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julietsf1 · 3 months ago

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Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

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The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused.

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit.

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation.

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname.

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water.

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind.

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless.

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

#f1 x reader #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris one shot #lando norris x you #lando x reader #lando x you #ln4 imagine #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic #lando norris #lando norris fic

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whatsverstappeningnow · 24 days ago

Text

how f1 drivers react

when they notice you haven't been eating enough (requested)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

-> tw: obviously references to ED behaviours and not eating, reader discretion is advised if this is a trigger for you!

max verstappen

You thought you were being careful. Smiling while he cooked. Saying you were full from lunch and moving the food around your plate just enough to make it seem like you’d eaten more than you had. You knew it was wrong, you should say something, but couldn't find the words.

You thought you were getting away with it.

Then one night, after a particularly long, stressful day, while the two of are getting ready for bed, Max quietly hands you one of his redbull hoodies. It feels like a peace offering. He's silent for a moment, like he too is struggling to the the right words.

“You’ve lost weight.”

You freeze with your arms halfway in the sleeves, eyes wide and aimed at the ground. “What?”

His tone is neutral, forcibly so, but his eyes aren’t. They’re serious. Studying your reaction.

“I can feel it when I hug you,” he says, blunt and truthful. “You’re smaller. You're tired all the time. You barely touched dinner. Not the for the first time, either”

You try to deflect. “I’m fine. It’s just stress...work’s been a lot—”

“I’m not judging,” he interrupts softly, hands on his hips. “But don’t lie to me. Not about this, schatje.”

You stare at the floor, guilt swirling and pooling in your stomach. His hands find your waist, thumbs brushing over your hips as if to emphasize what he already noticed. He leans in just enough that his forehead touches yours, leaning against eachother softly.

“I know you think it’s not a big deal. But it is to me,” he murmurs. “I don’t care if it’s small meals, snacks, whatever... but you need somehting. I need to know you’re okay.”

Then, after a long pause, “Please don’t shut me out. Your hurting the woman I care about, I can't let you do that.”

He doesn’t push after that. Just holds you tighter that night. Makes breakfast the next morning and doesn’t say a word when you take the plate. Just smiles a little when you pick up the fork.

lando norris

You’re lying on your stomach across your bed, scrolling through your phone aimlessly, when Lando flops down beside you with a sigh. You laugh at his sudden, unexpected appearance, but it dies out when he you don't hear him join in.

“I’m gonna say something, and you’re not allowed to get weird about it.”

You glance over, up your phone down, suspicious, but trying to lighten the tone. The sudden seriousness leaves you uncomfortable. "Hm, ominous."

He gives you a look, one that says he's not joking for once.

“You haven’t really eaten today. Or much yesterday. And I don’t think that’s nothing.”

You open your mouth to deflect, but Lando cuts in, gentler now.

“I’m not mad. I just… I want you to know that I notice these things. I don't want you to hide this stuff. I'm a... a bit hurt that you thought you had to.”

"I didn't mean to it's just. It's hard to talk about this stuff," you try to explain.

"I know that. Of course, I know that. But we spend hours talking about how I'm going, where my head is at, and that's not a one way street, love."

He nudges your shoulder lightly when you you can't find the words to say. “Let me take care of you, yeah? We’ll order something...anything you want! You don’t even have to leave the bed.”

And when you nod, he grins and kisses your cheek like it’s no big deal...like loving you includes this, too.

oscar piastri

Oscar notices something's off before you say even say anything.

You're out running errands together and get dizzy out of nowhere in the middle of the store. You hand grips his as you try and blink away the blurry spots. He's quick to put a hand on your back to help you stay up right, and even quicker to ask whats wrong.

You try to brush it off , I probably just need water or something, but he doesn’t buy it. The crease between his eyebrows deepens.

“You’ve been lightheaded more than once this week.”

You blink at him, surprised, heart suddenly beating faster than before. “No, I haven't.”

But he nods like you've said the opposite. Eyes searching yours for... something.

“I’ve also noticed you keep skipping breakfast a lot. And lunch, probably, if I'm not home with you. And you’re ‘just tired’ every night.”

Oscar isn’t dramatic about it. He just says it plainly, as truth, fact. But that just makes it harder to brush off.

“I’m worried,” he admits, voice quieter, hand holding yours tightly. “You don’t have to explain it all right now. But I need to know you’re okay... I need to know if you're not.”

You murmur that you're not sure what's going on, and it's the truth. Oscar doesn’t press.

“Let’s get head home. Have something easy. And if you don’t want to talk, we can just sit.”

"I'm sorry," you whisper to him, unsure of what to say.

"Please don't apologise. I love you. I want you to be well."

carlos sainz

You’re on your apartment balcony together, lounging around after a long morning sleep in. Carlos offers to make you breakfast, but you tell him not to bother. You’re not hungry.

He pauses mid-step, one foot inside, one still on the balcony. Looks at you, slightly offended on your behalf.

“No desayuno? Why not?”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone light. “I don’t know. I just… don’t feel like eating, I guess.”

Carlos doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you. But the crease between his brows deepens, and then he's moving toward you, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Maybe he is.

“You’ve skipped too many meals this week, mi vida. I’m not blind.”

His voice is quiet but firm, that kind of gentle stubbornness you’ve learned not to argue with. The kind that comes from a place of love, not discipline. You look down, suddenly finding it too hard to look Carlos in the eyes, but he doesn’t let the moment slip by so easily.

He finally steps right behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist lightly, and resting his chin on your shoulder. His voice is softer now, words whispered right into your ear like a sweet secret for just the two of you.

“I don’t need you to be perfect. I need you to take care of yourself.”

His fingers rub little circles into your sides, grounding and steady.

And before you can come up with a deflection, he’s pulling away just enough to kiss the side of your temple and mutter, “I’ll make something light. You don’t have to finish it. Just try.”

It’s not about food. Not really. It’s about how he wants you well. Wants you cared for. It's about showing you you are loved, and deserve to be taken care of.

alex albon

You're facetiming while he’s away, talking about qualifying, how the pets are doing, your plans for tomorrow, what you did earlier that day, when you offhandedly say, “I had a granola bar today, that counts, right?”

He laughs at first, caught up in your cute rambling. Then stops suddenly, all the humour draining from his face in a milisecond.

“Wait, that was all you had? Actually?”

You realize too late how that sounds. You can't take the words back now, and you can't find it in you to play it off as a complete joke. Part of you wants him to know.

Alex's expression shifts immediately. “Babe… You need to eat. No excuses.”

He leans in closer to the screen, voice suddenly quieter.

“Are you alright? Seriously.”

You start to downplay it, words coming out quickly to cover yourself, you weren't that hungry today, you were busy, you would eat later to make up for it, but he shakes his head gently at each excuse.

“Hey, hey. You don’t need to explain if you’re not ready. I’ve been there, I get it. But I wish you’d told me. I would’ve sent you like… twenty reminders. Or ubereats meals.”

Despite the worry, he smiles at you, soft and sweet, with the kind of look he always has before he leans in to kiss you.

“Okay. We’re ordering food together, right now. Virtual dinner date? I'll get room servivce, order something to the house for you. Yeah?”

You laugh, tear up a little, and agree. He smiles bright at your agreeance, beaming with pride.

charles leclerc

You're halfway through slicing vegetables for dinner when you say it. You'd been tossing up the right words to say all day. Deflecting is an art.

“I’m not really hungry tonight, but you go ahead.”

Charles doesn’t respond right away. Just finishes stirring the pan in front of him, sets the spoon down carefully, and, without another word, switches the stove completely off.

You glance up, confused and stunned. “What are you doing? That's not done yet.”

He simply shrugs. “If you’re not eating, then we’re not cooking.”

There’s no edge in his tone. No accusation. Just quiet finality, as if he had anticipated you not wanting to eat.

You blink, confused. “Charles, that’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t skip dinner just because—”

“Because you are?” he says gently, stepping away from the stove and closer to you. “No, I shouldn’t. But I’m not going to sit here and act like I haven’t noticed what you're doing”

He closes the space between you, wiping his hands on a dish towel before setting it aside.

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad, chéri,” he says quietly, searching your expression for the truth of the situation, but coming up empty. “I just want you to take care of yourself. And if I can help, even just a little, I will. If this is what it takes for you to know it is unhealthy, then I will do it.”

Charles reaches out and pulls you gently into his embrace. One hand on your back, the other smoothing your hair behind your ear. When he speaks again, his voice is soft against your skin. “Even if it’s just toast and juice. Even if it’s small. I’ll eat with you.”

You nod slowly, not because you’re convinced you can finish a whole meal, but because the idea of sitting across from him, even with something simple, suddenly feels like something you can do. Something you want to try. For him.

So he kisses your temple, rubs his hand down your back once again, and then says, “I’ll make tea. You pick the bread. Oui?”

lewis hamilton

You’re pacing around, trying to get stuff done, arms filled with knick-knacks you should have put away ages ago, when Lewis gently intercepts you. Hands on your upper arms, holding you still.

“You’ve been running nonstop all day, love. Did you eat yet?”

You wave him off. “I haven’t had time.”

That makes him stop cold. He exhales, long and hard, then walks over and takes your hands in his.

“That’s not okay.”

You go to respond, but Lewis lifts a hand. Gently, calmly stopping you.

“I’m not upset. But I also… don’t think this is the first time you’ve let yourself forget about food. And it’s scaring me a bit.”

“It’s not like that… I promise,” you reply in a hushed tone.

His thumb traces small circles over your knuckles, constant and soft.

“Ok, and I trust you to know if it was like that you could tell me. But I’ve seen what burnout looks like. What forgetting to take care of yourself does. I won’t stand by and watch it happen to you too. I love you too much to watch you crash and burn.”

"Lewis—"

He takes all the clothes and cups from your arms and places them on the table, leaving your hands empty and your heart beating fast.

He leans in and kisses your forehead, hushing you. “Let’s start small. Something warm. Something easy. Please? Gotta make sure my girl is taken care of.”

He doesn’t ask for more. Just reminds you, with every soft word and touch, that you’re worth taking care of, even on the days when you forget how.

george russell

You're lying in bed together when George brings it up for the first time.

"Love, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Please?"

When you turn to look at him, his face is dead serious, his undereye bags heavy and dark like something’s been worried about something for a while.

"You haven’t been eating enough." He says it quietly, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone like he’s afraid he’s already said too much.

"That’s not a question," you reply, a little too fast. A little too defensive.

George doesn’t take the bait. He just watches you for a second, gaze steady but soft. There’s no judgment in it, only worry.

“I know,” he says. “But I’ve been holding it in, waiting for you to come to me, waiting for the right time, and... I guess there isn’t one, is there?”

You sigh, low and long from the weight of everything you've been feeling. He shifts closer, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I’m not angry. I don't want you to think that. I just...noticed recently. And I didn’t want to corner you, or make you feel.. attacked, but I love you, and I can’t keep pretending I don’t see what’s happening.”

You rest your forehead against his chest, and his hand runs gently up and down your back.

“You don’t have to explain anything right now,” he murmurs. “Just let me help. We can start slow. A good breakfast tomorrow. I’ll make tea. We can talk about it, if you'd like. One thing at a time. Yeah?”

"I'm sorry."

"Hey, none of that. This isn't something you need to apologise for. I got you. We got this."

You nod against him, curling tighter into his soft hold. George presses a soft kiss to the top of your head like a promise. One that says: you’re not doing this alone.

lowkey inspired by both the anon request and the quote "i love you, i want us both to eat well" <3

2K notes · View notes

tangerineastronaut · 5 months ago

Text

bibliophile ⟡ j. yunho

part two

you're stressed...your study buddy has an idea.

Pairing: Yunho x Fem!Student!Reader Genre: Smut - dark twist Requested: Yes/No w.c. 5.8k Warnings: heavy on the smut, semi public sex (ish), mutual pining, food? - THE SUCKER - he does...things with it. Yunho is a FREAK. Reader is desperate for yunho dick (yes YOU, reader) Spoiler warnings are in comments if you need them. A/N: So, this is sort of two requests in one, however I don't want to disappoint anyone so I'll post it solo. I hope it's okay! <3 god deleted my ticket to heaven with this one. Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

Taglist: @baby-stay92 If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please DM me or click here.

You release a tired sigh and rub your eyes, throwing your pen down. It bounces off of your ridiculously thick textbook and lands on the papers scattered around your study partner.

“Ah ah. No crashing yet, we’ve got three more chapters,” Yunho says with a laugh, tapping you on the end of the nose with his own pen. You pout, making a face at him before dramatically collapsing on the table.

“I give up. You can become a lawyer, I’ll go back to making sandwiches,” you groan, muffled against pages of your future.

“I thought you liked working at the sandwich shop?”

“I did,” you reply, tilting your head to look at him. “But sandwich shops don’t pay me six figures.”

“Then stop whining,” Yunho shrugs. You grumble words unintelligible even to yourself and sit up, fixing your hair. You stretched, yawned, checked your phone for the thousandth time that evening. Finals were next week. Then there was the Bar exam. You were so close to being y/n l/n, attorney at law…but you were beginning to feel nauseous at the mere sight of words on a page.

“Wanna take a break?” Yunho suggests, leaning back to stretch. You avoid looking at the way his sweater rides up, revealing inches of what appears to be a toned belly.

“No,” you mumble, forcing yourself to look away. “If I leave this library…I think I may never return.”

Yunho chuckles and nods, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index fingers. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Usually the library is filled with students, exactly like you—stressed, depressed, drowning in student debt and reading assignments.

“Yunho?” you mumble. He hums a response, looking over at you. You swallow. “If I start to cry, will you judge me?”

“Not at all,” he responds. You nod once, feeling tears burning in your eyes.

For the next hour or so, you take turns reading passages and summarizing them, going through various laws and statutes that you could barely comprehend. Your brain felt as if it might explode, and you considered calling it a night, but it was only 10 p.m. and you’d be damned if you gave out before midnight.

“What the hell are these ‘title 16 provisions?’” you scoff, crinkling your nose. “Were these even part of our assignment?”

“Let me see,” Yunho says. He scoots his chair over to your side of the table rather than just moving seats, and you feel your heart leap into your throat. And god, his arm slides over the back of your chair as he leans in to look at the tiny words on your page.

He smells like coffee and the peanut butter granola bar you shared earlier, and this close you can see that he has very light freckles on his cheeks. You kind of want him to never move.

“Ah, no this isn’t part of this assignment but we will have to know it for finals,” he says, words going in one of your ears and out the other. He begins talking about these provisions, but you must be numb to all forms of communication other than Jeong Yunho’s body heat.

“Y/n?”

“Huh?” you mumble, shaking your head. Yunho has a funny look on his face, one brow raised. Oh god. Oh god. He caught you staring like a fucking creep.

“...You good?” he chuckles. You swallow and quickly nod, brushing your hair back so fast you nearly hit him in the face.

“Yep, uh huh,” you mumble. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Oh,” he says as though relieved. “Good. Well, if you need to take a break, let me know.”

He begins to move; you panic and grab his wrist.

“Wait! You didn’t explain this part to me,” you say, pointing at a random section on the page. Yunho sits down again and tilts his head.

“You need me to explain…marital property to you?” he asks, sounding both amused and disbelieving.

Well, if you’re gonna be a bad liar, at least you’ll be persistent.

“Yes,” you nod. “Just like a refresher, you know? My brain is cooked.”

Yunho stares at you for a few seconds, and you feel your cheeks heat up. It feels like he knows something you don’t know, and you don’t like that. So you yank him back into his seat and let go of his wrist, pretending to be very interested in one of the most basic aspects of your degree.

Marital property is boring, even when the hottest guy in your class is explaining it to you. And what’s worse—he knows. You know he knows. He’s explaining basic concepts to you, and then explaining the basics of those basic concepts, all the while keeping a little smirk on his handsome face. You consider caving, thinking of any possible excuse for your behavior. You’re delirious from lack of sleep, that’s actually true. But you were too deep in this to give up now.

“That’s most of it,” Yunho finally says, long fingers splayed over the textbook. They nearly reach from one end of the open book to the other. You shiver. “I guess we should move into parental rights—”

“Yunho,” you begin with a sigh, ready to admit defeat. He smiles innocently, resting his chin in his hand.

“Yeah?”

“I—”

You freeze, having forgotten how to form sentences. Yunho’s still smiling at you, but his free hand is now resting on your thigh. You thanked the gods you’d decided to wear a skirt today.

His palm is large, warm, spanning much of the plush skin there. He’s not gripping it, but it’s still very obviously intentional. You feel your cheeks burn hot; you’re determined to remain unaffected.

“Nevermind,” you mumble. He chuckles and turns back to the page, though he doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t ask him to.

You go back to your respective chapters, thankfully far beyond the basics, but his hand stays right where it is. He even reaches over his other arm to sip his coffee, refusing to move it. Your skin burns in the shape of his fingers; you almost want to push him away simply because your body is reacting to his touch in a way that’s making you feel crazy. You’re practically feverish, just because he’s near you. Pathetic, honestly.

When you sigh and rub your eyes, those long fingers twitch, making you jump. You try to play it off, though you know he’s aware of your reaction, because he does it again. When you don’t react as dramatically, he squeezes gently.

Your knee jerks up so fast it hits the table, causing your belongings to rattle, and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. Yunho chuckles, though doesn’t move his hand. You clear your throat as though everything is normal. As though he’s not currently squeezing your upper thigh.

“Yunho,” you say quietly.

“Hm?” He doesn't bother looking up from his textbook.

“What are we doing?”

He does look up this time.

“Studying,” he says, giving you a sweet smile. You narrow your eyes.

If he was going to do this, then so were you. You were sleep deprived, numb to the world, and horny as hell. So you parted your knees.

Not much, just an inch or so, but very obvious. You didn’t miss the way Yunho’s throat worked as he swallowed, clearly not expecting the reciprocation. You go back to your textbook, but your victory is short lived, however, as his large hand slides further inward.

You’re flustered. But you’re also stubborn. So you drop your pen and look him in the eyes as you open your knees. Yunho’s gaze is steady as he slowly moves his hand, as though expecting you to stop him. You don’t.

Yunho went back to reading and you did the same, just as his pinky brushed the crease of your inner thigh. You knew you were wet, knew he could probably feel the moist heat radiating from your body behind your pink panties, but you chose to be nonchalant. Until he rubbed the back of his knuckle against your panties, over your clit.

The soft moan that escapes you is mortifying.

Yunho quickly clamps a hand over your mouth, laughing breathily as your brows pull together and you shudder. He looks as shocked as you are, though now you’re hazy, focused only on how good it felt, and wanting more.

“Shh,” he chuckles nervously, glancing around despite the fact that you’re the only ones here. “No wonder you act like you’re walking around on thin ice. You’re frustrated as hell, huh?”

“P-Please,” you whimper pitifully against his palm, though it’s muffled. He moves his hand and you grip his wrist, looking up at him. You silently communicate your needs, praying he has mercy and doesn’t force you to say it out loud. Yunho glances around one more time, licking his lips before looking down at you like a fucking steak on a platter.

“If we’re gonna do this, you gotta be quiet for me,” he murmurs. You nod quickly, gasping when he effortlessly yanks your chair closer to him. He adjusts his glasses before lowering his hand to your thighs, gently stroking them.

“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly. You open your mouth, but he presses a finger to your lips. “Quietly.”

“Yes, yes,” you whine. “T-Touch me.”

Yunho bites his lower lip, as though imagining doing much, much more than that. When he rubs your thighs again, your knees fall open and you stifle a moan behind your sleeves. Yunho smiles at the sight of you, slipping his hand between your legs again.

This time, he’s more careful, though it’s much more frustrating for you. You squirm when he strokes either side of your cunt, making a ‘v’ and squeezing your plush pussy lips between them. You moan again, loudly, and Yunho scrambles to cover your mouth.

“Baby, you’ve gotta be—”

“Quiet, I know,” you pout, gripping his wrist. “C-can’t help it…feels good.”

Yunho swallows, letting his fingers brush against you again. You manage to stay quiet this time, but your mouth opens in a silent scream.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, drawing his hand back. You nearly protest, but he presses his index finger to your clit like a button and you jolt, covering your mouth just in time. Yunho smirks.

“H-Haven’t had sex,” you say, fisting the sleeve of his sweater as he pushes again. “In m-months.”

“Why?” he asks, beginning to rub slow circles against your panties. You feel your wetness spreading beneath them, but you don’t care. You grip the edge of the table and swallow.

“Busy,” you breathe, licking your lips. Yunho’s eyes follow your tongue. You don’t notice.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Y-yeah, yes,” you nod frantically.

Yunho uses the hand between your legs to turn your entire body toward him. You want to mention how attractive that is, but he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours.

His kiss is nothing like his touch; there’s nothing dirty or hurried about it. His nose brushes the crease of yours as he tilts your heads to the side, his free hand moving up to cup your cheek. It’s a sweet kiss that makes no sense when his fingers are currently resting against your panties beneath your skirt.

He seems to have forgotten what he was doing amidst your soft kisses, as you break away from his lips to impatiently bounce and whine. Yunho smirks and begins rubbing his middle finger directly over your clit, applying very little pressure. He kisses you again, and you throw your arms around his neck, trying to push your body into his. His knee prevents you from doing so.

“Nng…what are you doing?” you whine, fisting his sweater. “Wanna…wanna be in your lap.”

Your own admission makes your cheeks flush red, but you don’t care. You’re horny and your crush’s hand is between your thighs.

“Not yet, baby,” he mumbles, stealing another lazy kiss. “Wanna keep you like this. I like how desperate you are.”

“I…I’m not desperate,” you mumble. Yunho bites his lower lip and applies more pressure to your clit, you buck your hips and grip his sleeve. He’s laughing, but you don’t care, aching for more of him.

“Desperate,” he hums, pulling you in for another kiss. You don’t understand his obsession with kissing you; wasn’t he as horny as you were? But you kissed him back anyway, because you’ve had a crush on this guy since your freshman year and even the slut hormones clouding your brain couldn’t block that much out. He was a damn good kisser too, taking the lead and hardly giving you time to breathe.

In contrast to his soft mouth, Yunho’s index finger hooks your soaked panties, tugging them to the side. His finger brushes your bare cunt, though he knowingly silences your moans with a kiss.

“What can I do?” he asks once you finally break apart. You’re unwilling to let him go, however, pulling his lips back to yours..

“Don’t care,” you mumble between kisses, body buzzing with need. “Whatever you want.”

“Can I go in here?”

He prods at the needy hole between your folds and you fucking purr, clutching his sweater and pulling him close with a whine.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. He waits for you to eagerly nod, then brings his fingers to your mouth and taps your lips. “Open.”

You do as he says and he slips his fingers inside. You nearly moan around them as you instinctively suck and lick his digits; they’re long and thick, two of them practically as big as a few hookups you’ve had in the past. Yunho watches, pupils wide as you act like an obedient doll a little too eager to be fingered in a library at midnight.

When he pulls his fingers out, they’re slick and shiny with your drool, and you see him suck in air. You blush, a little embarrassed at how thorough of a job you’ve done. You expect Yunho to go beneath your skirt, but he slides his wet fingers in his mouth, eyes never leaving yours.

It’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever seen, next to the look of pure bliss in his eyes as he sucks your saliva off of his fingers and replaces it with his own. You decide then that you do not want him to finger you.

“Fuck me,” you blurt out.

You barely register what you’ve said, but you’re damn near ready to jump his bones. Yunho blinks in surprise, obviously not having expected that. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“Really?” he asks. He sounds surprised for reasons you don’t understand, but you nod.

“Yeah,” you say, pulling him in for another kiss. “Want you inside me. All of you.”

“Fuck,” Yunho groans. He grabs your face in his hands and kisses you back, harder. Your hands are shaky as they go for his jeans, but then he freezes like you’ve just slapped him.

“What?” you ask, breaking the kiss. Yunho curses and rubs his face with both hands, tilting back in his chair. “What is it, yu?”

“I don’t…fuck. I don’t have a condom.”

He runs a hand through his hair like this is the biggest mistake of the century. You bite your lower lip—the idea of leaving tonight and not getting fucked by him makes you genuinely want to cry.

“We could…you know?” you mumble, face hot. “I mean, I-I’m clean. Obviously, haven’t had sex in god knows when—”

“No,” Yunho says, shaking his head. “I don’t trust myself.”

“Don’t trust yourself to what?” you frown. Yunho looks at you,

“There’s no way I’m gonna be able to make myself pull out once I’m in you,” he murmurs. “We need a condom.”

You swallow. You really shouldn’t push; but you need to hear more.

“How do you know?” you breathe, licking your lips.

“C’mere.”

“What?”

Yunho reaches over, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you into his lap and you gasp, able to feel the rigid line of his cock beneath you. But he grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss again.

“I’ve been thinking about you for so long,” he hums, and you mewl in response, grinding down against him. He kisses you again to stifle what was no doubt a moan.

“Y-Yeah?” you manage to squeak out. Yunho nods.

“Yeah. Not gonna be able to pull out if I’m balls deep in that little cunt with you fucking crying for it like this.”

Fuck. You needed him. To be honest, with or without the condom, but if he felt it was necessary.

“Let’s go get one,” you mumble dizzily. “A c-condom. There’s a convenience store down the street.”

Yunho frowns, looking at the clock on the wall.

“The library will be locked, won’t it? Don’t we have to lock up?”

You lean back in his lap, smiling.

“Yes. But I’ve got a key,” you chime.

The moment you stepped into the store, you immediately regretted it and felt all the horny escape you. Not really, but it was embarrassing as hell, and painfully obvious as to what you were doing here. Yunho didn’t seem to mind, his hand tightly clasping yours as he guided you toward the back.

You had a little trouble finding the condoms—it made you inexplicably happy when Yunho suggested asking the clerk as he didn’t know either, even though your answer was a firm NO—but eventually found the rack next to the sex pills and cold sore cream.

Hot.

Yunho squints, and you cross your arms impatiently. You grab a box and shake it.

“It’s not a shoe store, here,” you mumble, pushing the box into his hand. Yunho glances over the label and smirks, tossing it back on the shelf. You want to ask what the hell is so funny when you’re so fucking wet your panties are sticking to your thighs, but then he finally makes a choice and puts the box in your hands. Oh.

Oh.

XXL. Makes sense.

You make him grab a few more things as though that makes the purchase less shameful. When you go to check out, you look everywhere but at the clerk—until he has the audacity to speak to the man holding your hand, very obviously purchasing condoms so the two of you can go fuck in a library.

“Finals week?” the guy says. Yunho slides his card across the counter and squeezes your hand.

“Finals week,” he nods.

“I just realized we could’ve gone to my apartment,” you say, unlocking the library door. Yunho leaned against the wall, unwrapping the candy he’d apparently decided on last minute. A red round sucker. “It’s only a few minutes away.”

You’d been given a key to the library your second year here, as you were a trusted student who often pulled all nighters—and you lived in the shitty part of campus where the power often went out. You were aware this was a total abuse of that power, but you figured if you showed Yunho to Ms. Lin, she’d understand.

“Yeah, well, my fantasies during puberty weren’t at apartments,” Yunho shrugs, holding the door for you. You head inside and find your table, where you drop the bag of your purchased items. Yunho grabs it, immediately fishing out the box.

“Very boy of you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Let me guess, the hot librarian offers to help you find your dick? Is that part of the dewey decimal system?”

Yunho smiles. “Can we get back to you whining for me to fuck you? I liked that.”

“I was not—”

Your freakishly tall study partner grabs your wrist, tugging you against him. You swallow and look up, lips parted at the sudden contact.

“Not what?” he asks. You blink, but something is suddenly pushing at your lips. You open dumbly, feeling too obedient as you take whatever he’s putting in your mouth apparently. The taste of artificial cherry makes you grimace.

Yunho backs you up to the table, crowding you against it. He cups your face in his hands and kisses your cheek, thumbs brushing below your ears. You realize you’ve been staring at him wordlessly, sucker in your mouth.

“How’s it taste?” he asks.

“Good,” you mumble. It doesn’t taste good, you hate cherry, but if Jeong Yunho puts something in your mouth, you love it, you decide. Cherry is your new favorite flavor.

“I doubted if they sold gags, so,” he chuckles. “This’ll do.”

You frown, but he takes the stick of the sucker before you can respond.

“Open,” he says. You open.

You see his eyes twinkle, almost like he can’t believe how well you’re listening to him. If only he knew you’d do anything he asked.

Rather than pull it out, Yunho rubs the sucker around your mouth. He coats your tongue with the sticky flavor, then the inside of your cheek. By the time he pulls it out, you don’t realize you’re drooling, mouth open for him.

He pops the sucker in his own mouth, just like his fingers, and you shudder. Then he’s slipping his hands beneath your skirt, pushing your panties down your thighs.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly, more curious than concerned. Yunho takes the sucker out and kisses your cheek, then your lips. You can taste it on his tongue, just like yours.

Something sticky and wet prods at your clit and you gasp, but Yunho wraps an arm around your waist and keeps you from pulling away. You squeak helplessly in shock, caught between mind numbing bliss and disbelief. He’s rubbing the bulbous head of the sucker against your clit.

“Shh…figure it’s too risky to eat you out properly,” he hums in your ear, crushing you to his chest. You squirm, though not out of discomfort.

You have no idea how to react, hands gripping his sweater as he holds you in place. The candy feels warm and sticky, sliding through your cunt juices as he teases you with it.

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, voice strained as though he’s doing all he can to hold back. “But I saw it and…well fuck, baby, if I’m honest, I just wanted to see if you were desperate enough to try and fuck yourself on a piece of candy.”

You whine and bury your head against his shoulder, because you fucking are. You are desperate enough to try, because he slides the candy between your lips and you jolt when it brushes your hole.

“F-Fuck, Yunho,” you gasp, nails digging into fabric. You hear him laugh, and it sounds so fucking cocky, like he knew you’d end up like this, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you work yourself to ruin on a piece of candy.

He slides it beneath the hood of your clit, twisting the stick in his fingers. Your knees buckle, but he’s gripping you tight. He works it like a toy, rubbing up and down, focusing on your clit until you’re nearly there before he moves it again. It didn’t feel this big when it was in your mouth, but you’ve never wanted something inside you so bad.

“Oh my god,” you moan, thighs clamping together. It doesn’t stop his hand, or the candy, the rounded tip pushing against your hole. He starts rolling it again, and you gasp as you feel yourself snapping inside, the hot neediness spilling over the edges. You try to warn him, but only manage to squeak.

“Are you…are you cumming on a fucking lollipop?” Yunho asks, voice filled with awe. You nod.

Your ears ring, your vision blurs, and you feel something pushing against your mouth. It’s Yunho’s hand you realize, but you can’t stop, can’t stop shaking and screaming and there’s something wet on your cheeks.

You haven’t had a proper orgasm in months, maybe even a year, and were it not for Yunho holding you up, you’re pretty damn sure you would’ve fainted.

When you open your eyes, Yunho is laughing quietly and hugging you tight, rubbing your back.

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned and impressed. You sniff and nod, using the back of your hand to wipe your cheeks. Yunho cups your face and uses his thumbs to clean you up. You were crying.

“I’m sorry, jesus, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. You realize then that the damn sucker is in his mouth.

You whine, yanking him forward until you’re kissing him. It’s clumsy, but he takes the sucker out and tosses it on the table behind you. You begin working desperately at his jeans, and hear him release a cherry flavored groan.

“Still gonna let me fuck you?” he asks, keeping his lips against yours.

“God yes,” you say in a shaky voice. “P-Please.”

“I can do that,” Yunho breathes. He places a large hand on the softness of your belly, gently pushing you back.

Yunho towers over you, one hand moving to cup your thigh and open you up so he can stand between them. The other goes to his jeans, and you find yourself biting your lip and digging your nails into your palms.

XXL?

“Since you look like you’re about to fucking eat me,” Yunho says with a laugh, “why don’t you do it? Hm? When’s the last time you put a condom on?”

You feel yourself blush at having been caught, but sit up to snatch the box near you.

“Asshole,” you mutter, refusing to give him a proper answer.

Your hands are too shaky to open the box, so you end up ripping it down the side, condoms spilling out. You sigh anyway and grab one, slipping the foil packet between your teeth. You move your hands to his jeans, and realize that for the first time…you’re nervous.

Until now your brain had been sex focused; it still was, but your post orgasm clarity made you realize how fucking desperate you looked. You roughly popped open the button of his jeans.

Yunho was so damn tall that his hips were practically level with your face whilst you were on the short table. This meant that, as soon as you’d tugged his boxers down, you suddenly found yourself face to face with the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.

XXL.

For a moment you were too dumbstruck—why did they bother sculpting the soft dicks when the hard ones could look like…this? All veins and smooth skin and a pink mushroom head that looked perfectly designed for…use. You wanted it in your mouth. But he hadn’t technically put his mouth on you, and you were both in a library, and right now you were starting to get a little shaky at the idea of this thing going anywhere near your neglected pussy, so you swallowed your resolve and took the condom from between your teeth.

Yunho watched as you struggled to tear open the packet, biting your lower lip in frustration. You finally got it open, sighing as you placed the rubber at the tip. He grabbed your hands then, and you paused. Shit. Were you doing this wrong?

“We don’t have to do anything,” he mumbles softly, cupping your chin. “You wanna stop right now? We stop. Not trying to ruin the mood, just want you to know it’s okay.”

You shake your head.

“I’m okay, thanks,” you say quietly. “It’s just…fuck, Yunho.”

He laughs, his little ego having returned just a bit, you wanted to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time. He bites his lower lip and strokes his thumb over yours.

“I’ll be gentle,” he hums. “You can take it for me.”

Fuck. Yes, you absolutely can.

Yunho guides you onto your back, though you settle on your elbows, propped up for him. You watch as he squeezes the rest of the lube from the packet onto his cock, giving a few tugs before nodding at you. You weren’t sure if you were excited or scared, but there were two heartbeats and one was between your legs.

He pushes your legs apart and guides his cock forward. You lick your lips and let your knees fall open, bunching your skirt around your waist, offering yourself to him. Yunho sucks in air through his teeth and curses.

“So fucking pretty,” he hums, supporting his weight on one palm as he brushes his cock against you. You shiver as the cold lube is smeared around your sensitive cunt. “Knew it from the day I saw you freshman year in a skirt just like this one. Thought I was gonna die when you smiled at me.”

“I didn’t know you remembered,” you mumbled. You were so nervous your first day, which wasn’t helped by the hot guy who approached you and asked if you were lost. Apparently you could stop feeling ashamed for having mind fucked him back then.

“Of course I do,” Yunho chuckles, teasing the head of his cock up and down your slit. “So cute, how you blushed when I talked to you. You still do that, you know.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. Yunho laughs, then licks his lips.

“Gonna put it in now. Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. You nod.

The swollen head of his cock catches on your hole, and Yunho uses his weight to lean forward and urge himself inside. It aches a bit, not just from the size but fuck it’s been so long since you’ve had something more than your own fingers in you. Your thoughts go from not so bad to okay damn to holy fuck there’s more? Because he keeps pushing and you keep taking, and you feel every inch of him filling your insides while his body offers more.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck,” Yunho whines, still gripping the base of his cock as he guides it into you. Your head falls back and you curse at nothing; his cock is somehow too big but perfectly sized at the same time and you’ve never felt so god damn full. “Look at you, that needy little cunt is swallowing me babygirl. Keep fucking taking it.”

His words make you dizzy, and you whine when he’s finally fully seated. You feel heavy, pinned to the table, as though you can’t move. You reach down and feel the rigid sides of his cock, shocked to feel just how much is inside you.

“How’s that, beautiful?” Yunho asks. He places both palms on the table, either side of your body, and you tense. If he started thrusting, it would fuck you up.

“Good,” you say, nodding. “Big, but good.”

“Knew you could take it. 'm gonna fuck you now. Stop me if you need to," he murmurs. You can take it.

"I can take it," you nod. He smiles, kissing you once, then twice.

You squeak as Yunho begins fucking you properly, ploughing into you hard and fast, moving with need and instinct rather than reason.

The table shakes with his heavy thrusts, pistoning into you so hard it makes you dizzy. You’re surprised you can take him like this, able to feel every inch of him when he’s seated inside, pressing deliciously on your walls.

Yunho ruts into you like an animal, unfortunately one with a very big cock as he struggles to keep every inch buried inside you. He wasn’t lying about not pulling out, as he refused to do so even when thrusting. You had no room to breathe, no chance for air, as he fucked into you repeatedly while trying to go deeper.

You’re at a loss for words, lips parted, eyes following his expression and movements. He’s desperate in his own way, obviously holding back, though you don’t know from what. You consider encouraging him to let go—until he groans loudly and snaps his hips, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby. So fucking…need you to hold still for me and take it,” he breathes. "Hold still. A-Almost done, fuck, keep taking it so good for me."

You do as he asks without question, clinging to his shoulders, nose to nose with Jeong Yunho as he forces his cock as far as it can go in your body and begins to pump a thin condom full of cum that should be you.

Yunho takes a few moments to breathe, arms shaking where he holds himself up on the table. You run a hand through his damp hair, watching as he moans softly and leans into your touch.

“You okay?” you giggle. He nods, tilting his head to kiss your palm.

“Just…You’re so fucking perfect. Want more of you if you’ll let me, wanna make you feel good every day," he says.

You blink at the surprising tenderness of his words, feeling they were more than sex related. You wanted to ask questions, but right now, you were both sticky with sweat and fucked out on a library table that would need to be wiped down with holy water.

You separated, which left you shuddering from the sudden cold emptiness inside of you. Yunho exhaled sharply, waiting a few moments before removing the condom and tying it off.

You both cleaned up and fixed your clothes as best you could—though you stuffed your panties in your bag because the sticky wetness was a little much.

“Do you want to come over?” you ask, making sure your skirt is covering your ass. “You know. To clean up.”

Yunho smiles, which makes you smile, and then you’re blushing and cursing at yourself. He nods and brushes your cheek with his knuckle.

“Sounds good,” he hums. You beam and gesture for him to follow you. Yunho watches as you collect your things with shaky legs, smiling to himself.

You were so damn pretty. Intelligent. He’d noticed right away that you were someone he was going to want.

He grabbed his own bag and walked past the table, pausing as he stepped on something.

The sucker.

You crinkle your nose when you notice it, too.

“Guess we need to throw that away,” you mumble. He nods, bending down and picking it up. He holds it in his hand for a few seconds.

What a good idea it had been.

He slips it into his pocket, for the memories.

Memories like, your name. Your favorite color. That skirt you wore on your first day. Apartment 2B, where you lived. You like the right side of the bed, don’t you? Yunho likes the left side.

The last man you slept with—11 months, 1 week, and 4 days ago.

Yunho hated that one.

You had waffles for breakfast this morning. You usually have oatmeal. You sleep with a nightlight on.

You’re afraid of the dark.

“You coming?” you ask with a shy smile, pausing at the door. Yunho looks up. You didn’t see him slip the sucker in his pocket. You never notice things like that.

“Yeah,” he says. He follows you out the door and waits for you to lock up. Then, without thinking too much of it, he takes your hand. You don’t pull away. Your hand is small compared to his, and he squeezes it. You squeeze back.

You like hot showers.

You sound so pretty when you moan, especially when you think you’re alone.

Your bathroom window is never locked.

You're never alone.

Yunho has a good memory when it comes to you.

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mclager · 6 months ago

Text

Winners deserve prizes | Landoscar x Reader

English is not my first language, don't judge me too hard :)

I got carried away... Enjoy

Warnings: SMUT, threesome, m/m/f, switch!Oscar, dom!Lando, sub!Reader, unprotected sex, i think that's all

All started on the floor of Oscar's driver room. The boys were trying to skip some video making for the McLaren socials, playing never ever I ever, drinking capri sun, in the dark while someone's laptop played a "24 hours white scream" video on YouTube just so we could see each other. We all drank after Lando said something dumb that even he had done it. It was my time again.

"Never ever I ever... Kissed a boy." I drank, but it was a good thing to know, after all. Lando drank, but Oscar didn't.

"You did?" Oscar asked confused looking at Lando.

"Yeah... I don't look like the type?"

"You do." I said, making Lando chuckle.

"I don't think there's a type." Osc said, and he was right, but I couldn't lose the chance to pick on him about it.

"You don't look like the type." I said to Oscar, and Lando nodded.

"You would never."

"It's not that I wouldn't, it's just that I never had an opportunity." Oscar said and shrug.

"If I gave you the opportunity, would you?" Lando said, making Oscar blush instantly.

"I..."

"You broke, Osc." I chuckled looking at Oscar.

"Sorry, not my intention, I'm just curious." Lando took a sip from his Capri sun.

"Yes." Oscar said, almost whispering.

That was the first time Oscar and Lando Kissed. After that was definitely more interesting to go out with them, Lando liked to flirt just to see Oscar's cheeks turning bright red and I love to watch them bickering like an old couple. I definitely was not getting in the middle of it, I was just, as Conan Gray would say: People Watching, but one day things started to change.

I was in the after constructors win in Abu Dhabi, it was an understatement that everyone was way too happy and ready to party. We got to the hotel to get ready before going out like we always did, I was sleeping in Lando's room like I always did, so my things were there, when we go in the room Lan threw his things on the bed before going to his lugged.

"Should I wear something fancy?" I said, also going to my lugged. Lando looked at me for a second before speaking.

"I mean, what is your idea of fancy?" I got the two dresses I brought, thinking only about the party after the McLaren win.

"We got, little black dress, and we got a slightly longer red dress. I think the red is more fancy, tho."

"I prefer the black one."

"Should we get Osc to see the winner?" Lando nodded.

"I'm sure he's with me, but if makes you feel better, sure." He got his clothes and threw them in the bed along with his other stuff. As he changed, I laid on my bed face down to reach my phone that was charging, and called Osc.

"Hey, pretty." Osc answered, putting his phone somewhere.

"Hey, handsome. I have a fashion problem, can you come here?"

"Lando didn't help?"

"He did, but I want to double-check." Lando laid on top of me, picking up my phone and putting on speaker.

"She doesn't trust my fashion decisions, Osc!"

"I don't blame her, I'll be there in a bit, I just need to put my clothes on."

"I'm really stylish, you guys don't understand the vision."

"Thank you, Osc, love you!"

"Love you too, baby." He finished the call, and I looked at Lando, and he looked at me.

"Hi." Lan said with a mischievous smile on his face.

"Can you please get up."

"Why? You don't like to be close to your bestie?" He asked, letting his body fall even closer to mine.

"I love being next to you, you know that, but we kinda need to get ready, and you don't even have a shirt on." Lan was so close that everything I could breathe in was his perfume, and I wasn't mad about it.

"It's not like we have a time to be there, come on, girl, live a little." He said, putting his chin on my shoulder.

"Are you OK?"

"Why?"

"You're too clingy today."

"I'm not... maybe a little bit." I chucked.

"Lan, please." He stopped for a second and then looked at me.

"Please? You never said please to me, you normally just punch your way out."

"I'm just being nice, I can punch you if you want." As I said that, the door opened, and Osc came in the room. He looked at us and chucked.

"Should I come back later?"

"No, stay and help me to get this man off me." I said, and Osc came closer.

"It looks very comfy."

"It is."

"I can't with two v one right now." I said giving up and laying fully on the bed. Oscar ran his finger through my hair, moving it out of my face.

"Come on, we won the constructors ship, you should be nice with us today."

"I'm always nice." I closed my eyes in a dramatic manner and I felt Lan lower himself a bit more to leave a kiss on my cheek, but I didn't move, continuing my drama.

"We know, but today is especial." Osc said as Lando distributed more kisses on my face, but he didn't stop there, he made his way down my neck, making me have goosebumps.

"Lan, stop that." I whined, I didn't really want him to stop, but I didn't know if this was where he wanted to go, and Osc is just in front of us.

"Don't whine like that." He got off me, rolling to lay by my side. Osc chucked looking at Lan.

"You broke Lando." I opened my eyes to look at him, and he was laying just like me, clearly trying to hide his little Lando. I laughed.

"Lan...?"

"What?" He said, hiding his face on the mattress.

"Do you like when I whine?" I teased him.

"Come on, don't tease me if you aren't going to sit on my face." Osc laughed and looked at me.

"Are you going to let the poor boy go to a party like this?" Since when Oscar stopped being the shy boy he always was?

"Are you drunk, Piastri?"

"I had one beer, I'm not drunk, I'm just saying, you could help."

"And you would sit back and look?" I smiled imagining the scene.

"Not a bad idea." He smiled too, looking me in the eyes.

"Not helping!" Lando almost screamed in frustration.

"You like the idea, Lan?"

"Just kill me at this point."

"Answer the question, mate." Oscar said in an almost too demanding way, so much so that Lando looked at him with his eyebrows arched, surprised with the bold move.

"Don't talk like that to me." Lando's voice sounded dark, lower than normal, and he wasn't demanding, he was ordering, the "don't do this to me" Lando was out of the window in a second.

"Like what?" Osc said pretending to not understand.

"Oh, like what?" He got up off the bed and pulled Osc to stand up, he grabbed Oscar's face with one of his hands. "Like you fucking can tell me what to do, you can't." I sat on the bed to see the scene better.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like that." The smile on his face... was obvious that he meant it, but Lan knew that all too well.

"You two are going to be the death of me." He shook his head and let go of Oscar's face, his white skin was now red from Lando's grip. "And to answer the question..." He looked at Oscar. "Sit back and look, do not cut for me, Osc." I crawled to them and kneeled on the bed by their side.

"So... we are doing this, or you got me wet for nothing?" I asked, making both of them look at me.

"Are you sure?" Lando asked, and I nodded, he looked at Oscar.

"I'm in." Osc answered before being asked anything.

"OK then." He signed to me with his head, and Oscar knew what to do. Oscar's hands went to my waist quickly, pulling me closer to him, he kissed me like he wanted this for a long time. My hands wandered to his neck, scratching it a bit, which made him moan against my lips.

"If I knew you two would like the idea so much, I would've suggested it before." Lando pulled me back by my hair just to kiss me too, his kiss definitely more violent than Oscar's.

"I thought our pretty girl would think it was too much, but I have never been so wrong." Osc said, and I looked at him when Lan moved away from me.

"I would never say no to my two best friends."

"Let's stop yapping? We have a party to attend to." He said, pulling Osc to a kiss. I reached to his belt to unbuckle it, and open his jeans.

"I'll stop yapping if you fuck my mouth." I said.

"I like the idea." He said against Osc lips, before turning to help me take off his jeans.

"If I knew we were doing this, I would've come here before changing." Osc whined.

"Just take it off and stop complaining." Lando said and Oscar did exactly what he said, as Lan gathered my hair in a ponytail, bringing my lips to his dick. "Fuck." He moaned, breathing a little heavier. I felt Oscar's hands on roaming my body, as Lan fucked my mouth.

"I've dreamed with this moment." He opened the zip off my dress, letting it fall on the bed, what left me only in my panties. "I hope you don't care about this." He said before ripping it out of me.

"You're so fucking beautiful." Lando said, drying some of the tears on my face as he pushed himself deeper in my throat. Oscar's hand went to my ass, and he squeezed it, he lowered his face and left a couple kisses on my back. His mouth got lower and lower, till I could feel his tongue on my clit, I moan against Lando, that did the same in response to it. 0sc is good with his mouth, it felt so good that I was feeling my arms fail me.

"Stay up, pretty." Oscar said holding me and pressed his dick on me. I pulled my head away from Lan.

"Please, fuck me! Pretty, please."

"I can't say no to this." He pressed his tip in my pussy, entering me painfully slowly.

"Please, Osc." I whined as he began to move slowly.

"I fucking love when you whine." Lando said pulling my hair making me look up. "Oh god, you look good as fuck like this." He looked at Oscar and smiled. "You both look good as hell." I got back to suck Lan, listening to his moans.

"You should see you, mate." Osc said, making Lan chuckle as he tries to keep his breathing steady.

"I think we're past the mate stage, Osc."

"I won't call you baby." Osc said, and Lan pulled him to make out over me.

"You can do better." Lan whispered.

"Fuck." Oscar's voice sound weak, his hand reached to my clit, making moan even more.

"Come on..." Lan moaned in a lower voice. "I'm going to cum." He tried to pull away, but I pushed my face against him. "You want me to cum in your mouth?" I nodded slightly. "You two will really be the death of me." He pushed himself to the back of my throat and I could fell his seeds going down my throat, he pulled back letting me breath.

"Lan..." I whined with my eyes closed, Osc pulled against his chest and kissed me, felling Lando's taste on it. Right after I came on Oscar's dick. "Osc, oh god!" He held me up not letting me fall to the bed.

"Where do you want me to cum?" He whispered against my neck.

"Inside."

"Are you sure?" I nodded weakly.

"Use your words, pretty."

"Yes, I'm sure, please."

"That's better." He said and finally let himself cum inside of me. Lando came closer to us and kissed both of us, and I hugged his neck not letting him go away.

"Are you OK, baby?" Lando asked, and I nodded.

"Yeah, better than ever."

"And you Osc?"

"Perfecly fine, you?" Lando smiled and nodded.

"I'm fine." He stopped for a second, looking at both of us like he didn't want to forget our faces right now. "If I say that I love both of you, that will be weird?"

"If it is, we're two weirdos." Osc said playing with Lando's curls.

"I would said three weirdos." Lando smiled.

"We have a party to go, after that we can talk a bit better." Oscar nodded.

"But first we all need a shower." I nodded.

"That will be nice." We got off of bed, Osc never letting go of me. We got into the bathroom, that looked crowded right now.

"Lan, can you?" Osc pointed to the shower with his head. Lando opened the shower and looked at Osc.

"Lan?"

"You said we're over the mate stage."

#f1 x reader #lando norris smut #oscar piastri smut #landoscar x reader #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x lando norris x reader #poly! f1 #poly!f1

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iannmin · 8 months ago

Text

loser boyfriend san ♡ | 최산

pairing: domestic san! x reader (just san being an absolute sucker for his s/o <3), fluff (too much fluff)

a/n: realistic little moments of what san would be like because we all love san (if there are any spelling or punctuation errors, please ignore them)

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

loser boyfriend san who comes into your room in the middle of the night dragging his shiba plushie, eyes barely opened, just because you had a nightmare of being chased by a running broccoli in the middle of the streets. but he doesn't judge you, and holds you close in his arms, listening to all of your incoherent blabbering, hiccupping and sobbing, tears soaking a wet patch on his sandokki pajamas. after which, he tugs you to bed, lying beside you. the morning after, you wake up to san sprawled on the floor, hugging his shiba plushie close to his chest.

loser boyfriend san who takes pride in bringing you and your mom to the nail salon. and he absolutely does not care about the stares he receives when he links arms with you and your mom, striding in like a proud kitten. he waits patiently by your side, head resting on his arms, examining each and every procedure. "jagiya, doesn't it hurt? they are snipping off your skin!" san exclaims. oh,, such dumb boy. "san, it's my cuticles, i don't feel a thing" and when you and your mom attempt to explain to him what a french tip is, he smiles and nods sheepishly, even though you knew very well that nothing went into that boy's head <3

loser boyfriend san who claims to take taekwondo and gym classes to "man up" yet every time you fall sick he can't help but bawl his eyes out. "jagiya, it's okay, it's not your fault. it's just a little cough, that's all" you whisper while running your fingers through his hair. san, who had his head buried in between your breasts looks up at you, dragon eyes softened into swollen doe eyes. but your words didn't seem to help. he blabbers, tears beginning to well up in his eyes yet again "what if you die? what if you never wake up again because your cough killed you? what if-" "SAN. I'M NOT GOING TO DIE, IT'S JUST A COUGH"

loser boyfriend san who never fails to beat the housewife agenda by packing you cute lunchboxes when you had lessons to attend. every time you opened up the hello kitty themed lunchbox container, your friends would be in awe about how he managed to make the cute octopus shaped sausages, a heart-shaped omelette and fruits cut into different animals. once, you had forgotten your lunchbox at home and not even two hours into class, san showed up at your school running to you while frantically pointing at the lunchbox. "i can't leave my baby starving" is all he said to you before hurrying off to his school in a bike because he doesn't have a drivers license (...)

loser boyfriend san who travelled 8 hours to your parent's house without you knowing, just to ask for their acceptance to be your husband. "There is no one who provokes or quarrel with me. I can save her by fighting off bad guys because I have taken exercise hard and i can give her a lot of love because i grew up in a loving home. If you allow me, i will make her happy and comfortable all the time." and of course your parents were over the moon.

and that was the last time you had the rights to call him your loser boyfriend, because now he's your loser husband, and you still love him very much <3

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barnacles34 · 3 months ago

Text

Book Boy

Asa x Male Reader

18+ smut

12k words

'Is this the place?' Asa stood in the open doorway, bag slung over one shoulder. Eyes moving slowly around the room. The single bed pushed against the wall, the stacks of paperbacks rising from the floorboards like uneven pillars, the one rickety wooden chair beside a small, bare table. 'It's… neat.'

'It does the job,' you reply, leaning against the doorframe.

'Just…' She stepped inside then. Her fingers traced the spine of a book on the nearest stack. Dust danced in the pillar of late afternoon light from the window. 'Not a lot of distractions.'

'Don't need many.'

'Right.' She walked to the window, peered down at the narrow alley between buildings. A single potted succulent sat on the sill. 'How long have you lived like this?'

'Awhile,' you said.

She turned back, leaning her hip against the little table. 'I heard about you.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Some people. Mentioned you.' She paused, tilted her head as if searching for the right word. 'Said you were… particular.'

'Did they.' It wasn't a question.

'Ex-girlfriends, I gathered.' A tiny smile touched her lips, disappeared. 'Sounded like maybe they didn't appreciate the… minimalist aesthetic.'

'Some people need cushions,' you offered.

'Maybe.' Her gaze was direct now, curious rather than judging. 'How long?'

'Did they last?'

She nodded, waiting.

'Not long,' you admitted. Shifted your weight. 'One left after we ordered pizza. Said the delivery box dwarved the table.'

A soft laugh escaped her. Genuine. 'You're kidding.'

'Wish I was.'

Silence settled for a moment, filled only by the low hum of the ancient refrigerator in the corner and the distant sigh of traffic. It wasn't uncomfortable, just quiet.

Then, 'Okay,' she said, pushing herself away from the table. Her movement seemed decisive. 'You got the job.'

'Just like that?' You straightened up. Confused. This was the usual spiel that got you rejected. Got you the fastlane to unemployment benefits.

'Just like that.' She smiled properly now, a flash of warmth in the dim room. 'I need a manager. Someone… different. You seem different.'

'Okay,' you said again, the word feeling inadequate. You wondered what, exactly, you'd just agreed to. 'When do I start?'

An idol manager? Of all jobs?

—

The months that followed compressed time. A montage of departure lounges, identical hotel corridors, the pre-show buzz backstage turning into the van ride afterwards.

Through it all, there was Asa. Under the stark stage lights, catching her breath in the wings, falling asleep with her head against a tour bus window. A rhythm began. Coffee handed over wordlessly before dawn call times.

You making sure she actually ate something more substantial than candy between soundcheck and the show. Her leaving bottles of cold water beside your laptop when you were hunched over schedules late at night. Small kindnesses, noticed.

One night. Might have been London. Rain drummed against the tall hotel window, a steady, gray beat. You were burrowed deep under the thick duvet, finally feeling the bone-deep chill start to ease. Sleep was close.

The door clicked open softly. Asa. She still had her scarf on, damp from the rain, little droplets sparkling on the dark wool under the hallway light spilling in.

'Let's find some real food,' she said. Her voice was low, tired perhaps. She hadn't turned on the room light.

'Thought you were going out with the others,' your voice came out muffled by the pillow and the blankets.

'Changed my mind.' She came further into the dark room, stood near the edge of the bed. 'Come on. There's meant to be a good pub just down the road. Supposedly.'

'Asa, I think my legs might actually detach if I try to walk.'

'Just for an hour. Less, even.'

'No chance. Bed's too good.'

A soft sigh. You felt, more than saw, her put a hand flat on the duvet, near your shoulder. The weight was slight. Then her fingers curled gently into the thick fabric. A soft tug, hesitant almost. 'Please?'

'Hey now,' you mumbled, trying for firmness. 'Not exactly dressed for company under here.'

'Wouldn't be the first time I've seen skinny legs,' she countered, her voice softening into something almost teasing. Another gentle pull. 'Just food. Real food. Then sleep, promise.'

'You're pathologically persistent.'

'Is that a yes I hear?' Even in the dim light, you could imagine the hopeful tilt of her head.

—

You both learned to read the spaces between words. Shared things. A half-finished bottle of water passed back and forth backstage, slick with condensation and effort. A book appearing on a hotel nightstand, the bookmark a receipt from a local cafe, marking a passage you might like.

Small offerings. Small acceptances.

Outside a theatre after a show. The crowd was roaring. Flashbulbs exploded. Your hand found hers, a reflex. You felt her small bones and warm skin for the first time, fitting perfectly. It felt startlingly right. Then the chaos happened—shouting voices, security guards forming a barrier. Someone jostled your arms apart. Her hand was gone. The space where it had been felt abruptly, painfully cold. Your ears were still ringing from the flashes.

Whispers followed. Dark rumors that served to bury you. Phone calls behind closed doors you weren't privy to. Looks exchanged by executives that you learned to understand immediately.

You sat gripping a flat soda in a sterile hotel bar days later, staring at the melting ice, feeling the unease settle deep.

Asa appeared suddenly, sliding onto the stool beside you as if materializing from the dim light. She ordered an orange juice.

'Heard talk,' you said, keeping your eyes on your glass.

'Forget it.' She bumped her shoulder against yours. A light, fleeting contact. 'It's handled. Really.' She risked a quick, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. 'Don't worry about it. Seriously.' She leaned a fraction closer, her voice dropping. 'No one's firing my manager. Especially not over that.'

—

Another city, another late night, another hotel couch. Rain pattered gently on the window. The TV murmured in the corner—some romantic drama you’d both lost interest in.

Her head rested on your shoulder, her arm tucked through yours, familiar now, comfortable. The silence stretched, easy. You could hear the soft tick-tock of a travel clock, the faint sound of her breathing.

'Think she'll pick him in the end?' she murmured, her voice drowsy, eyes half-closed.

'The quiet, broody one? Dollars to donuts.'

A soft 'hmm' sound vibrated against your shirt. 'You have a type.'

'They seem reliable,' you said, a small smile touching your lips as you looked down at the top of her head. The scent of her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral, apple maybe, reached you. 'Probably read Dostoevsky.'

She chuckled, a low, warm sound that made something inside you settle. She nuzzled slightly closer, a purely comfortable gesture. 'Probably.'

—

Then summer was warm and tacky. A small town tucked into rolling green hills, the air smelling of sun-baked stone, cut grass, and the pungent sweetness of lavender from nearby fields. Asa walked beside you, concentrating on her rapidly melting gelato cone.

Her simple white sundress fluttered around her knees in the slight, warm breeze. The cheap instant camera she insisted on carrying everywhere bounced gently against her hip with each step.

It felt… good. Dangerously good.

'This is seriously amazing,' she declared, holding the precarious cone aloft for a second before taking another bite. A drip escaped onto her hand.

'Better be, for what it cost.'

'Details, details. I owe you one,' she said, deftly licking the drip from her thumb.

'You keep saying that.' How many times now? Twenty? Thirty?

'Are you keeping count?' she teased, eyes bright.

'Wouldn't dream of it,' you replied, the lie easy on your tongue.

'Good.' She nudged your arm with her shoulder, a playful bump. 'So, what glorious adventure is next on the agenda?'

'I believe my gelato budget allocation for the day has been exhausted,' you said, deadpan.

She gave you a soft push, laughing. 'Liar.' Then her fingers slipped easily between yours, cool skin against your own.

The cool metal of a ring some fan gave her brushed against your knuckles: A small, hard reminder. You closed your hand around hers anyway. It felt too right not to.

'There's supposed to be a really good independent bookstore just down this street,' she said, her voice softer now.

'Lead the way.'

'Think we can find you something that isn't Russian and relentlessly bleak for once?'

'We can always hope.'

She started walking, her grip firm but gentle, tugging you along. You let yourself follow, but deliberately kept your pace unhurried. The sun felt warm on your face, the aged sidewalk uneven beneath your feet. The street was peaceful, sleepy in the afternoon heat.

'Everything alright back there, slowpoke?' She glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowed slightly, but she was smiling. She didn't let go of your hand.

'Just enjoying the scenic route.'

'The scenic route consisting of… cracked pavement and that one sad-looking mailbox?'

'It's got character,' you insisted.

She stopped then, turning to face you fully, pulling you gently closer by your joined hands. 'You walk slower than a turtle.'

'Respect the pace.'

A bright yellow bicycle whizzed past, its rider, a kid maybe ten years old, shouting a cheerful, unintelligible greeting. Asa waved back automatically, her smile bright and easy. She turned that smile back to you. 'People are going to start rumors, you know.'

'Let them, nothing’s gonna change.'

'My last manager,' she began, her voice dropping a little, falling back into step beside you, her shoulder brushing yours, 'he timed everything. Schedules printed in triplicate. Bathroom breaks logged.'

'Sounds like a real party.'

'He never bought me gelato,' she said, her gaze flicking down for a second to your intertwined hands. Was that a faint blush on her cheeks, or just the summer heat? 'And he definitely never just… walked.'

'His loss.’

She leaned slightly against your arm as you moved, It sent a ridiculous jolt straight to your chest. Your heart felt too loud in the quiet street.

Cicadas buzzed, a high, vibrating blanket of sound. A sound for slow afternoons.

'So, any new threats from the executioner's block this week?' you asked, trying to inject lightness into your voice.

'Friday meeting. Same old, same old.'

'And?' You held your breath without realizing it.

She squeezed your hand. 'And I told them my bookish, slow-walking manager isn't going anywhere.' She looked up at you then, her expression surprisingly serious for a fleeting moment. 'Okay?'

'Okay,' you echoed, the knot in your stomach easing slightly. It felt much more than okay.

The sky was visibly darkening at the edges now, clouds bruised purple. The air felt heavier, expectant.

'Definitely looks like rain.'

'Smells like it now.' The metallic scent was distinct.

'Should probably hurry to that bookstore.'

'Suppose so.'

Yet, neither of you quickened your pace. Her hand felt incredibly warm, perfectly fitted in yours. The rest of the world seemed to fade slightly.

There was just the pressure of her fingers, the coming scent of summer rain, the soft scuff of your shoes on the pavement, her presence beside you.

Up ahead, a brick wall was plastered with old, faded movie posters, their edges softened and colors bled by past rains. She slowed, pointing with her free hand. 'Remember seeing that one? The weird sci-fi thing?'

'Can't say I do.'

'Liar. You fell asleep halfway through and snored.'

'Must have been riveting.' Before she could argue further, you gave her hand a gentle tug forward. 'Come on. Unless you want to test if that camera is waterproof.'

She laughed, letting you lead her past the decaying posters. Around the corner, a row of small, inviting shopfronts appeared—a bakery, a hardware store, a tiny cafe.

Your hands remained firmly clasped. It felt like the most normal, necessary thing in the world.

'There?' You pointed across the quiet street. A small, neat sign swung gently in the rising breeze, letters painted carefully: 'The Book Nook'.

She chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners, looking bright 'Finally.'

Inside the bookstore, you moved chaotically between shelves, gathering books in your arms. Asa wandered, trailing fingers along dusty spines. Her dress wafted as she walked, and right there, you thought, maybe, she's the most amazing person you've ever met.

She caught you staring and grinned, something beautiful, something genuine. 'Aw. You're so excited.' She giggled. 'Take your time. I like walking in the rain.'

The rain.

You'd forgotten. Letting her walk in the rain with that dress—gossamer-thin, white, creamy, sheer—was a recipe for disaster.

So you hurried.

'Why're you in a hurry?'

'It's about to rain.'

'It's already raining.'

You looked out. Lots of rain already.

‘Oh.’

…

‘Wanna run for it?’

She said sure with an eager smile.

So you pressed softly on the glass door, waiting for the moment, listening to the faint droplets tik-tik-tik against the door.

‘Run for it Asa.’

You opened the door, and she started running. And you followed. The rain was plastering your face, its earthy smell invading your nostrils, but you had eyes for Asa. Only Asa. Maybe you could’ve ran faster than her, outpace her, await her at the car—but what would be the fun in that?

She seemed to be squealing. You didn’t notice, you were staring at her, the way she ran, the way the dress outlined her.

Before you knew it, you were at the car with Asa—the both of you entered the backseat.

‘Holy shit.’ You say.

‘That was like… too much rain.’ Asa giggled.

You looked at Asa, the first question, weird one: ‘Did you even have makeup on?’ She fixed her hair, wet from rain, ‘Makeup has advanced more than you know. But thanks. I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Weird question.’

‘I know.’

‘Anyway, why did we enter the backseat?’

‘I’m cold.’

‘The AC works better in the passenger seat.’

Then Asa softly moved over to you, and wrapped her shivery arms around you. ‘It’s because of this, dummy.’ Then her arms tightened, and you could feel, truly, how her body shivered, the traces of warmth on the surface of her skin; the way she smelt, of honeydew, of earth’s rain; then the way she felt:

Her skin was cold-to-the-touch when you finally held her. This time, her touch felt electric: the way her finger just grazed along your palm was already too much.

She wanted you.

You wanted her.

'I've always liked you.' She said.

You hugged her closer, giving her warmth, feeling the rain-kissed dress warm up against your skin. Her finger traced patterns on your palm, sometimes pressing deeper, waiting for your reaction.

You were too busy pressed up against her—feeling the hot skin of her back, inhaling her scent. She was inlaid across your lap, the thin dress more inspiration than prevention.

'You're so warm.' A whimper. Thin, meek.

'Keep hugging me.' You breathed back, merely a whisper as your hands caressed her. She'd make these sounds, these no-good ones, breathing right into your ear as her thin arms looped around your neck.

Then you kissed her.

She squealed, soft-like, then poked your side teasingly, then her hands curled in your hair.

When you pulled back, her lips chased yours for a fraction before she caught herself.

'Oh.' Asa touched her lips with cold fingers. Pink spread across her cheeks like watercolor.

'Yeah.' Your voice came out rough. You cleared your throat. 'Oh.'

She buried her face in your shoulder. 'Stop looking at me like that.'

'Like what?'

'Like... that.'

'Very specific.'

Her laugh vibrated against your collarbone. 'Shut up.'

A shiver ran through her. You pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her middle. The rain had soaked through her dress, through your shirt, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

'Cold?'

'Mm.' She nuzzled deeper. 'Not really.'

'Liar.'

'Am not.' Her teeth chattered slightly.

'The AC—'

'Don't you dare.' Her fingers curled into your shirt. 'Stay.'

You stayed. The rain drummed against the windows, a steady rhythm that matched your heartbeat. Or maybe your heartbeat matched it. You weren't sure anymore.

'Your books got wet,' she mumbled.

'Worth it.'

She lifted her head. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

Her eyes were soft, questioning. You watched a drop of water trace down her temple.

'You're staring again.'

'Can't help it.'

'Book boy's getting smooth.'

'Don't call me that right now.'

She grinned. 'Why not... book boy?'

You pinched her side. She squeaked, squirming in your lap.

'Evil,' she said. 'Pure evil.'

'Says the one soaking my clothes.'

'You volunteered.'

'Did I?'

She nodded solemnly. 'The moment you hired me.'

'Pretty sure it was the other way around.'

'Details.' She waved a hand dismissively, then shivered again.

You rubbed her back, feeling the goosebumps through the thin fabric. 'We should really—'

'Five more minutes.' She pressed closer. 'Just five.'

You breathed her in. Rain and perfume and something uniquely Asa. 'Okay.'

'Okay?'

'Five minutes.'

She hummed contentedly. 'Then maybe five more after that.'

'Asa...'

'What?' Innocent eyes. Too innocent. 'I'm very cold.'

'You're impossible.'

'You like it.'

You did. God help you, you really did.

And for a few minutes, or 10, or maybe even 20, you sat there embracing Asa’s meek figure, with the knowledge that she liked you.

—

You were each other's sweet torture, you realized that now. Every shared glance became a test of restraint. Like that time she pulled you into the maintenance closet, pressed a ghost of a kiss against your lips, then whispered promises that made your collar too tight.

Later that night, you found her waiting at the door. You slipped inside, waited for the heavy door to click shut.

'Took you long enough.' She held her arms out, expectant.

'Some of us actually work.' You fell into her embrace.

Her lips found your cheekbone. 'Making excuses now, you monster.'

'Monster?' You lifted her up.

'Absolutely.' But her hands linked behind your neck, and she tilted down to catch your lips.

Soft and warm and perfect—a sweet prison you never wanted to escape. You stumbled toward the bedroom, knocking against furniture, probably bruising your shin, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the way Asa sighed against your mouth, the way her fingers traced patterns in your hair, the way she fit against you like she was made for this.

The suite was nice—couch, kitchenette, things you'd normally notice. But right now all you could focus on was the warmth of her skin, the sound of her breath, the weight of her in your arms.

You were reserved for the next few hours.

Really, you were reserved for the foreseeable future.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

—

The smell hit you first—something sizzling. You found Asa in the kitchen, spatula in hand, wearing one of your old t-shirts like a dress.

'Since when do you cook?'

'Since forever.' She didn't look up from the pan. 'You just never asked.'

'Wouldn't have pegged you for domestic.'

'Says the man with three different coffee brewing methods.'

You moved behind her, peered over her shoulder. The rice popped and sizzled, red and fragrant. 'Looks good.'

'Tastes better.' She bumped back against you. 'If someone would let me focus.'

'Am I distracting?' Your lips found her neck.

'Mm.' She tilted her head, giving you better access. 'Very.'

'Should I stop?'

'Don't you dare.' But she moved the pan to the back burner, turned down the heat.

You spun her around. The counter was just the right height—she sat on it, pulled you close by your shirt.

'The rice will burn,' you murmured against her lips.

'Don't care.' Her legs wrapped around your waist. 'Kiss me.'

So you did. She tasted like kimchi and coffee, and something sweet you couldn't place. Her hands found your hair, tugged just right.

—

Later in the day, you were splayed across the couch, and Asa snuggled up close to you.

‘What’s gonna happen after the tour?’

‘Nothing’ll change, Asa.’

‘You’ll still come over?’

‘I’ll try. But you’d be in the dorm.’

‘We can go somewhere in secret.’

‘Hotels? That’s expensive, Asa.’

‘I mean I can pay, I have money. Or the, you know, 3 hour hotel rooms.’

‘Love hotels?’

Her face flushed up, ‘Maybe.’

You didn’t answer at first. You looked at her, then at the ceiling, like it might hold the right response in a water stain.

Asa’s fingers were toying with the hem of her borrowed shirt—your shirt—like she hadn’t just upended the atmosphere with two syllables. Love hotels.

You cleared your throat. ‘They charge by the hour, right?’

‘That’s… kind of the point,’ she said, not quite meeting your eyes, but grinning all the same. Her cheeks had that telltale flush again, the one that crept up slow then stayed.

You shifted, suddenly hyper-aware of the way her thigh pressed against yours. 'You saying you want to rent one for the ambiance?'

‘Sure. Mood lighting. Themed wallpaper. Maybe a heart-shaped jacuzzi if we’re lucky.’

‘Classy.’

‘I thought so.’

You laughed, short and quiet. She nudged your knee with hers. You looked at her then—really looked—and the idea bloomed, unwanted and vivid, in the back of your mind. Asa in one of those ridiculous hotel robes. Her hair still damp from the shower. You, trying not to stare. Trying and failing.

You blinked hard.

‘You're thinking about it, aren't you?’ she said. Not accusatory, just amused.

You scratched the back of your neck. ‘Thinking is free.’

‘Mmhm.’

You paused. Words gathered, jostled. You said, finally, ‘I didn’t… we haven’t… you know.’

‘Had sex?’ she supplied, way too casually, then turned her face into the crook of your shoulder, like even saying it embarrassed her.

You swallowed. Nodded. 'Yeah.'

She was quiet a beat. Then, softly: ‘Why not?’

The air shifted again. Serious now. Too still.

You tried for honesty, the kind that didn’t dress itself up too much. ‘Because if we did… I don’t know. I might fall in.’

She lifted her head, frowning. ‘Fall in?’

You gestured vaguely between you. ‘Into all this. Too deep. I’m your manager, Asa. There’s lines. I don’t know what happens if I… if we… cross them.’

She looked at you for a long time. Then, with a soft snort, said, ‘You think this hasn’t already crossed lines?’

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. She wasn’t wrong.

‘You’ve seen me cry after bad interviews,’ she continued. ‘You’ve slept next to me in tiny green rooms with broken heaters. You’ve watched me eat an entire packet of sour gummies for dinner and still defended me to the label.’

‘It was impressive,’ you offered.

‘It was pathetic,’ she said, grinning. ‘But you didn’t make me feel pathetic. You made me feel… okay. Like it was okay to be tired and weird and hungry at 2am.’

You were staring at her again. Couldn’t help it.

She touched your wrist, featherlight. 'So yeah. I’ve thought about it. The… other stuff. But I figured if we were gonna, it had to be when it didn’t feel like a risk.'

You nodded slowly. That sounded right. That sounded like her.

‘Still… love hotels, huh?’

She groaned, faceplanting into your chest. ‘I knew you were gonna circle back.’

‘You started it.’

‘It was a joke! Mostly.’

‘Mostly?’

She peeked up at you, eyes glinting. ‘Eighty percent joke. Twenty percent… we’d have fun.’

‘Fun?’

‘Yeah. Dumb, cheesy, stupid fun. Mirrors on the ceiling kind of fun.’

You tried not to laugh. Failed. ‘God, you’re dangerous.’

‘I’m adorable,’ she said, with a mock huff.

‘Also that.’

Her hand curled around your arm again, comfortably. Like it belonged there. You didn’t pull away.

After a while, she said, ‘So… no love hotels. For now.’

‘For now.’

‘But I’m not giving up.’

‘I’d be offended if you did.’

She smiled into your shirt. ‘It’s a weird thing, you know?’

‘What is?’

‘How much I like you. Even when you’re being all serious and manager-y. Even when you say things like “logistics.”’

You sighed. ‘I only said it twice.’

‘Once is too many.’

You reached over, tangled your fingers gently in her hair.

—

The door opened and she was already kissing you.

Just a quick one, soft and close-mouthed, but it said everything. She lingered, her arms around your neck, fingers slipping into your hair. You’d seen her just last night.

Still— ‘I missed you,’ she mumbled against your cheek.

‘It’s been twelve hours.’

‘Too long.’

You set the peaches on the counter without looking. One hand stayed around her waist.

‘You okay?’ you asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

‘Now? Yeah. Now I’m peachy.’

You groaned. ‘That was awful.’

She smiled. ‘Come slice the fruit, whiner.’

You did, methodically. Thin wedges, juices pooling on the plate. She leaned her hip against the counter, watching, towel still perched loosely on her head, damp strands peeking out. She looked soft, undone, like someone who belonged to a slow morning.

You brought the plate over and she tugged you toward the couch. You ended up side by side under the throw blanket, legs tangled. She fed you the first slice. Then leaned in for a kiss.

Peach-sweet.

‘Still missed you,’ she said again, like it needed repeating.

You offered her a slice in return. She took it delicately, then pecked your lips.

Another bite, another kiss. You let the silence hold, warm and quiet.

You ran your thumb along her knee, slow. She leaned into you, head tucked under your chin. ‘You smell good.’

Then, softly, reply: ‘I’ll have to go back to Korea. For a week or two. Maybe three.’

She stilled.

You felt it—her body going quiet. Still pressed against you, but something changed.

‘When?’ she asked, voice too even.

‘Couple days.’

A pause. Then: ‘Don’t spread yourself thin, okay?’

You glanced down.

Her eyes were still on the peach slice she held.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know. New city, old friends. Late nights. People who might not know you’ve got… someone.’

You blinked. Then looked at her, really looked.

Asa. Slightly pink-cheeked, lips sugar-wet from fruit. Trying not to sound hurt.

You set the plate down on the coffee table and turned to her fully. Lifted her chin with a fingertip.

‘You think I’d forget?’

She shrugged. ‘Not forget. Just… get swept up.’

You kissed her again. Longer this time. Slower.

When you pulled back, she was quiet.

You said, ‘This is a relationship, isn’t it.’

It wasn’t even a question.

She smiled, barely. A breath of a thing. Then nodded.

‘Yeah. I guess it is.’

Another kiss. Sappy, drawn-out, peach-flavored.

You didn’t need to say anything else.

—

The conference room was cold. Overly air-conditioned in that way corporate places always are, like someone thought discomfort = professionalism. Rows of black suits. PowerPoint slides with bullet points so dry you could sand wood with them.

You sat stiffly, tie a little too tight, nodding along while some VP in rectangular glasses spoke about “strategic alignment.” Whatever that meant.

Your phone buzzed quietly in your pocket.

You didn’t check it immediately. That would’ve been rude. But it buzzed again. And again.

Eventually, during the fake coffee break where everyone clustered around silver urns of burnt liquid, you slipped your phone out.

1:43 PM have you eaten?

1:44 PM Not really.

1:44 PM ??? dude why not

1:45 PM Was stuck in a panel about supply chain integration. They served sandwiches the size of poker chips.

1:46 PM that’s not food that’s a cry for help u need me i would’ve made u like actual rice or something

1:47 PM I would sell this entire conference for a bowl of your rice.

1:47 PM omg stop u say the weirdest sweet things i’m blushing now ew

1:48 PM It’s a gift.

1:48 PM ur gift is being emotionally deranged and underfed amazing

1:49 PM I aim for consistency.

1:56 PM ok wait

1:58 PM [photo attachment]

1:59 PM Did you just—

1:59 PM 😊

2:00 PM That hoodie looks very good on you.

2:00 PM looks better when i’m not wearin anything under 👀

2:01 PM You're driving me crazy.

2:01 PM good. u should be thinking abt me while ur surrounded by all those old men in ties bet they don’t got pics like this

2:02 PM [photo attachment]

2:03 PM ...I’m adjusting in my chair now.

2:03 PM lmaooo ur welcome

2:03 PM I hate you.

2:04 PM sureeee but ok i’ll give u a break

2:04 PM Thank you. Appreciate your generosity in these dark times.

2:05 PM anything for my emotionally deranged rice boy 🫶

2:06 PM See you soon?

2:06 PM yuh don’t make me wait too long or i’ll send a video next time 😌

2:06 PM Noted. Flying home immediately.

2:07 PM lol ur ridiculous safe flight, loser also EAT

2:08 PM Yes ma’am.

—

You didn’t even take off your shoes when you got in. Just dropped your bag by the desk, loosened your tie, sat on the edge of the hotel bed like the air had thickened with gravity. The buzz of travel still lived under your skin—artificial light, too much air conditioning, stale coffee that never quite tasted right. But the silence helped. So did the faint promise of her.

Your phone lit up. Incoming Call: Asa

You answered on the first ring.

‘Hey,’ she said, voice already a balm.

‘Hey yourself.’

‘Did you eat?’

You rolled your eyes. ‘You and this food agenda.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘Fine. Yes. Eventually.’

‘What was it?’

‘Questionable noodles from a place with too many neon signs and one too many “z”s in the name.’

‘Oof.’ You could hear her make a face. ‘Okay, yeah, I forgive you. That sounds tragic.’

‘Thought you’d appreciate the suffering.’

‘I always do.’ A pause. ‘So… are you lying down yet?’

You did, one shoe still on, the other kicked halfway under the bed. ‘Yeah.’

‘Lights off?’

‘Just dim.’

‘Shirt?’

‘Still on.’

‘Hmph. We’ll fix that.’

You laughed softly, eyes closing as her voice washed over you. ‘You always get bossy this time of night?’

‘Only when I miss you. And when you’re being particularly slow.’

‘Mm. Sorry, manager mode doesn’t turn off easy.’

‘Well, lucky for you…’ A rustle. Fabric shifting. ‘...I’m in bed too.’

Your heart bumped at the sudden hush in her tone.

‘And what are you wearing?’ you asked, mock-formal.

‘You mean right now?’

‘Don’t play coy.’

She chuckled, voice warm like candlelight. ‘Your hoodie.’

‘Just the hoodie?’

There was the faintest pause. ‘You tell me.’

God. You swallowed. ‘Is it… zipped?’

‘Nope.’

You exhaled. ‘Fuck.’

‘Language,’ she teased. Then softer: ‘Missed your voice.’

‘You said that already.’

‘Still true.’ Her voice curled closer, like she was beside you, whispering. ‘You sound tired. That good kind. The one where I wish I was there.’

‘You’re kind of always here,’ you murmured.

‘Am I?’

‘Yeah. It’s dumb. I see a dumb pink drink at Starbucks and think of you. I hear a bad pop song in a cab, and it’s suddenly about you. It’s annoying.’

‘God.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Say more stupid things like that.’

‘I would,’ you said, ‘but I think I’d rather hear what you’re doing right now.’

Another rustle. You pictured her on that bed. Hair messy, half-lidded. Bare thighs and soft sighs.

‘Thinking about you,’ she said, unashamed. ‘Touching the edge of the hoodie. Just the hem. It’s so soft.’

‘Is it now.’

‘Yeah.’ A breath. ‘Can I… ask you something kind of dumb?’

‘Always.’

‘Have you ever… like—done this over the phone?’

Your mouth quirked. ‘Phone sex?’

‘Don’t say it like that.’ She groaned. ‘Now I’m shy.’

‘Too late,’ you murmured. ‘You brought it up.’

‘Technically, you did with the “what are you wearing” opener.’

You laughed, throat dry. ‘Okay. Guilty.’

A pause. Then she said, quieter, ‘I want to.’

Your stomach tightened. ‘Yeah?’

‘I keep picturing you lying there. Still in your dress shirt. Probably frowning at the ceiling.’

‘I was.’

‘You’re always so composed. So good. Until you’re not.’

You adjusted your position on the bed. Your jeans suddenly didn’t fit right.

‘Tell me what you’d do,’ she said.

You exhaled. ‘To you?’

‘Mhm.’

‘I’d start slow. Undo the zipper of that hoodie. Just enough to see the skin beneath. Press my nose against your shoulder. A soft bite too.’

She made a small, shaky sound. Encouragement.

‘Then I’d tell you to leave it half-zipped. Just like that. Because I want to see you in my hoodie. Want to see how little else you’re wearing underneath.’

She whimpered. ‘God, keep going.’

‘I’d kiss down your neck. Right where your collarbone meets your shoulder. Feel you squirm under me. My hands—’ you shifted, groaning under your breath, ‘—would slide under the hoodie, find your waist. Feel how warm your skin is.’

‘And?’ Her voice was tighter now, breathier. You imagined her biting her lower lip, one hand between her legs.

‘And I’d drop to my knees,’ you said. ‘I’d press kisses down your stomach. Trail down. Really love every part down. Then, I’d look up at you from between your thighs. Make you wait a second. Just enough to make your legs twitch, make you squirm under my hands.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ she whispered.

‘You’d be dripping,’ you added, voice darker now, lower. ‘Wouldn’t you.’

She breathed out a yes, broken and small. ‘Would beg for your mouth.’

‘Wouldn’t even make you wait long. Just enough. Then I’d lick—slow and flat. Feel you twitch. Hear you whine. My fingers would dig into your thighs. Hold you still as you convulse.’

‘God,’ she breathed.

‘You’d be worse,’ you said. ‘Your hands in my hair. Pulling. That breathless way you say my name. Every second deciding whether to stare at me eating you or look at the ceiling in euphoria’

‘Fuck, I’m—I’m close—’

‘Don’t come yet.’

She whimpered, frustrated.

‘Not until I say. Not until I’ve—’ You stopped. Smiled. ‘Actually…’

‘What?’

‘Would you get on your knees for me?’

A pause.

‘I want to hear it,’ you said.

Another beat. Then, soft as a secret: ‘Yes.’

‘Open your mouth for me. Put your wet fingers into your mouth.’

She inhaled sharply.

You adjusted your grip on the phone. ‘I’d undo my belt. Let you see how hard I am for you. Make you ask.'

‘Please,’ she said, immediately.

‘Good girl.’

A quiet whimper, something other than the whimper, something wet.

‘I’d feed it to you slow. Just the head first, resting on your tongue, all heavy. Let you get used to the weight on your tongue.’

She gasped.

‘Then deeper. Let you feel my pulsing erection, down and down. Until your lips hit my hips.’

‘Oh my god—’

‘You’d gag a little. But take it. I’d hold you there, Asa. You’ll take it so fucking well. So so fucking well.’

There was a choked sound on the line.

‘You doing it?’ you asked, softer now.

‘Mhm.’ Barely a whisper. ‘Fingers.’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘I want you inside me so bad.’

‘You’ll have me,’ you promised. ‘Next time I see you, I’m bending you over that hotel desk. Hoodie on. Nothing underneath.’

She moaned. ‘Please.’

‘You’ll take every inch. You won’t move. Your legs wouldn’t touch the ground.’ You were almost growling at the phone.

She whimpered again, high and desperate. ‘I’m—can I—?’

‘Now,’ you breathed. ‘Come now.’

She shattered on the line. You heard it. The breathless rush, the sound of her fingering herself to completion, the sound of her palm slapping fabric, her cry stifled into the pillow.

You listened like it was scripture.

After a long, delicious silence, her voice came back. A little broken. A little breathless. You heard her turn in the bed.

‘Oh my god. That was so hot.’

You chuckled, still catching your own breath. ‘You think?’

‘But also…’ she added, voice mock stern, ‘conflict of interest.’

‘Oh?’

‘I’m your artist. You’re my manager. And now I know how you’d ruin me.’

You grinned. ‘Mutual ruination. Very professional.’

‘Extremely HR-friendly.’

‘You’re gonna be the death of me.’

—

The days flew by much faster than you expected—mostly, because of Asa’s calls.

‘I forgot we could video call.’ Asa giggled, the heat of the moment got to you both yesterday, and the rest was history.

‘Was it effective?’

‘God yes. But now we can see each other. Look at you, button-up, in your suit.’ She breathed softly.

Damp hair, bare face, Asa, oh Asa, the most beautiful person in the world.

‘Asa.’ ‘Yes?’ Her voice was soft now, still holding that trace of breathlessness, a slight echo of the intensity from moments before. The video feed showed her face, slightly flushed, hair mussed around her temples, eyes wide and maybe a little shy now that you were seeing each other right after.

‘Just… yes.’ You let out a slow breath. Looked away from the screen for a second, gathering yourself. The artificial hotel lighting felt suddenly too bright. ‘Seeing you like this. After…’ You trailed off.

A small smile touched her lips. She pulled the blanket—or maybe it was the duvet—up slightly higher, just under her chin. ‘After you painted quite the picture, Manager-nim?’

You chuckled, low and rough. ‘Something like that. Still trying to reconcile the HR violations with the… visual confirmation.’

She laughed then, a real laugh, warm and slightly shaky. ‘You’re ridiculous. Look at you. All serious suit.’

‘Maybe,’ you admitted, running a hand over your jaw. The stubble rasped against your palm. ‘This feels… new. Seeing you right now.’

‘Yeah?’ She tilted her head, a damp curl falling across her cheek. ‘Good new or ‘oh-god-what-have-we-done’ new?’

‘Definitely good new,’ you said immediately. Too quickly, maybe. ‘Just… potent.’ You looked back at the screen, letting your eyes trace the line of her shoulder where it peeked above the covers. ‘So. Still rocking the legendary hoodie?’

Her blush deepened slightly. She glanced down as if confirming it for herself. ‘Might be.’

‘Might be?’ you echoed, letting a teasing note creep into your voice. ‘You holding out on me?’

‘Maybe I graduated,’ she countered, though her eyes glinted with amusement. ‘Maybe I’m wearing a ballgown under here. Maybe you bought me a ballgown and forgot about it.’

‘Somehow I doubt that.’

‘You wound me with your lack of faith.’ She shifted, the movement making the camera wobble slightly. Then, with deliberate slowness, she lowered the blanket just enough to reveal the soft grey fabric of your hoodie pulled low over her collarbones. The zipper was still halfway down, just like you’d imagined. ‘See? Loyal customer.’

Your breath hitched. ‘Okay. Yeah. Still looks… objectively good.’

‘Objectively?’ she repeated, raising an eyebrow. ‘Just objective appreciation, huh?’

‘Trying my best,’ you said, though your voice felt thick. ‘Doesn't mean my brain isn’t currently short-circuiting trying to imagine peeling it off you slowly when I get back.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Her voice dropped again, that low, intimate curl returning. ‘Tell me more about these return plans. Distract me from the fact I just basically melted into a puddle on the phone.’

You leaned back against the headboard, phone held steady now. The formality of the suit felt absurd. ‘First thing? Definitely losing the tie. Probably the moment the hotel door clicks shut behind me.’

‘A vital first step.’

‘Then,’ you continued, picturing it, letting the images form sharp and clear, ‘I find you. Wherever you are. Kitchen, couch, curled up on the bed looking annoyingly beautiful and innocent after driving me crazy from miles away.’

‘Annoyingly beautiful?’

‘You heard me. And I walk straight to you. No detours. No checking emails. Just… you.’ You paused, letting the word hang there. ‘And I kiss you. Properly. Not a quick peck. One of those long, slow ones that makes you forget what day it is.’

She smiled, a soft, genuine curve of her lips. ‘I like those days.’

‘Me too. Then, yeah. The hoodie. It’s gotta go. Slowly. Finger by finger up the zipper. Or maybe I just hook my fingers under the hem and pull it up over your head, tangle your hair a bit. See what you’ve got on underneath. Or what you don’t.’

She swallowed, visible on the screen. ‘And… what if there’s not much?’

‘Even better,’ you murmured. ‘Then it’s just skin. Yours against mine. I’d back you up against the nearest wall. Just to feel you pressed against me, finally. Kiss down your neck again, right there…’ you touched your own collarbone, ‘…where I know you like it. Feel you shiver.’

‘You remember,’ she whispered.

‘I remember everything.’ You shifted on the bed, the movement involuntary. ‘Then maybe the couch. Or the bed. Doesn't matter. Just tangled up. Lazy kisses. Hands exploring. None of that rushed tour bus hiding-in-corners stuff. Just… slow. Taking our time. Making up for all these miles.’

‘Slow sounds good,’ she breathed. ‘Really good.’

‘And food,’ you added, lightening the tone slightly. ‘Actual food. Maybe Pizza Hut. We can even leave the box on the floor this time. Break all my minimalist rules.’

She laughed, the sound like music. ‘Look at you, growing.’

‘Only for you.’ You met her eyes on the screen again. The joking facade faded. ‘Just… being close. That’s the plan. Getting back, shutting the door, and just being close to you. Everything else is details.’

‘Good details, though,’ she murmured, her gaze soft, affectionate. ‘Really, really good details.’

‘Yeah,’ you agreed, feeling a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the hotel heating. ‘They are.’

A comfortable silence settled for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of electronics. Her eyes stayed on yours, a quiet understanding passing between the screens.

‘You’re staring again,’ she said softly, breaking the spell.

‘Can’t help it,’ you replied honestly. ‘Hard not to, even through a screen.’

‘Book boy’s getting dangerously smooth.’

‘Don’t call me that right now.’

She grinned, that familiar flash of mischief returning. ‘Why not… book boy?’

‘Because right now,’ you said, ‘all I can think about is getting home and doing things that aren’t found in any book I own.’

Her breath hitched audibly. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Message received. Loud and clear.’ She pulled the blanket back up slightly, mock-primly. ‘Guess I should… conserve my energy then.’

‘Good idea,’ you said, though the thought of her conserving energy by herself, wearing your hoodie, sent another jolt through you. ‘See you soon, Asa.’

‘Soon,’ she promised, her eyes holding yours for a second longer before the screen went dark.

You dropped the phone onto the duvet beside you, staring up at the textured ceiling. Soon couldn’t come fast enough. The sterile hotel room suddenly felt infinitely emptier. You thought about rice, kimchi, the smell of her shampoo, the weight of her head on your shoulder, the feel of her hand in yours. Simple things. Essential things. Heaven, you thought, surprised again. A quiet, waiting kind of heaven. And maybe, just maybe, a few HR violations when you got there.

—

The days went by surprisingly fast. You were already on the plane. A medium amount of homicidal executives. A medium amount of threats on your job. All in all, a successful trip for training. Though you would’ve liked to stay by Asa’s side.

The flight was much longer than the week. Each hour dragged longer and longer. Like Zeno’s paradox. A smear of lethargy getting slower and slower until it didn’t move anymore. Of course, hyperbole considered, the flight still went by, or time went on, either of the two.

You landed. The air outside the terminal felt thick, sticky, holding onto the day's heat like a damp towel. Another city. Didn't matter much which one. She was here. That felt like the only direction that mattered.

The taxi window fogged easy. You drew a lazy line through the condensation with one finger. Thinking about rain, maybe. Wet pavement. Steamed-up backseats. The memory felt warm, close.

Check-in was smooth, anonymous. The key card felt cool in your palm. Same floor. Room across. Thank the booking gods, or whoever managed those details now. Probably still you, indirectly. The elevator hummed low, a familiar vibration, a sound that meant transit, waiting. You watched the numbers climb, feeling slower than they looked.

Down the hallway. Heavy carpet swallowed the sound of your footsteps, mostly. Soft thuds against some muted, swirling pattern you didn’t register. Your door: 512. Hers, across: 513.

A crack of light spilled from under her door. And jammed in the opening, holding it ajar, was a shoe. One of her boots. Casual.

You nudged the door wider with a fingertip, gentle. There she was. Curled not on the bed, but in one of those upholstered armchairs hotels always seem to have. Head tilted against the wingback, mouth slightly parted. Fast asleep. Still dressed from the day—jeans, soft-looking band shirt. Makeup mostly intact, maybe a faint smudge beneath one eye. Breathing soft and even.

Must've waited up. Or tried to.

You bent down, quietly picked up the stray boot. Set it beside its partner, near the wall. Turned back.

‘You’re here.’

Her voice was soft, thick with sleep, but definitely awake. Before you could answer, or fully turn, she was unfolding herself from the chair, moving quickly across the small space between you. Her arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you tight against her. Her cheek pressed into the fabric of your travel-rumpled shirt.

‘I missed you,’ she mumbled into your back. She breathed you in, a long, deliberate inhale. ‘God, I missed you so much.’

You stood still for a moment, letting the reality of it sink in. The weight of her, the warmth. The faint scent of her shampoo mixed with something else—hotel soap, maybe fatigue. You covered her hands with yours where they were clasped at your stomach.

‘Hey,’ you said, voice low. ‘Missed you too.’

She squeezed tighter. ‘Took you long enough.’ Still muffled.

‘Traffic,’ you offered. ‘And, you know. Strategic alignment meetings.’

She made a soft scoffing sound against your spine. ‘Don’t remind me.’ She loosened her grip slightly, enough for you to turn around within her embrace. Her eyes were hazy, still clouded with sleep, but focused on yours now. A tiny, tired smile played on her lips. ‘You look wrecked.’

‘Feel it.’ You brushed a stray strand of raven hair back from her temple. Her skin felt warm. ‘You didn’t have to wait up.’

‘Tried not to,’ she admitted, leaning her forehead against your chest. ‘Failed. Fell asleep in the chair like an old lady.’

‘Very dignified.’

‘Shut up.’ She nudged you playfully. ‘Did you eat? Please tell me you ate something that wasn’t from a vending machine.’

‘Questionable airport sandwich,’ you confessed. ‘Does that count?’

She groaned, tilting her head back to look up at you properly. ‘Tragic. Utterly tragic. My manager, starving.’

‘Suffering for my art. Or yours, rather.’ You smiled down at her, a soft peck on her lips. ‘Pretty sure falling asleep fully clothed in an armchair is also tragic.’

‘It’s method,’ she insisted, though her eyelids fluttered. ‘Preparing for the inevitable tour bus naps.’ She tugged you further into the room, towards the unmade bed. ‘Come on. Lie down before you fall down. You can tell me all about the horrors of corporate synergy later.’

‘Only if you promise not to fall asleep mid-sentence again.’

‘No promises, book boy.’ She yawned, wide and uninhibited, then grinned, teeth flashing briefly. ‘But I’ll try. Mostly.’

You let her pull you over. The room felt suddenly small, contained, just the two of you in the dim lamp light. Her hand felt warm, fitting easily back into yours, like it had never left. Heaven, you thought. This quiet, hand-held kind. No rain required. Just her.

She steered you towards the rumpled landscape of the queen-sized bed. ‘Okay, ditch the jacket at least. You look like you’re about to audit the mini-bar.’

You shrugged out of it, letting it fall onto the back of the armchair she’d vacated. You eyed the bed, then glanced back towards the door, towards the silent hallway and your own room waiting just across it. ‘Maybe I should—’

‘Nope.’ She cut you off, shaking her head firmly. Her hair swayed. ‘Don’t even finish that sentence. You’re not going anywhere.’

‘Asa,’ you started, trying for reasonable. ‘We have separate rooms for a reason. Protocols. Appearances.’

She flopped dramatically onto the bed, bouncing slightly. ‘Protocols went out the window somewhere around “feed it to me slow,” didn't they?’ You felt a hot rush along your cheeks. She patted the space beside her. ‘Besides, who’s gonna know? The Hotel Room Police? Are they doing spot checks tonight?’

A small laugh escaped you. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘And you’re tired,’ she countered, her gaze softening just a fraction. ‘And probably need a shower. And definitely need sleep. Which you won’t get if you’re pacing around your sterile little room wondering if I’m okay over here.’

You couldn't argue with that last part. Remembering the phone calls, the things said, the barriers evaporated line by line over bad connections and late nights… staying across the hall felt suddenly artificial. Pointless, even.

‘Fine,’ you conceded, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. ‘But if someone from the label does a surprise inspection at 3 AM, you’re doing the talking.’

‘Deal.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll tell them you were giving me emergency vocal coaching. Very, very quiet coaching.’

You ran a hand through your hair. ‘Need to brush my teeth first. Didn't even unpack that far.’

‘Bathroom’s through there.’ She waved vaguely towards a closed door. ‘Think there’s a spare toothbrush in the little kit thingy they leave. Unless you’re bringing your own extensive dental hygiene setup?’

‘Just the basics.’ You stood up, heading for the bathroom. Inside, the light flickered on. Standard hotel fare. Tiny soaps, neatly folded towels. Her makeup bag sat open on the counter, spilling brushes and palettes. You found the complimentary kit, tore open the stiff plastic around the toothbrush. As you brushed, you noticed her worn blue toothbrush sitting casually in the holder next to where you placed the new one. A small, stupidly domestic sight. Like sharing a coffee cup, or leaving a book on a nightstand. Small offerings. Small acceptances.

When you came back out, she’d kicked off her jeans and burrowed under the duvet, leaving just her head and shoulders visible. She watched you approach the bed, eyes tracking your movements.

‘Comfy?’ you asked, pulling back the covers on your side.

‘Getting there. Are you a duvet hog? I need to know upfront.’

‘Never.’ You slid in, the sheets cool against your skin. You stayed on your side, a respectable distance between you. For about five seconds.

She immediately rolled closer, bumping her shoulder against yours gently. ‘Liar. You look like the type who builds a pillow fortress.’

‘Only when threatened.’ You turned onto your side to face her. The lamp cast soft shadows across her features. Her makeup looked smudged now, softer. Tired, but content.

‘Am I threatening?’ she whispered, voice playful.

‘Constantly.’

Her lips curved. ‘Good.’ She scooted a fraction closer, close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating off her. Close enough to smell the lingering trace of her perfume mixed with the clean scent of hotel sheets. ‘This is nice, isn't it?’

‘Nice isn't the word I’d use.’

‘Oh yeah? What word would you use, book boy?’ Her eyes were bright, teasing, even in the low light.

You thought for a moment. ‘Finally,’ you said, finally. Quietly.

Her teasing expression faded. She reached out, her fingers lightly tracing the line of your jaw. ‘Yeah,’ she murmured. ‘That sounds about right.’

Silence settled again, comfortable this time. Just the faint hum of the air conditioning, the soft sound of her breathing close by, god, it sounded so good. Her eyes stayed on yours, a steady, curious gaze.

‘You gonna stare at me all night?’ you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

‘Maybe,’ she replied, equally quiet.

Your own eyelids felt heavy. The travel, the tension, the release of finally being here, with her. It was all catching up. But you kept your eyes open, looking back at her. At the curve of her cheek, the slight parting of her lips, the way a stray strand of hair fell across her forehead.

‘Good night. ’ she mumbled, her own eyes starting to drift closed.

‘You too.’

Her hand slipped down from your jaw, her fingers finding yours under the covers, lacing together loosely. A simple, grounding connection. You watched her face relax fully into sleep, her breathing deepening slightly. Even then, you kept looking for another moment, fixing the image in your mind. Asa, asleep beside you. Not across the hall, not miles away, not just a voice on the phone. Here. Necessary.

Finally, your own eyes closed. The darkness felt warm, welcome. Shared.

You opened your eyes, saw Asa first, breathing softly, eyes closed, lips almost protruding: cute. You looked around, the sheer curtain brought tumbles of foggy sunlight onto the starched blanket.

When your eyes went back to Asa, her eyes were open.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Amazing.’

‘Mm. That’s good.’ Her hand softly landed on your jaw, caressing. She then shuffled forth, ‘I can’t believe it, that you’re here, on this bed.’ A kiss. Then another. Then all over your face.

You shared a kiss. Or two. You relished the rest.

It stands to reason, perhaps, that what was about to happen was overdue.

You wrapped your arms around her waist. Then her hands pushed your forearms down, lower, way lower than you originally placed them.

And all you could hear were the subtle breaths of Asa, getting faster, you think..

‘Lower.’

You felt red. You went lower. The swell of her backside—fuck fuck fuck—was supple in your hands. ‘Asa.’

‘Mhm. Keep going. I’ve missed out on a week without you.’

‘The video—’

‘Those don’t count. When your warm palms are not on me, nothing counts.’

That does it for you, frankly. You gripped hard, she squealed, you smashed your lips against hers—obviously, she’d call you brute after—then it becomes a race against time: how can you extend it? Can the pillowy softness of her just stay on you for more than a month atleast? Or a week! Even a day!

‘Stop thinking.’

Oh. Right. She’s right here.

You flip her over, right under you, pinned and trapped. Your limbs as bars. And you swear, to almighty and above, that Asa whispered finally.

You yield again to her touch, you slot yourself into her arms, between her legs, her arm a lock behind your nape. You should apologize to her, honestly, even the way she recoups herself under you is so fucking hot—her chest heaving, kiss-bitten lips, blooming red across her soft neck—sorry, Asa, sorry, you must hear my thoughts, right? For all it’s worth, I apologize.

‘Keep going.’ She huffs meekly.

‘You’re driving me crazy.’

‘I know. Keep going. Don’t stop. Let me go crazy under you. Own me.’ It’s grizzly, she has this effect on you, and you oblige, obviously. You devour her, more or less, you kiss her moist skin, the pink flush of her cheeks—why is it so pink?

Your hand slipped beneath her shirt. Nothing underneath. Her skin was warm, impossibly soft. You palmed the side of her breast, and her breath caught in your ear.

‘You said warm palms,’ you murmured, kissing along her jaw.

‘That’s one of the things I said,’ she breathed, arching slightly, coaxing your hand down, guiding it, greedy.

You trailed your mouth lower. Her body opened under you like a lit match in slow burn. She squirmed, impatient now, toes curling in the sheets.

‘You're really gonna tease me again?’ she asked, breathless, borderline scolding. ‘After all those goddamn phone calls?’

You grinned. ‘I’m making up for lost time.’

‘You’ll make up after,’ she growled softly, dragging you by your collar until your mouths met again. It was messier this time. Less orchestrated. More instinct.

Then: her hand slid between you both. She cupped you through your boxers—your aching hardness—no shame, no patience.

You froze.

‘You—you want this?’ you asked, breath ragged. ‘Now?’

‘You’re not my manager right now,’ she said, low. ‘You’re just mine.’

That about split you in two.

You kissed her hard.

Your hand slipped into her underwear. At the expense of her breathless broken moans, you felt around. She was wet already—how was she always wet? It drove you mad. She bucked against your hand as it hovered over her pussy, a shaky moan leaving her as your fingers curled inside her velvety heat. She grabbed your wrist and dug her nails in, like she couldn’t stand how slow you were going.

You felt her juices collect along your finger, completely covered, like honey, like a glaze that you were aching to taste. It’s this goddess right here, under your arms, seized, and convulsing as you fingered her into oblivion.

‘I’m gonna—’ she choked, already unsteady, lips parted, eyes fluttering. ‘Oh fuck. I’m gonna—’ She was whimpering, bucking, choking up, breaking right under you, from your fingers. Holy fucking shit. You buried your face into her neck as you worked your fingers fast and deeper.

‘Come for me,’ you whispered. Arms certainly straining—but of course: anything for Asa.

And she did. Hard. Legs shaking, voice cut to delicate ribbons. ‘Ngh!’ An entire wetness covered your hand wrist-deep.

When she came down, she blinked up at you, completely dazed, hairs stuck to her forehead in little criss-crosses and curls and somehow absolutely perfect. ‘You’re gonna kill me one day.’

‘No,’ you said, dropping kisses over her eyelids, down her cheek. ‘Just gonna keep breaking you a little.’

‘You make that sound romantic,’ she teased, lazy now. Wrecked.

‘It is,’ you said. ‘You’re mine. And I’m gonna prove it.’

You spread your wet hand along her sunlight-covered chest, and she let you, protruding her beautiful chest; you let her know, each swipe along her chest, sternum, just outside her areolas: look at how much you came, look at it, you naughty girl.

‘Open your mouth.’

‘Yes.’ She obeyed. Short circuit.

Her tongue pressed flat against your nectar-covered hand, diligently tasting… diligently tasting herself. Fuck.

Then you kissed her. God, she tasted good.

‘Review?’ She asked, all looney.

You burst out laughing, then she followed soon after.

‘Highest possible rating.’

‘Hm. I figured.’

‘One more kiss,’ you almost beg.

‘You like it that much?’

‘Take a hint, Asa. I love everything about you.’

Perhaps, that was the longest kiss of them all. Then:

You moved down.

She looked down at you, eyebrows lifting.

‘Wait—again?’

‘You owe me from last week. I didn’t forget that one call where you cut me off halfway. Something about “soundproofing,” remember?’

Her eyes widened. Her laugh was half-winded. ‘Oh god, that.’

Her panties were gone as swiftly as possible. And there it was, in all its glory. Something you haven’t seen, ironic given how far along you both are. Pink, glowing with her slick, absolutely transcendent. Your pants were about to burst. You were about to wrap ribbons of prayer just for the way it was pearlescent, so delicate; yet your fingers were inside there, misshaping it; you were really getting her pussy to come on your fingers. Holy shit.

You bowed, in prayer, between her thighs.

You looked up at Asa. Pink flush all over her cheeks. Broken in her moans, in her voice, in her euphoria.

‘Mhm.’ You kissed the inside of her thigh. ‘Now be quiet for me. Let me collect.’

You grinned when she clutched the sheets.

You grinned harder when she said your name like it hurt.

You slid your hands under the backs of her knees, pushed them gently toward her chest, opened her up. She gasped.

Then you tasted her.

Soft, slow at first. Long licks, riding up from bottom to top, along her delicate folds, her swollen nub—Lord almighty the sounds she made. Her hips lifted. The first moan was half-choked, too much too fast, but she didn’t ask you to slow down. Her fingers laced into your hair and held. Your name slipped out like a plea, then again, sharper, breathless.

You locked your arms under her thighs. Anchored her. Let her grind against your mouth, desperate and greedy. Let her ride it.

‘Fuck—fuck, I—’ her voice cracked like glass. ‘I’m gonna—oh god—’

You didn’t stop.

You flattened your tongue and pressed harder. Swirled when she twitched. You were methodical. Hungry. She tried to lift her hips off the bed entirely—run from it, maybe—but you gripped tighter, pulled her back. Stay right here.

And then—

She shattered.

Her thighs clamped around your ears. Her whole body jolted, a drawn bowstring suddenly loosed. The sheets under her soaked instantly.

She’d squirted.

You didn’t move. Just held her through it. Tongue gentler now, coaxing. Let her come again, smaller this time, still twitching under your grip.

When you finally looked up, her face was flushed, stunned.

‘Oh god. Your face.’ She burst out laughing again. ‘I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or what! Look at your face!’

Then, the soft air made you feel the chill of the wetness across your face. She squirted all over your face. Your grin didn’t drop a single time.

She laughed. A breathless, shocked thing. ‘I think you short-circuited me.’

‘I’m glad. So glad. My Asa. Goddess.’

She hummed positively, still out of breath.

You kissed the inside of her knee. Then trailed your mouth down her shin—the firm, quiet perfection of her shin, the skin smooth and just slightly cool to the touch. She twitched under your lips, involuntary, but didn’t pull away. You kept going, unhurried, kissing down to her ankle. Firm. Beautifully angular. You lifted her foot.

She blinked. ‘What are you—’

You kissed the arch. Pale. Sensitive.

She gasped, a little laugh bleeding through. ‘That tickles—’

Then her sole. Baby pink. Almost glowing under the low lamplight. You kissed the ball of her foot, the soft rise just beneath her toes. Then slower, more deliberate, your mouth passed over the heel, the in-step, the barely-there lines that mapped her skin. The taste of her—clean, skin-warm—something that should’ve felt silly but didn’t. Not at all.

‘Oh my god,’ she whispered, almost giggling, breath catching unevenly. ‘You’re insane.’

‘Worship,’ you murmured. ‘Every part of you.’

You moved to the other foot, taking your time. Letting her feel it wasn’t just performance, or hunger. This was devotion. This was reverence. You kissed along the sole, each toe separately, letting them rest against your lips like petals. When you finally lowered her feet gently back to the bed, she looked up at you like something in her had been rearranged.

Like maybe something just clicked.

You crawled up over her again. Her chest was rising, falling. Her breath shallow, trembling. Your hips brushed hers. You felt it instantly—heat. Wet.

She felt you too. Stiff against your boxers. The whole length of you pressed to her thigh.

‘Oh,’ she said, the word leaving her like a slow exhale. ‘Oh, you’re—’

You leaned in until your forehead met hers. She could probably feel how fast your pulse was beating.

Her hand slipped down between you both, knuckles brushing your stomach, then cupping you through your underwear. She stilled. Her brows arched.

‘You’re—fuck, you’re huge.’

You just smiled, lips ghosting her cheek.

She hooked a finger under the waistband and tugged. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours.

‘Unsheathe the sword,’ she whispered, mock dramatic, her voice still breathy, still half-lost.

You laughed. Soft and hot against her jaw. ‘You’re ridiculous.’

‘You like it.’

‘I love it.’

So you did. You slipped out of your boxers, your cock springing free and flushed. Heavy with need. She inhaled at the sight, visibly stunned, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip just a little as you looked down at her—sprawled, open.

You reached between her thighs. She was soaked. Slickness smeared easily over your fingers, thick and warm. You pressed the head against her, dragging it slowly through her folds, teasing, wet sounds slicking the air between you.

She whimpered.

Then you lined up, just barely pressing in.

‘Now?’ you asked, voice gone low and cracked.

She looped her arms around your neck. Wrapped her legs around your waist. Pulled.

‘Now,’ she said, and her voice cracked too. ‘Finally.’

You pushed in.

Heat. Pressure. Tight.

She gasped—or sobbed—you weren’t sure which. Her arms clutched at your shoulders, nails raking instinctively.

‘Ngh—’ you grunted, barely able to breathe.

‘Are you okay?’ she whispered, like her whole body was trying not to break in half.

‘Ke—ep going!’

And so you did. Inch by aching inch, your cock slid deeper, parting her, stretching her. Her walls clenched around you—not resisting, but trembling, adjusting. Wet enough to glide, tight enough to ruin you.

You looked down, watched yourself disappear inside her. You weren’t even all the way in yet.

‘Fuck—you’re perfect,’ you breathed.

She couldn’t answer. Her eyes were glassy, locked onto your face like it was the only stable thing in the room. Her fingers gripped the back of your neck, anchoring herself.

‘It’s too big—’ she whimpered, voice barely audible.

‘Slightly above average,’ you corrected her, through grit teeth.

She blinked at you. Then giggled. Actually giggled. The sound was sharp and breathless.

‘Oh wow. First guy to undersell himself.’

‘First guy?’

She looked at you like you were adorable and stupid at once.

‘You’re my first. Don’t be silly.’

That landed like a punch wrapped in silk. You stopped moving.

‘Right. Right. I’m sorry,’ you whispered.

‘Don’t be,’ she said. Her lips curved, the sweetest thing. ‘Just go slow. Don’t stop.’

You kissed her again. Gentle. So soft your lips barely moved. And you pushed deeper.

She arched, biting her lip hard.

You were inside her now. All the way. Pressed to the hilt. Her warmth swallowed you, wrapped around you, soaked every nerve in your body.

You stilled. Let her catch her breath. Let your body feel it. The twitch of her thighs, the tremble in her calves wrapped around you. The way she gasped every time you moved even a fraction.

‘I’ve got you,’ you whispered. ‘I’ll go slow.’

‘Don’t be too nice,’ she whispered back. ‘I want to remember this.’

You started slow.

Your hips rolled forward, careful, reverent. Her arms curled around your shoulders, legs still hooked loosely around your waist. She gasped into your neck—not in pain, not surprise—but that soft sound people make when something hits too deep and too right.

You pulled back, slow and steady. Watched the way her body clung to you, slick with need, her folds parting like they wanted to keep you inside. Your cock dragged out of her inch by inch, shining with her wetness, and when only the head was left, you paused—just to feel the tremble run through her thighs.

She looked up at you then.

Eyes glassy. Hair stuck to her cheek. A flush blooming across her chest and neck like watercolor bleeding through fabric.

You kissed her nose. Her temple. Rested your forehead against hers.

Then you eased back in. One long, slow thrust that made both of you exhale at the same time.

She let out the quietest whimper.

‘That feel okay?’ you whispered.

She nodded, eyes still closed. Her voice came small. ‘More than okay. You feel… full.’

You kissed her again—barely a brush of lips—and moved.

In and out.

So slow the bed barely moved. Just the soft rustle of sheets and the gentle slide of skin against skin. The wet sound of her body welcoming yours over and over.

You looked down between you, where your hips met hers, and watched the way you disappeared inside her. She was so slick, your cock moved like it belonged there—gliding through the tight heat, collecting every drop she gave you.

‘God, baby,’ you breathed. ‘You’re so wet.’

She bit her bottom lip, bashful and burning.

‘It’s your fault,’ she murmured. ‘You look at me like that, and I melt.’

You grinned, chest warm. Leaned down and licked along her collarbone, tasted the salt on her skin.

Her hands traced your back, fingertips trailing over the curve of your shoulder blades. Her nails didn’t dig yet—they just clung.

‘You’re perfect,’ you said, the words leaving your mouth like a prayer. Not planned. Just true.

She blinked up at you, startled by how soft you said it.

You moved again, slow but firmer this time, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

‘Keep doing that,’ she whispered. ‘Please. Just like that.’

You did. Deep and steady. Her inner walls tightened each time, fluttering like she didn’t know whether to hold you in or pull you deeper.

‘I love feeling you like this,’ she said, breathless. ‘I can feel everything.’

You kissed her jaw. ‘Me too. You feel like… heaven.’

She laughed, barely a sound. Then kissed you back, and moaned into your mouth as your hips rocked again.

Her legs squeezed tighter. You picked up just a little speed. The rhythm, still careful, still full of affection—but heavier now. Like your bodies were writing something together.

Then she gasped suddenly. Her nails bit into your skin. Her mouth found your shoulder and she moaned right against it.

‘Harder,’ she whispered. A plead. A confession. ‘Please. Please.’

You didn’t even think.

You grabbed the back of her thigh and slammed into her.

She cried out—not pain. Release. Her hands flew to the headboard, bracing. Sweat-slick. Flushed. Feral.

You drove into her like you were punishing the week apart. Each thrust deeper, harder, shaking the bed against the wall. Wet sounds filled the room, loud and obscene, her slick coating your cock in excess.

‘Fuck—fuck—you’re so deep—’ she gasped. Chest sweat-slicked, glowing. Utter euphoria. Feral.

You grabbed her wrists. Pinned them above her head with one hand. Your other braced beside her, keeping your weight just barely off her chest. Your hips never stopped moving.

‘You said you wanted to remember this,’ you growled. ‘You will.’

She nodded frantically, head thrown back, eyes rolling up as you fucked her into the mattress. You leaned in, your mouth to her ear.

‘You’re mine,’ you said. You didn’t even mean to say it. It just ripped out of you.

‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes—yes, yes, yes—’

You pulled out.

She gasped in protest—but you weren’t done.

You flipped her. Bent her over. Palmed the dip of her spine.

‘Arch more,’ you commanded, voice hoarse.

She obeyed instantly. Back bowed, ass high, thighs still shaking.

You sank back in, all at once.

She screamed into the pillow.

You didn’t ease up.

You grabbed her hips and held on, locked in, your thighs slapping against the backs of hers with each thrust. The rhythm was brutal now, relentless. You’d held back long enough. Her body welcomed it—hell, demanded it—soaked and twitching, each stroke punching wet sounds into the room like applause.

‘Fuckfuckfuck— you’re gonna make me—’ she gasped, voice nearly strangled by the pillow.

You leaned in, weight bearing down, grabbed a fistful of her ass and slapped it. Once. Firm. Just enough to send a sharp ripple through her.

She yelped, a noise of shock and heat all at once.

‘Come again,’ you growled. ‘Do it. I want it all over me.’

She obeyed—or maybe she just couldn’t help it.

Her whole body seized, back bowing, her thighs locking against yours as a jet of wetness sprayed out from between her legs, coating your skin, soaking the sheets. She sobbed into the pillow, a high, helpless sound, twitching like her body couldn’t handle it.

You didn’t stop.

You couldn’t stop.

You gripped her hips tighter—she was trying to crawl away, overwhelmed, overstimulated, every nerve lit—but you reeled her back like she was yours to claim.

‘Fuck—baby— I—fuck, you’re still going—’ she wailed, voice cracked open.

You didn’t answer. Just leaned over her back, chest against her spine, and pressed your hand between her shoulder blades. Not hard. Just enough to keep her down. Her cheek flattened against the sheets. Her hands clenched the comforter in fists.

‘You said you wanted to remember this,’ you rasped into her ear. ‘I’m making sure you do.’

‘Already wrecked—’ she sobbed, voice thick with surrender.

You reached for her hair and pulled, slow but sure, until she was forced to lift her face, eyes red and wet and wrecked as she looked back at you.

Tears on her cheeks. Mouth parted.

God, she looked divine.

‘Say it,’ you told her. ‘Say you’re mine.’

She didn’t hesitate.

‘I’m yours,’ she cried, desperate. ‘I’m fucking yours—just don’t stop—please, don’t stop—’

You drove into her like a man possessed. The sound of your hips slamming into her ass echoed off the walls. The headboard tapped the drywall with every stroke. Your name fell from her lips over and over, broken, begging, delirious.

Her legs shook.

Her body quaked.

She was so wet, so impossibly tight around you, the slick suction of her pulling you in deeper, deeper, like she didn’t want to let go.

Then her hand slid back, blindly, fingers reaching for you.

You grabbed her wrist, pinned it against the small of her back, her body arching under the pressure. Completely helpless. Herself offered up to you, willingly, wantonly, begging for the ruin.

And you gave it to her.

Everything.

You could feel it building—fast, violent—the pressure burning up your spine, into your ribs, your grip on her hip tightening, fingers digging bruises.

‘Please come,’ she begged, voice raw, soaked in need. ‘Inside. Please—I want to feel it—need it—’

You were right on the edge.

Your thrusts faltered, hitched. Your jaw clenched. Muscles locking.

You slammed into her one last time—deep—and held there, buried to the root, shaking.

Then you came.

Hard.

Ropes and ropes. You swore. Loud. Her name. God’s. Yours. Didn’t matter.

Every drop spilled inside her, her pussy milking you, clenching around you like she didn’t want to let you go.

You pressed your body down, still inside her, your forehead to her shoulder, your hand on her hip. The only sounds were your breaths—hers shallow and wrecked, yours ragged and uneven.

You pulled out slowly, and she whimpered at the loss—her pussy so spent, so tender, that she flinched at the shift in pressure.

You collapsed beside her. Hooked an arm around her middle and pulled her back into you.

Your cock twitched between you both, still half-hard, wet with the mess you’d left behind. It didn’t matter.

She was shaking.

Not from fear. From everything. From all of it.

You kissed her shoulder. Then the back of her neck. Then again.

Gentle now. Like you were reminding her you were still you.

Still hers.

Still here.

‘You okay?’ you whispered, hand slowly brushing her side, up and down in soft strokes.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then: ‘I can’t feel my legs.’

You laughed. Weakly. Kissed her again. ‘Good.’

She laughed too. A breathy, ruined thing.

‘We need…’ she mumbled. ‘A towel. Or five.’

‘Room service’ll think we committed a crime in here.’

She turned her face into the pillow. ‘We did.’

You held her tighter. Still catching your breath. Still high on the scent of sweat and sex and Asa. And her laugh, now lazy and gleaming, like everything was exactly where it should be.

‘You’re not going back to your room, are you?’ she mumbled.

‘Not even if it caught fire.’

‘Good.’

She twisted a little. Found your mouth again. A soft kiss this time. Messy and warm.

You were already hardening again.

She noticed.

And grinned into the kiss. ‘You’re insatiable.’

‘You’re to blame.’

‘Lucky me.’

—

She made a weak sound from where she was flopped across the bed like a marionette with the strings cut.

‘Ow,’ she mumbled into the sheets. ‘My everything.’

You limped back over. ‘I told you to hydrate.’

‘I did. Like, two sips.’

‘That’s not hydration. That’s mouth rinse.’

‘Then carry me to the bath, hydration police.’

You blinked. She didn’t look at you—too busy face-planting deeper into the mattress—but you saw the lazy little grin forming.

You exhaled, dramatic. ‘You’re lucky you’re cute.’

‘Strong words from a man walking like a baby deer.’

You scooped her up anyway.

She yelped—then clung to your shoulders like a koala. ‘Wait, you’re actually doing it? Oh my god.’

‘I am a gentleman,’ you said, wobbling slightly. ‘And you smell like sex and victory.’

‘Hot.’

‘Yes. Hot, and also sticky.’

‘Okay now it’s less hot.’

The bathroom was still fogged from earlier. The steam clung to the mirror. You set her down on the edge of the tub while the water ran, testing the temperature with your hand.

‘Are you seriously gonna draw me a bath?’ she asked, eyes wide. Teasing. But also just a little touched.

‘Gotta soak the goddess,’ you said, rinsing your hands off. ‘Divine women don’t loiter in their own post-orgasm wreckage.’

‘Stop it.’

‘No.’

You poured in a little of the cheap hotel bubble soap. It frothed up fast. She reached out and popped a bubble, grinning.

‘I feel fancy,’ she said.

‘You are fancy.’

You leaned over and kissed her shoulder. Then helped her step in, holding her steady as she lowered herself down.

‘Oof. Hot. Good hot. God-hot.’

She sank deeper with a soft sigh, head resting against the tile. Her knees just barely broke the surface. You pulled up the little stool from the corner and sat beside her.

She cracked one eye open. ‘You’re not getting in?’

‘This is your bath. You’re the main character.’

‘That’s sweet. Stupid. But sweet.’

You wet a washcloth, gently wrung it out, and started running it along her arms.

‘You don’t have to,’ she said, a little quieter now. Still smiling, but there was something behind it.

‘I know.’

She didn’t argue after that. Just let you.

You dragged the cloth along her collarbone, over her shoulder, down her arm again. Slow. Careful. A little clumsy, but trying.

She closed her eyes. Relaxed under your touch.

‘Do you do this for all your artists?’ she mumbled.

‘Only the ones who squirt on me twice and then collapse in a heap.’

‘Twice?’ Her eyes opened again. ‘You’re bragging now.’

‘Just documenting history.’

She giggled, lazy and soft, bubbles sticking to her collarbone.

You trailed the cloth down her side, then gently lifted one leg out of the water, resting her ankle on your thigh. Her foot was slick and warm. You kissed her arch, just because.

She stared at you, stunned for a second. Then blinked. ‘Okay. That was unfair.’

‘What was?’

‘Being all… this. Domestic and filthy. Worshipping me like I’m Aphrodite after brunch.’

You kissed her ankle this time. ‘Well. You are.’

She stared a beat longer. Then laughed.

‘You’re a menace.’

‘And yet here I am, washing your toes.’

‘You’re so in love with me.’

You paused. Looked up at her.

‘I am,’ you said. No theater. No drama. Just true.

Her face did that thing—like she wasn’t sure whether to cry or kiss you or splash water at your face just to reset the tension.

She settled for a quiet, ‘Okay. Yeah. Me too.’

You squeezed her ankle, then reached for the shampoo.

‘Tilt your head back.’

‘You’re really gonna wash my hair too?’ ‘Let me spoil you. I’ll invoice you later.’ She leaned her head back. You poured a little shampoo into your palm and massaged it gently into her scalp. She made a noise—somewhere between a hum and a moan. Eyes closed, face slack. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she mumbled. ‘Nope. Just winging it. Manager instincts.’ ‘Remind me to renew your contract.’ ‘With a raise?’ ‘With everything.’ You grinned, rinsed her hair gently, carefully shielding her eyes with your palm. Later, when you helped her out and wrapped her in a towel, she kissed your shoulder and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ Not teasing. Not playing. Just her. Bare, warm, soft. You held her a little longer than necessary. Let the steam wrap around both of you.

The End

a/n: .............................idk

#asa smut #babymonster #smut #kpop smut #kpop #babymonster smut

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