Your child leapt off the bed still clutching your phone, still giggling at whatever TikTok had been playing on loop. Their footsteps padded softly alongside you as you headed for the front door, Lewis trailing just behind.

Somewhere in the universe, the stars were probably already laughing, because that little TikTok audio would soon be the exact thing that would blow this entire dinner straight to hell.

The car ride was comfortable but in that dangerously deceptive way, like the stillness before a summer storm you could feel vibrating in your bones, the thick air warning you that something was coming, something you wouldn’t be able to stop once it started.

You sat in the passenger seat, elbow pressed against the cool window, fingers lightly massaging your temple as the city rushed past in streaks of deep orange and purple. The sunset washed the streets in soft, bleeding gold but you barely registered it.

You weren’t watching the skyline you were carefully walking yourself through every possible version of tonight, scanning for the ones that didn’t end with you dragging Lewis out of a restaurant by his collar.

Your list was short.

Beside you, Lewis hummed low under his breath, following the soft beat of the music crackling through the speakers. His left hand rested on the wheel, easy and loose, while his right hand stayed comfortably on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy absent circles into your skin like it was second nature. His body language radiated relaxation, his breathing unhurried, his shoulders light like he truly believed this dinner wouldn’t implode.

You dragged your gaze over to him, unimpressed. The way his head tilted gently to the rhythm, how his foot tapped along like he was on some laid-back Sunday drive it was infuriatingly calm. As if he wasn’t about to sit across from Nico Rosberg for an hour and be expected to play nice.

You watched the soft pull of his jawline as he chewed his lip thoughtfully in time with the music, and part of you wondered whether he was this relaxed because he had absolutely no plan to behave or because he had already made peace with the fact that he wouldn’t.

You wanted to believe it was the former.

From the back seat, your child’s voice broke into the quiet hum of the car, all innocent brightness. They were strapped into their booster seat, kicking their feet rhythmically against the leather, looking at the passing cars as they spoke. “Mummy?” they chirped, oblivious to the delicate storm cloud forming between you and Lewis. “Do you think Uncle Nico’s gonna race me to the restaurant door again?”

You cracked a tired smile, glancing at them in the rearview mirror. “Probably. You know he can’t resist trying to beat someone to something.”

Your child giggled happily, proud to be in on the family’s signature tradition: racing each other to every restaurant door, every front step, every park bench. The last time, Nico had let them win, arms outstretched in faux defeat as they tagged the door handle and declared themselves the fastest Rosberg alive. You were hoping tonight he’d let everyone win by simply walking in, sitting down, and not lighting a match.

Beside you, Lewis gave your thigh a soft squeeze. His voice was smooth, almost teasing. “You stress too much, you know that?” You slowly turned your head toward him, your jaw tightening. “You promised me. Remember? Just before we left the house, when I literally held your face in my hands and made you repeat it?”

He arched a brow, lips curling into that maddening half-smile the one that had gotten him out of trouble so many times you’d lost count. “I remember.”

“You said you’d be on your best behaviour tonight.”

“I am.”

Your stare sharpened. “Lewis, please. I need you to actually mean it. I just want one dinner. One normal, peaceful night. No sideways comments, no smug digs, no conveniently timed stories about team radio strategies or tyre choices in Abu Dhabi or -”

Lewis snorted, biting his lip like he was barely suppressing a laugh. “You make me sound like a walking PR crisis.” You shot him a look that was somehow both bone-tired and dangerously close to setting him on fire. “You are a walking PR crisis. Especially around my brother.”

Lewis chuckled, slow and low, like he was enjoying this way too much. He briefly released your thigh, theatrically crossing his heart with his free hand. “Scout’s honour. I’ll keep it cool.” You narrowed your eyes. “Cooler than you kept it in 2016?”

His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. You caught it. “Low blow,” he murmured, but his thumb returned to its soft circles against your skin. “But fair.”

You faced him fully now, desperate to crack through the carefully maintained armour. “Look at me, Lewis. Please. You and Nico haven’t really spoken in years not properly. I know you’ve both moved on or at least pretended to but tonight isn’t about that.

It’s not about what happened, it’s not about proving who was right. It’s about our kid. It’s m about being a family that can sit at one table and not make it feel like there’s a ticking time bomb in the breadbasket.”

His expression softened just for a moment his bravado slipping like he was finally, finally listening to you instead of just performing calm. He reached over, lacing your fingers with his, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“I’ll try. I promise.” His voice was quieter now, and you could hear the sincerity there, but you also heard the unspoken but if he starts hanging in the silence.

From the back seat, your child’s voice chimed again, bright and curious. “Are we gonna talk about racing at dinner?” You tilted your head toward Lewis, silently daring him to answer wrong.

Lewis’s thumb grazed your skin again, almost mischievous. “Probably,” he answered, then added, “but only the good parts. Like how fast your Uncle Nico used to be, you know, before he…” You narrowed your eyes. “Finish that sentence and I will walk to the restaurant.”

His grin stretched across his face. “I was gonna say, ‘before he got busy being the best uncle ever,’ but alright.” You hummed, unconvinced. “You’re far too pleased with yourself right now.” He shot you a wink. “I’m composed.”

“You are not composed,” you muttered, folding your arms and staring firmly out the window again. “You are walking into this dinner like you’ve got a full deck of Uno reverse cards hidden in your jacket.”

“Maybe I do,” he teased.

Your child giggled behind you, entirely absorbed in the rhythm of the drive, quietly humming TikTok audios to themselves - a soundtrack that had been following you around the house for the last week. They’d been hooked on that viral trend, the “I’m so hungry I could eat a…” one, rattling off increasingly ridiculous endings all week. Sandwiches. Clouds. Entire bicycles. It had been funny the first few times. Now, it was white noise.

You should’ve known. You should’ve known they’d find a new punchline when you least expected it.

When you finally pulled into the restaurant’s small parking lot, a flicker of unease settled low in your stomach, wrapping tight around your ribs. And there he was.

Nico. Standing by the entrance, scrolling on his phone, his weight leaning lazily on one foot like he’d been waiting, but not really waiting for you. His posture said he could leave at any time, but his expression neutral, vaguely bored said he wouldn’t. He’d shown up. Probably because you’d given him the speech too.

Lewis killed the engine, the music cutting out, the last note fading like a warning. He stepped out and quietly came around to your side, his hand finding the small of your back as you slipped out of the seat, warm and familiar and steady a silent I’m here. I’ll try.

Your child wasted no time sprinting across the lot, arms wide. “Uncle Nico!” Nico’s entire face transformed in an instant, his walls crumbling as he crouched down to catch them in his arms. “Hey, little one! Look at you getting so big!” He pulled back, hands on their tiny shoulders as he beamed. “Are you gonna beat me to the table tonight?”

Your child puffed out their chest, determined. “I’m gonna win!”

“I don’t know, I’ve been training.” Nico winked, ruffling their hair. His eyes finally drifted upward, settling on Lewis. The warmth bled out of his face like someone had flipped a switch.

His polite smile barely touched his eyes. “Lewis.” Lewis’s smile was just as tight, just as carefully measured. “Nico.” The handshake that followed was firm. Too firm. A second too long. The kind of handshake that said we are still not okay but I’m going to fake this for the sake of the people watching.

You slid between them like a well-practiced referee, giving both of them a long, warning look. Do not start this in the parking lot.

“Shall we?” you offered sweetly, your voice honeyed but your eyes sharp enough to cut glass. Lewis gestured toward the entrance, his grin returning with a dangerous glint. “After you, champ.”

You sighed, dragging a hand slowly down your face as you fell into step behind them. You could already feel it that electric, delicate crackle in the air. Like the dinner was already primed to blow and all it needed was a spark.

Here we go.

It was supposed to be a peaceful dinner.

Supposed to be.

You had planned the evening with the kind of precision normally reserved for hostage negotiations, space launches, or defusing nuclear bombs. You’d spent weeks agonising over the details calibrating guest lists, assessing locations for their psychological neutrality, running stress simulations in your head like some war general planning for the last supper.

But you weren’t dealing with average people.

You were dealing with Lewis Hamilton your husband, living legend, seven-time world champion, expert in deflection, dramatics, and devastating charm.

And Nico Rosberg your older brother, reigning king of passive-aggression, ex-Formula 1 champion and lifelong smug menace with a jawline carved from salt and spite.

Some families argue over who brings the stuffing to Christmas dinner. Yours argues about engine maps and tyre strategy. This dinner was not about catching up. This was a demilitarised zone. A ceasefire summit. A desperately choreographed ballet of fake smiles and carefully neutral cutlery.

You had chosen the restaurant with the delicacy of a bomb squad defusing an armed toaster. It was tucked into a quiet corner of the city hidden from cameras, fans and any mention of Sky Sports. No team memorabilia. No automotive decor. Just soft lighting, boring jazz, and napkins the colour of emotional repression.

The table was chosen specifically to avoid conflict. Round so no one sat at the head. Set for four. Five, if you counted the emotional hand grenade in a booster seat currently chewing on a breadstick like it held state secrets.

Your child. Your sweet, precious, inquisitive child. The tiny person currently playing god with crayons and Parmesan dust.

The evening began almost tolerably. There were forced pleasantries. Smiles that belonged on toothpaste commercials. Lewis complimented Nico’s shirt. Nico pretended to be flattered. No one mentioned 2016. You were practically weeping with relief.

And your child? A delight. They asked Lewis to cut their ravioli into little stars. They offered Nico their last breadstick. They whispered, “This is nice,” with the conviction of someone who didn’t yet understand the concept of emotional landmines.

You even began to believe the worst had passed. That this night might by some miracle not devolve into a fiery, petrol-scented death-match.

And then -

As Nico reached for the olive oil and Lewis was mid-sip of his wine, the sweet voice of doom piped up.

“I’m so hungry,” your child declared, stabbing the air with their tiny fork like they were about to knight someone. “I could eat -”

You felt the warning signs before you even processed them. A sharp chill swept over the table.

The napkins fluttered faintly, like they knew. Time slowed. Your breath caught in your throat.

Please. Not tonight. Not -

“ -the 2016 World Championship!”

There it was. The sentence landed like a missile on the table, cracking open a trench that had been papered over with polite laughter and stale focaccia.

You didn’t move. No one did. It was the kind of silence normally reserved for crime scenes or wedding toasts gone horribly wrong. Nico’s hand froze mid-butter-spread. Lewis blinked once. Slowly. Like a sniper sizing up a target. Your child smiled proudly, pleased to have contributed something “relevant.”

And then -

Lewis set his glass down with the delicacy of someone resisting the urge to hurl it. “Is that so?” he said softly, his voice dipping into that dangerous register. You knew that tone. That was Lewis at Monaco in a press conference when asked if he still talked to Nico.

You reached for your child’s fork too late.

Nico leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and replied with a carefully neutral smile. “Funny,” he said smoothly. “I thought that was a little…hard to digest.” You closed your eyes briefly, a migraine blooming behind your forehead like fireworks made of pure rage.

Lewis gave a short, cold laugh just one exhale of really now? “Not for everyone,” he replied coolly, cutting into his mushroom risotto like it owed him money. Nico’s eyebrow twitched. Oh no. You knew that twitch. That was the twitch from Brazil 2015 when Lewis refused team orders. That was the twitch that once caused a three-week WhatsApp cold war.

“Well,” Nico drawled, reaching for his wine and swirling it with theatrical flair. “Some people just can’t handle losing.” Lewis tilted his head. “And some people can’t handle winning without FIA intervention and a deeply suspicious final lap.”

You silently begged the table to collapse into the floor and swallow you whole. Meanwhile, your child sat there beaming, completely oblivious, buttering their roll like they were hosting a PBS cooking show.

“Daddy says it was stolen!” they chirped, like they were quoting nursery rhymes and not nuclear-level trauma. You felt a full-body shudder ripple through Lewis. Nico inhaled sharply, fork hovering mid-air like a dagger in a Shakespearean tragedy.

“Oh, does he?” Nico asked lightly, eyes flicking to you for the briefest second. “Interesting. Maybe I’ll ask my daughter to write a rebuttal.” Lewis’s knife made a noise against the plate that sounded alarmingly like a threat.

Your child, delighted to have found a topic that had everyone’s attention, leaned forward eagerly. “And Mummy says we don’t talk about it because Uncle Nico has feelings!” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “Oh my god.” Lewis bit the inside of his cheek.

Nico looked affronted. “Excuse me, I have feelings?”

“Yes!” your child chirped. “Like ‘smug’ and ‘winner’ and ‘sore loser!’” You felt the moment Lewis almost fell out of his chair laughing and had to disguise it as a cough. You slammed your palm flat on the table so hard the spoons jumped.

“Okay. Enough.”

“But Mummy -”

“I said enough, future tabloid source!” Your glare could’ve melted carbon fibre. You turned to Lewis first. “Do not make me kick you under this table like it's 2016 and you're ignoring pit strategy again.”

He raised both hands in mock surrender. “I was just defending my honour.”

“Your honour,” you said flatly, “is on a five-year timeout.”

You turned to Nico. “And you. I grew up with your smug face, I can smell it from across the table. Wipe it off before I dump your wine in your lap.” Nico rolled his eyes. “You always take his side.” You gave him the look. “You peed on my Barbies when we were kids. You have no moral ground here.”

Nico grinned, unrepentant. Lewis snorted into his napkin.

The air remained tense, brittle but nobody said another word. For five seconds.

Then, your child, ever the agent of destruction disguised as a cherub, tilted their head innocently. “So…who really won?”

The table cracked. Nico leaned forward like a man prepared to present a ten-slide presentation and an onboard camera feed. Lewis opened his mouth, already halfway to launching into a full-blown conspiracy breakdown. You didn’t give them the chance.

“Check, please!” you snapped, rising from your chair with the speed of a lightning bolt. The waiter appeared so fast it was almost supernatural.

You grabbed your child who was still cheerfully licking spaghetti sauce off their fingers and stormed toward the door, muttering, “Family dinners are a scam created by therapists.”

Behind you, Nico and Lewis sat in stunned silence half fury, half amusement and a little bit of something else. Maybe respect. Maybe just heartburn.

But as you reached the door, you heard your child call out from your arms, voice sweet as sugar and loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear -

“I think you both won! One got the trophy and one got Mummy!”

Explosion.

Behind you, two grown men combusted in silence. Nico made a strangled sound like a broken espresso machine. Lewis’s hand gripped the back of his chair like it was holding him to earth.

You walked out into the night, your child babbling about dessert and alternate championship endings while you made a mental list of therapists, nannies, and sedatives.

Next time? Next time you were having dinner alone. With wine, with noise-cancelling headphones and maybe a name change and a fake passport. Lastly absolutely no world champions.

The door clicked shut behind you with a finality that reverberated through the heavy silence, sealing off the chaos of the evening like a dam snapping under pressure.

The sound lingered, echoing faintly as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, reluctant witnesses to the fragile peace you’d fought so hard to maintain only to have it shattered in a single, unguarded moment.

Outside, the night air was cool and crisp, a sharp contrast to the heat that still radiated beneath your skin. It burned like a restless ember, glowing fiercely in the pit of your chest, impossible to shake or ignore.

The cold night wrapped around you like a shroud, but inside, the storm raged on, a tempest of frustration, exhaustion, and a deep, aching desire for calm.

Your fingers slid down until they found your child’s small, warm hand, curling gently around it. The softness of their skin, the steady, trusting squeeze in return it was the only anchor in a sea of turmoil, the only certainty in a world fracturing around you. Their hand in yours was a quiet sanctuary, a tether to the purest kind of peace that no rivalry or rancour could touch.

Lewis finally ran out of the restaurant and fell into step beside you, his presence close but taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. Every muscle beneath his skin seemed wound tight, his jaw clenched with a tension you could almost see etched into the lines of his face.

His eyes flicked sideways toward Nico, who now stood a few paces away, rigid as a soldier awaiting orders, shoulders squared with the weight of unyielding pride and long-standing defiance.

Their gazes locked, sparks flying in the fading light, a silent conversation loaded with years of unspoken grievances and battles fought in boardrooms, press rooms, and on tracks across the globe.

You refused to meet their eyes. You fixed your gaze ahead, deliberately carving out a quiet bubble around your small family a fragile space where you could breathe, even as the undercurrent of conflict threatened to drag you back into its depths.

Your child who you had now placed down to walk, was oblivious to the storm swirling behind them, chattered happily, their voice a bright, carefree thread weaving through the heavy air.

They recounted the shapes of their spaghetti twists and bows that transformed a tense dinner into a childish adventure and giggled at their own silly observations.

Their laughter, pure and free, was a balm to your soul, a sharp reminder of what truly mattered amid the ruins of old resentments. For a brief moment, it made your heart ache with a bittersweet longing a hope for something better than this endless war.

Behind you, voices rose and fell in clipped exchanges, the cadence cold and jagged as knives sliding past one another. You caught fragments of their words, sharp and loaded with years of rivalry.

“Maybe next time, you keep your mouth shut after my kid makes a comment,” Lewis muttered, voice low but edged with barely contained irritation. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it carried the weight of a warning, meant only for Nico’s ears.

Nico’s laugh was dark and humourless, a sound heavy with reluctant respect tangled in scorn. “Or maybe you learn to lose like a man.” You swallowed hard, the bitter taste of their feud settling in your throat. Lips pressed into a tight, unmoving line, you kept walking, refusing to let their toxic dance pull you back into the fray. This was not your fight not tonight.

Ahead, the car waited like a beacon of escape. Its sleek surface shimmered softly under the glow of the streetlights, promising quiet refuge from the simmering tensions that still crackled in the night air. The low hum of the engine was a whispered lullaby, a promise that this night could end without further damage.

You reached the driver’s door first and slid inside, the familiar scent of leather and a faint trace of your favourite perfume welcoming you like a sigh of relief. Lewis exhaled sharply as he opened the backseat passenger door, his shoulders stiff with tension as he carefully lifted your child into their car seat.

You watched the small, trusting face light up with innocent delight as Lewis buckled them in, their eyes fluttering closed in sleepy contentment. The simple intimacy of the moment this small, perfect family unit was almost too much to bear. It was the fragile prize you guarded fiercely amid the wreckage of old wounds and unresolved battles.

Your child hummed contentedly through the entire process, cheeks flushed from the cold, mouth still faintly stained with marinara. As Lewis tightened the strap, your child leaned forward and whispered conspiratorial and gleeful “I think I won.”

Lewis let out a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a sigh. He pressed a soft kiss to their forehead and pulled back slowly, like someone afraid to trigger another mine.

Settling behind the wheel, your hands found the steering wheel with a familiar, practiced grip. You inhaled deeply, the cool night air filling your lungs and steadying the wild beat of your heart. Your eyes narrowed, focusing on the road stretching ahead, the streetlights blurring into gentle halos of gold as you prepared to leave the chaos behind.

Behind you, voices lingered like ghosts, faint echoes swallowed by the night breeze. The battle between Lewis and Nico was far from over it never truly ended.

You caught the sharp movement as Nico turned his back, shoulders squared in quiet defiance, disappearing into the shadows alone to his car. No parting words. Just the heavy, suffocating quiet of a war paused but far from finished.

You felt the invisible sparks trailing behind the residue of their rivalry and carried it like a second skin, tight against your ribs, pressing in with relentless weight. Not long after, Lewis eased into the passenger seat beside you, quiet but present, the silence between you less heavy than before but still fragile.

The driveway lay silent beneath a generous moon, casting a silver glow that softened the sharp edges of the night. You eased the car forward, the tires whispering against the gravel as you pulled into the familiar sanctuary of home. The quiet click of the garage door sealing shut behind you sounded like a small victory a barrier between the chaos you’d left behind and the fragile calm you desperately needed.

Inside the car, Lewis sat unusually still. The tension that had been taut between you all evening now seemed to settle heavily into his posture.

The sharp lines around his eyes, usually so fierce and animated, softened only by fatigue, shadows of the long, exhausting day etched into his features. He glanced back to see their child’s head resting gently against the side of the car seat, their breathing slow and even a serene island in the storm of the night’s battles.

You killed the engine and let the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t a comfortable silence far from it but it was a truce, fragile and necessary.

Lewis finally exhaled, a long, slow sound that carried a hint of regret. His gaze flicked toward you, searching, but cautious, unsure of the ground between you.

You kept your eyes fixed straight ahead, deliberately avoiding his. With practiced movements, you unclicked the seatbelt securing your child. “Let me,” Lewis said quietly, voice rough with weariness but genuine.

You nodded, silently grateful. Even after the war of words and tension, this moment of cooperation was a balm. Together, you lifted your child from the car seat, their small feet padding softly across the porch as you stepped inside. The house greeted you like a warm embrace, its familiar scents and quiet corners a stark contrast to the battlefield you’d just left behind.

In your child’s bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the wisps of hair away from their forehead. Their eyes fluttered closed, the excitement of the evening melting into peaceful sleep. You whispered the usual bedtime lullaby a quiet promise of safety and love, a shield against the storm outside the walls.

Lewis lingered by the door, a silhouette carved in the dim light, watching with a mixture of longing and regret. When your child’s breath evened out into steady sleep, you finally met his eyes raw and honest in the quiet aftermath.

“About tonight...” Lewis began, his voice low, hesitant, fragile in a way it rarely was. You raised a hand, stopping him gently but firmly. “Lewis, you promised. No snark. No jabs. No starting fights.” He winced, the weight of his broken vow pressing down on his shoulders. “I know. I screwed up. I’m sorry.”

You let out a slow breath, the tight knot inside you loosening just a fraction. “It’s not just the words. It’s the years wrapped up in them, the wounds they tear open every time.” He stepped forward, the hardness in his expression softening. “I hate that it’s come to this. Between me and Nico…between us.”

Your heart tightened at the admission, raw and unguarded. “We all want peace, Lewis. I want peace. For us, for our child. For this family.” His fingers reached out, brushing yours tentatively a silent plea for forgiveness, a promise to try harder. “I swear. No more stirring the pot. No more throwing punches in the dark.”

You studied his eyes, searching for the truth beneath the exhaustion and stubborn pride. Finally, you squeezed his hand a fragile truce, fragile but real. “Good. Because tonight? Tonight wasn’t it.”

Lewis cracked a small smile, genuine and weary. “Noted. Next time, I’ll be the diplomat.” You chuckled softly, feeling the first flicker of warmth you’d had all evening. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There was a long pause, heavy and full of the quiet hopes and tensions between you. Then, leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to Lewis’s lips gentle, grounding, a tether to something better amid the wreckage.

He pulled back just enough to grin, mischief teasing the edges of his tired eyes. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and playful, “if Nico’s got a victory lap planned, I hope it involves at least one plate flying across the table. I was running low on popcorn.”

You raised an eyebrow, smacking his chest lightly, unable to suppress a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

Lewis laughed a rich, warm sound that filled the quiet room and cracked open the tension like sunlight through a window.

“Hey,” he said with mock innocence, “I’m just trying to keep dinner entertaining. Who needs Netflix when you’ve got family drama?”

You shook your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well, if you keep it up, I’ll start charging you admission.”

He winked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “Deal. But only if you promise to be my co-star.”

You smiled against his cheek, the warmth between you a balm against the bruises of the evening.

And for the first time that night, hope stirred gently in your chest quiet, fragile, but unmistakably real.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Simon Riley's Breeding Kink

Warnings: 18+, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Unprotected Sex, Feral! Ghost, Territorial! Ghost, Praise, Profanity, Fem! Reader.

He surprises himself with it - this debilitating need to pump you full of his seed, to make you his from the inside out.

He isn't subtle about it, either. You're missionary beneath him, nails dragging down his back as he stuffs you full of his cock. Your eyes are rolling into your skull, but even through your moaning symphony of euphoria, you hear Simon's voice.

"M'gonna fuck you every day, fill your pretty little cunt 'til y'can't walk," he pants, voice low. He grips your hips and pulls you in, taking you at another angle. Hits you deeper. Your back arches into him as he tears a languishing moan from you, and you squeeze him so deliciously that he knows he won't be able to hold back the floodgates for much longer. Especially as he watches the writhing bump in your stomach, his cock pressed tightly against the roof of your abdomen. Foreshadowing.

"Make you my housewife. Bet you'd like that - all mine for me to breed like a bunny. Good for nothing 'cept bearin' my kids," You feel him twitch inside you. He's almost getting himself off to the future you brought to him: one with a family as large as your body will allow, keeping you in an almost-constant state of pregnancy.

You clamp down on him, his words going straight between your legs. "Fuckin' hell," he growls. He runs a hand across your front, presses down on his sheathed member. He grunts, his balls, heavy and thick with semen, slapping against your backside with every thrust.

"Can't wait to- ngh- make you into a perfect little mummy, show you off to the group. Bet they'd like to fuck you like this, but you're all mine."

You know that. You can feel it in the way his growl reverberates through the room as he cums, in the way he presses deeper into you when his release crashes over him in waves, making sure not an ounce of his seed is wasted. In the way his hands find yours, gripping them as you milk him dry.

There's so much of it. Too much, even. Your body tells you so in the tender sensation across your front as your skin pulls taut over the growing lump in your stomach; the aftermath of his many attempts at breeding you. Simon waits until he's emptied everything he has to offer inside you, and only then does he look down at you, eyes filled with an uncharacteristic brightness that screams 'love'.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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[mischievousmoony]

hi, ok i have another idea for a fic which again totally up to you to write!! but i had an idea with dad!james and r where their kid is like equally obsessed with their mum as james is with r and one day james decides to prank their kid by saying something bad about the r while their kid is present and the baby just goes off. i feel like you would do an amazing job with this! feel free to ignore too. have a perfectly splendid day!!

-🪷

"the baby just goes off" painted a hilarious picture of an infant yelling at his dad in my mind lmao. ty for the request this warmed my heart to write + special thanks to @moonpascal for chatting a little about kids, gave me the reassurance & inspiration i needed

𝚋𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚜

⟢ pairing: dad!james potter x mom!reader ⟢ summary: your husband and son are equally obsessed with you, and james finds out what your little one does when he's not so nice to you ⊹ 1.1k ⟢ warnings: fluff, dad/husband!james, mom/wife!reader, no use of y/n, no name for the son, idk how to write a child's dialogue tbh son's supposed to sound 4 years old

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

James gladly goes out of his way to mention to anyone who will listen that his little one is unmistakably a Mummy's boy. From family to friends to the poor souls who bag his groceries, James will talk the ear off of anyone he can.

He finds it to be the most endearing thing in the world— the way that your son is as obsessed with you as James is. Always staying close and clinging to you, touching affection radiating from every hug and smile.

Today, as he watches his son run back and forth across the carpet, handing his mother block after block just to see her face light up after each gift, his awe and admiration are insurmountable.

Last night, James surprised you with a pair of earrings that you have been wishing for. When your face lit up upon receiving the little leatherette box, so did your son's. He didn't quite understand why you were so excited about some cube, but since then he's been trying to replicate your excitement with presents of his own.

"Oh my! Another one! Thank you, buddy," you beam, you're gratefulness and delight unwavering as he hands you the sixth block.

Your son giggles, bouncing in his spot as you inspect each side of the little wooden toy, telling him how much you adore the blue penguin painted on one of its faces.

That's another thing that touches James' heart: the tender nurture and care that you bestow upon your son with such unwavering devotion and warmth. It has James convinced that you must be the best mum in the entire world.

He might just melt at the sight of you now, kneeling happily in front of a growing pile of blocks as your son scurries back and forth, adding to your collection. James sits cross-legged to your right, resting his elbow on his knee and laying his head in his hand, watching the two he loves most in the world with hearts in his eyes.

You gasp, as if surprised when handed block number seven. "Oh, this is my favorite one yet. How did you know I love zebras?" you ask, your thumb tracing over the red acrylic paint on the side of the block.

By the time you have twelve, nearly half of his collection, you say, "I have a lot of blocks here, buddy, do you want to give some to Daddy?"

"No!" your son protests immediately, running off to his toy box for the thirteenth time.

You and James both chuckle, exchanging amused glances. Finding your son's reaction hilarious, James’s mischievous side has him dreaming up new ways to push his buttons. Your son thinks the world of you, and James is curious to see what the little guy will do if he claims otherwise.

"Well, what am I gonna do with all of this? Should I..."

You leave your son in suspense for a moment, and his hands hover over his toy box as looks at you, hanging onto your every word in anticipation.

"...build a castle!?"

“Yeah!” your son cheers, scooping three more blocks into his arms, thrilled to supply the bricks for your castle.

James nudges you, a sign of his upcoming playfulness. “You sure about that, bud? Mummy is absolutely rotten at building castles.”

Halfway across the carpet, your son stops in his tracks, glaring at his father as he tries to keep his blocks from falling out of his arms.

Stifling a laugh, you press your fingertips to your lips. By now, you’re used to James’ bursts of mischief, and you’re more than happy to sit back and let them play out. Unless you’re an active participant, of course.

You muster up a scandalized gasp as he reaches for your mountain of presents, claiming three blocks in one hand.

“No!” your little one complains, rushing to drop his three in your lap to replace the ones that James stole, “those are Mummy’s!”

“You sure Mummy deserves all these blocks?” James asks, starting to stack them into a tower, “You watch, I’ll build a castle that’ll make her’s look like rubbish.”

Your son hastily makes his way over to his dad, both arms extended as he collides with the tower and sends the blocks flying. "Stop it," he says as he scoops up the nearest block and runs it back over to you, shouting, "Mummy's castles are the best!"

He climbs into your lap, clutching onto the toy tightly as one of your arms wraps around him, and you feel your heart start to melt as you rub soothing circles into his back. You look over your son's head, your eyes sparkling with affection as you meet your husband's tender gaze.

Not having the heart to mess with him for very long, James concedes, "You're right, I'm not being very nice, am I?"

"Nuh-uh!" your son replies, shaking his head with exaggeratedly vigor, the curls he gets from his dad bouncing about.

"What can I do to make it up to her?" James asks, turning the ordeal into a subtle lesson as he dramatically feigns sorrow and despair over his actions.

"'Pologize," your son commands, his head swiveling to look at James expectantly over his shoulder.

James puts on his most sheepish, apologetic smile, looking from his son to you. "I'm very sorry. He's right, your castles are the best. Can you forgive me, love?"

"Aw, of course I forgive you," you say warmly, your amusement manifesting as a wide smile. You lean back so you can get a good view of your son's face when you tell him, "You know, I bet what Daddy really wants is to build a castle with us. I love your presents, bud, but we don't want to leave Daddy out do we?"

He looks down at the block in his little hand. "No," he replies shyly.

"So why don't you ask him to build a castle with us?" You give him a pat on the back before releasing him from your arms. "Go on," you coax.

He steps closer to James, holding the block close to his chest. "We can all build a castle," he offers.

"Yeah?" James' face lights up, and it's not for show. Genuine joy takes over his features as he ruffles your son's hair, responding, "I'd love nothing more, little man."

"But you have to be nice to Mummy!" he demands, his little voice firm and earnest as he looks up at James with wide, serious eyes.

"I promise, I will be on my best behavior," James assures him, his voice sincere as he gives a playful salute. That's enough for your son, because he finally awards James with his very first block, which he accepts with pride.

"Good!" your son cheers, already moving on to the pile of blocks to start stacking them as he proclaims, "Mummy is the best, and we have to show it!"

Your lips part as you suck in a breath, a quiet gasp. Receiving your son's affection never fails to make your heart swell.

You don't feel James' eyes on you, but he's watching— admiring, more like, as he takes in the way that you soften at your son's sweet words. A smitten smile plays at his lips as he agrees, "She is the best, isn't she?"

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[formulaonecrumbs]

first day of school 🏫

Lando Norris x older sister!reader

summary: lando’s first day of school and he’s scared. he just needs his big sis.

warnings: lando scared for first day (MY SHAYLAA) nonnneee

A/N: i love my baby and this is my new favourite series. OKAY ENJOY!!!!

༻ ❤︎︎ ༺

home film #3 (out of a gazillion)- found in a cardboard box labelled ‘memories’

(recorded: front drive, norris family home, bristol)

timestamp: 7:03 am 09-11-2004

the tape starts with the sound of car doors opening and shoes crunching on gravel.

the camera pans over the driveway to where the family car is parked. the boot’s open, your mum’s already filming, and a small school bag with race cars on it is swinging wildly in the air—attached to a very nervous almost-five-year-old.

lando is dressed in his uniform. it’s a bit too big. but maybe that’s because he’s tiny. the sleeves cover part of his hands, and his collar is crooked. he keeps tugging at it like it’s trying to strangle him.

“mum i don’t wanna go,” he whines, turning away from the car and immediately launching himself toward you.

you’re standing by the front gate, holding a juice box in one hand, backpack slung over your shoulder. you’re eight now. and for some reason, today you look very grown-up to him.

“bean, come on, it’s just school,” you say, giggling as he wraps himself around your middle like a koala.

“don’t wanna,” he mumbles into your shirt. “what if they don’t like me?”

you put your juice down and crouch to look at him. “why wouldn’t they like you?”

“because,” he sniffs. “i don’t know how to do school.”

you brush his hair off his forehead. “that’s the whole point of school, lando. they teach you stuff. like how to color inside the lines. and how to not cry when someone steals your glue stick.”

cisca laughs behind the camera. “is that what happened to you on your first day?”

you nod seriously. “still not over it.”

“i don’t want her to go to big kid school,” lando says suddenly, his bottom lip wobbling. “what if they make her stay there forever?”

you blink, then start laughing. “they won’t, silly. it’s just till lunch.”

“but that’s soooo long,” he groans, leaning his entire body weight on you.

adam walks into frame holding a camera of his own. “okay, everyone line up! photo time!”

lando groans again but doesn’t let go of your hand.

the next shot is a still one, filmed by the tripod now resting on the hood of the car. the whole family is lined up—ollie making a funny face holding a grumpy two-year-old flo with her half-eaten banana and you standing proudly next to lando, holding his hand in yours.

lando’s clutching your fingers like it’s life or death.

after the photo, the video cuts to the school gate.

there are dozens of kids running around, backpacks bouncing, parents waving goodbye. the camcorder zooms in just as lando’s grip on your hand tightens again.

“y/n,” he whispers. “don’t go.”

you kneel down one last time, pressing your forehead to his. “i’m right down the hall, bean. i promise. and we’ll be home before lunch. and i’ll let you have the first juice box.”

“with the straw already poked in?”

“with the straw already poked in.”

he takes a shaky breath and finally lets go.

you both walk through the gate. he’s still frowning, but he keeps looking over at you like he’s making sure you’re real.

right before the clip ends, lando glances back at the camera and yells, “wait—tell mummy i love her!”

fade to black.

THE END :>

[fastandcarlos]

Baby Sibling : ̗̀➛ Max Verstappen

summary: whilst all his friends are having siblings, your son is keen for the two of you to start thinking about when he can have one too

Puzzled eyes looked to Max as your son refused to hold your hands as the two of you picked him up from school. It was routine for you both whenever Max was home, it had been since your son started school a little over a year ago, something you had done every single day together. 

Max shrugged back at you as his empty hand felt lost. His eyes glanced at your son who was a couple of steps ahead of you, scuffing his feet along the path. Neither of you quite knew what to say, it was unlike anything that you had ever seen from your son before.  

As you arrived home, your son immediately took himself into the living room where his toy box was. Max followed you into the kitchen as you took his bag to unpack and check for any letters or drawings. A huff came from Max as he took a seat, his head resting in his hands as he tried to piece together the pieces to figure out what was going on. 

“I don’t understand,” you sighed as you took a seat opposite Max. “His teacher didn’t say anything to make me think that something happened at school today.” 

“He was smiling until he saw us,” Max informed you. 

Your heart broke as you listened to Max, only to be interrupted by the sound of footsteps entering the room. Your son trudged in silently, picking up his water bottle that was on the side, turning his back to you both and drinking from it. 

“Evan, do you want to play a game?” Max offered, choosing one of his favourite things to do whenever his dad was home. “What about that board game you bought the other day?” 

Your son’s head shook as he took the bottle and headed back into the room. You both were sat in shock, mouths wide in disbelief at how distant Evan had suddenly become. 

“He’s quite sensitive, maybe he just needs a little bit of time,” you suggested, trying your best to reassure the two of you. 

“But we’re his parents, he should talk to us about anything,” Max despairingly sighed. 

Attempts were made by the two of you for most of the night but Evan gave you nothing. Whenever you struck up conversation you were met by short, snappy answers, or just the shake or nod of his head. 

As night arrived, Max was determined to unpick what was troubling your son, sitting down at the end of his bed after you’d tucked him in. You stayed in the room with them both, leaning against the doorframe and giving them both some space. There was a pause in the room once Max sat down, trying his best to figure out the right thing to say so that he didn’t worry Evan more. It took a moment, but eventually he cleared his throat. 

“Evan, you know if something, or someone, is upsetting you, mummy and I are here to help you, right?” Max asked him, keeping his eyes firmly on him. “We’re always here to help you, no matter what the problem is.” 

Evan nodded as Max spoke, shuffling slightly closer towards him. “I’m the only one at school who doesn’t have a brother or sister and people keep leaving me out of their conversations.” 

Max’s eyes flickered across to you to make sure that you were listening. “You’re feeling a little left out buddy? Are you saying that you want to have a little brother or sister?” 

Evan continued to nod back at Max, “I think it would be fun to have one.” 

A sigh of relief came from you, glad that it wasn’t anything worse that was troubling your son. It still upset you to know that he was being left out at school, but at least it was something that could be fixed. Most likely. 

“There’s a lot of reasons why people do, or don’t, have little brothers and sisters,” Max tried his best to explain to Evan. “It’s not always an easy thing for families to do.” 

“Is it tricky for you and mummy?” Evan enquired. 

Having another child was a subject that you and Max had barely even thought about. You were so busy, and Max’s schedule was insane, but with Evan nearing six, you didn’t want the gap between your children to be too big. 

“A little bit,” Max weakly smiled, not wanting to lie to your son. “Daddy works away a lot, don’t I? And mummy does a lot of caring for you, but hopefully one day it won’t be quite so difficult for us to potentially have a baby sibling for you buddy.” 

You weren’t entirely sure if Evan understood what Max was saying to him, but he nodded anyway. Max stood up and walked over to your son, pressing a relieved kiss to the top of his head as he began to say goodnight. 

“Can I do anything to help make it happen daddy?” Evan whimpered as Max stepped away from him, his hopeful eyes looking between you both. “If it’s tricky, then maybe I can help you and mummy.” 

“You just need to keep being awesome,” Max cheerfully told him, “that’s the only thing that me and mummy ever want from you, you’re already the best.” 

You went in to say goodnight to your son too before following Max out of the room. There was silence between you as you headed into your bedroom, both perching on your respective sides of the bed, giving yourselves a moment to debrief and take in the conversation that you’d just had. 

“Why do I feel guilty?” Max asked, breaking the silence. “It’s not up to anyone else but us when we have another child, but I hate that it’s leaving him feeling left out at school.” 

“Maybe it’s the shove that we need to do something about it,” you responded. 

Max’s body jumped, quickly turning to look at you. His smile was wide as he listened to you. “Are you saying you want to have another baby? I never thought you were keen on another with how much I’m away right now.” 

“I mean it would be tough,” you admitted, “but we’re not getting any younger, and I don’t want Evan being a single child forever. I think we’d be able to do it, it would be tough, but we’d smash it don’t you think?” 

“Absolutely, we’ve always been a great team,” Max reminded you, “and I can make sure that I’m home more often to help out too.” 

“Have we just agreed to a second baby right now?” 

“I think we might’ve done,” Max laughed, laying himself down and pulling you down with him. “Promise me that you’re not just saying this to please me, or to please Evan either.” 

“I promise, as long as you do as well.” 

Max nodded eagerly, leaning across and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. Your body turned inwards so that you were resting in Max’s side, feeling his arm wrap around you to keep you nice and close, exactly where he wanted you. 

“Do you think there’s any harm in getting a bit of practice in now? We might need it,” Max whispered. 

“I’d say there’s no time like the present.” 

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗