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pitlanepeach · 19 hours ago

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Radio Silence | Epilogue

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time jumps, slice of life.

Notes — There are no words, really. I hope you cherish all of the tiny, specific details I added here. I spent a lot of time on it. Yes, I will possibly write some additional snapshots/oneshots of their future.

2025

Autism, Womanhood, and the Mechanics of Belonging by Amelia Norris

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

In me, it’s always looked like this: a difficulty with eye contact. An inability to read the curve of someone’s mouth or the sharp edges hidden beneath their tone. I learned early how to catalogue expressions the way other girls my age collected dolls — not for fun, but for function. A survival skill. A flash of teeth? Friendly. Or hostile. Or forced. Raised eyebrows? Surprise. Maybe judgment. Maybe not.

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

Sarcasm took longer. I still miss it, sometimes. I can design a suspension system from scratch, but I’ll still turn to my husband after a conversation and ask, “Was that a joke?”

It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

Touch has always been strange, too. I don’t like uninvited contact. Hugs feel like puzzles with warped edges — familiar in theory, but always a little off. It’s not dislike. It’s friction between my nervous system and the world. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me.

I was wrong.

I’m not broken. I’m just calibrated differently.

And then there’s the focus.

When I was a child, it was Formula 1. Not the drivers, not the glamour — the systems. The telemetry. The pit stop choreography. The physics. The math hidden inside motion. While other kids learned to swim, I was memorising tyre degradation patterns. While girls my age planned birthday parties, I was building aerodynamic models from cereal boxes.

I didn’t understand how to be part of the world I’d been born into.

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

That obsession became a career — eventually. But not right away.

My father, Zak Brown, became the CEO of McLaren Racing. I thought that would be an advantage. I was wrong again. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to take me seriously. I brought ideas. He catalogued them without thought. I handed him data. He passed it off to other people without remembering I’d written it.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — but he did. In a hundred careless ways.

Enough to make me leave.

I was already seeing Lando, quietly. It was early. Tentative. I was cautious because I didn’t always understand people. He was cautious because he was getting advice, loud, well-meaning advice, not to date the boss’s daughter.

He disappeared on me for a while. And I didn’t understand why.

I remember thinking: I must have done something wrong and not realised it.

But I hadn’t.

Eventually, he came back. Explained. Apologised. We learned each other slowly, and not always easily — but deeply.

Around the same time, I left McLaren. I took a job at Red Bull. Not for revenge. For recognition.

Max Verstappen didn’t care who my father was. He cared that I understood race pace like a second language. We won two championships together.

And in the meantime — Lando and I kept finding our way back to each other. Every time, more solid than before.

Eventually, I came back to papaya. But on my terms. Not as Zak’s daughter. As a lead engineer. With Oscar by my side and Lando in a car I had helped design, shaped precisely to fit his hands, his shoulders, his driving style.

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

And the hyper-focus I’ve carried my whole life shifted again — narrowed, but deepened.

It’s still data. Still equations and airflow and lap deltas. But it’s also Lando, who stopped having to ask to touch me years ago. Who doesn’t need explanations but still listens when I give them.

It’s Ada — glorious, curious, sticky. Who throws glitter onto my schematics and insists I help her fix the broken boosters on her cardboard spaceship with grunts and wife, pleading eyes.

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

My autism didn’t vanish when I became a wife. It didn’t soften when I became a mother. I am still who I have always been: meticulous, sensitive, blunt. I still script my voicemails. I still shut down when I’m overstimulated. I still have meltdowns. I still need more sleep than most people and can’t fucntion in rooms with flickering lights.

But I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve made peace not just with structure, but with chaos. With change. With soft interruptions. With a life I never thought I’d be able to build.

I’ve created a life where I don’t have to perform.

I just get to be.

And for the first time, I’m letting people see me. All of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere, there’s a teenage girl memorising lap times and scared she doesn’t belong in a world that moves too loud, too fast, too unclearly.

Because I wish I’d known sooner that I wasn’t alone.

Today, I’m proud to announce the launch of NeuroDrive — a foundation dedicated to mentoring, supporting, and funding autistic young women pursuing careers in motorsport.

We’ll be offering scholarships. Internships. Mentorship. Resources. Community.

From engineering to analytics to logistics to aero to comms — every role that makes this sport move.

I want these girls to know that their focus is a gift.

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

I want them to know they don’t need to hide.

There’s room for them here. There’s room for all of us.

And they belong — fully, loudly, exactly as they are — in motorsport.

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

She hadn’t meant to write it all in one frantic breath. It had just… unfurled. A loose thread tugged gently free at the edge of the day, unraveling steadily until it wove itself into something whole.

She stared at the last line. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then lowered to her lap. She exhaled.

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

A moment later, familiar arms wrapped gently around her waist — warm, unhurried. Lando pressed a kiss just behind her ear, right in that small, quiet space that always made her flinch less than anywhere else.

“She’s asleep,” Lando murmured, voice low and amused. “Finally. Made me sing the rocket song. Twice. And do the hand movements.”

Amelia huffed a small, warm laugh but didn’t turn. “You hate the hand movements.”

“I hate them passionately,” he said, bending slightly to press a kiss to the space just behind her ear. “But she likes them. And I happen to love her enough to tolerate them.”

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The sea air had slipped in through the open balcony doors behind them, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the gentle hum of nighttime Monaco.

Lando’s arms slid comfortably around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the screen. “Let me read it?” He asked after a pause.

“You already know all of it,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, nudging her temple with his nose. “But I like hearing it in your words.”

She didn’t answer, not with words anyway. She just leaned into him, letting her body relax in increments. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before dropping quietly to her lap. Her pulse, which had been buzzing all evening, finally slowed. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen — steady, patient, waiting.

She would post the piece eventually. Maybe not tonight. But soon. She’d promised the women helping her build NeuroDrive that the launch would be personal, rooted in something real — something true. And this essay… it was all of that. Raw and oddly fragile. But hers.

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

“I think she likes it here,” Lando murmured, after a few minutes had passed in quiet. “Monaco.”

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

“Yeah. I had her out on the balcony earlier. She liked the sun.”

“She gets that from you,” Amelia said, dry as ever.

He laughed softly. “She does like the heat. More than I expected.”

“She likes everything here,” Amelia admitted, watching the night settle over the marina. “The boats. The water. Max’s cats.”

“She said ‘cat’ three times yesterday,” Lando said proudly.

“She’s five months old, Lando. It was probably just gas.”

“No,” he insisted. “She looked right at Jimmy and said it. Loudly.”

“Well, Jimmy did bite her toy rocket.” She said, her lips twitching at the memory of her daughter’s appalled face as the cat attacked her beloved stuffy.

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

They both fell quiet again, lulled by the rhythm of the moment. Amelia let her gaze drift across the open-plan living space of their Monaco apartment; all soft neutrals and clean angles, intentionally simple.

This was Ada’s first real stretch of time here. The first time Monaco would ever feel like home to their daughter, not just a temporary stop between England and wherever Lando was racing next. Amelia had worried about that — the splitness of things. Of belonging to multiple places but never fully resting in one. But Ada, with all her glittering confidence and stubborn joy, didn’t seem to mind.

“She doesn’t mind the change,” Amelia said quietly. “She just… adapts. Quicker than I do.”

“You’ve been adapting longer,” Lando said simply. “She’s still new. You had to learn the hard way.”

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

He brushed his lips against her cheek, slow and careful. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “I loved it when I didn’t understand it, and I love it even more now that I do.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight in the familiar, unwieldy way that happened when someone saw her too clearly. “It’s almost done,” she said, nodding toward the document. “Just a few more edits. Then I’ll post it. The site’s ready. The social channels are scheduled. The first mentorship emails go out next week.”

He squeezed her waist gently. “You built a whole new system, baby.”

“I built a team,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s not just going to be mine.”

He nodded. “You’re going to change lives, baby.”

“Hopefully not just change them,” she said. “Build them. Design them. Like a car.”

He grinned into her hair. “You and your car metaphors.”

“I don’t use them that often.” She frowned.

“Mm. You’re right. Only four times a day.”

He was teasing her. The lopsided smile, squinty eyes and tiny red splotches on his cheekbones told her so.

She rolled her eyes but leaned back into him anyway. Lando’s arms around her. Ada safe and sleeping. The sea just a five minute drive from their inner-city apartment.

It didn’t matter that the cursor was still blinking on her screen.

She’d found her place in the world; or built it, piece by piece.

And she was going to help other girls do the same.

—

@/NeuroDriveOrg Today, we’re launching NeuroDrive: a charity organisation formed to empower autistic women in motorsport — because brilliance comes in many forms, and it’s time we celebrate every one of them. Find out more and discover how to get involved by clicking the link below. #NeuroDriveLaunch

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

OMG AMELIA???? This is so crazy but I’m so here for it!! #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/racecarrebel

Autistic and a gearhead? That’s me lol. Signing up right now!

@/sarcasticengineer

wait so I can geek out about torque and not pretend i get social cues? literally a dream

@/cartoonkid420

*gif of a car drifting sideways* When you realize your fave F1 engineer is actually a real-life superhero #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

Yk honestly big ups to @/AmeliaNorris for making this happen. What a woman.

@/indylewis

This being the first post I see when I open this app after my diagnosis review? CINEMA.

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/notlewisbutclose LEWIS ON THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS? IKTR MY KING

@/LewisHamilton Proud to see and have a hand in making initiatives like NeuroDrive happen. It’s about time that we start making strides to pave the way for real diversity in motorsport. Change is coming, and it’s about time. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/landostrollfan99 PLS I KNOW LANDO IS CRASHING OUT BC HE’S SO PROUD OF HIS WIFEY RN

@/NeuroDriveOrg Thank you everyone for all the love! Our virtual mentorship program opens next week; sign up to be part of the first cohort! Over 18’s can sign up themselves, but anyone younger must have parental consent. Thanks, Amelia.

@/AnnieAnalyst

My mom has been a hardcore motorsport fan for decades. She’s on the spectrum. She’s found such joy in watching Amelia Norris take the F1 world by storm over the past eight years. I know that she’s going to be so happy about this. Can’t wait to tell her.

@/samliverygoat

This is sick. I’m a guy, but my sister is eight and autistic and wants to be a mechanic. I’m gonna tell my mum about this and get her signed up. Big ups your wife @/LandoNorris

—

Lando woke slowly, the Monaco morning sun spilling in through gauzy curtains and casting pale gold across their bedroom. The room was still, quiet in that delicate way that meant someone had been awake for a while already.

He blinked, then turned toward the warm shape beside him; and stopped, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

Amelia was sitting upright against the headboard, hair pulled into a messy knot, one arm curled around Ada who was nestled into her chest, half-asleep and nursing. Her other hand held her phone, screen dimmed low. She was speaking quietly — not in a cooing baby voice, but in her normal cadence, clipped and slightly analytical.

“…recognises familiar people, understands simple instructions, imitates gestures, like clapping or waving; well, I’ve literally never seen you wave unless it’s to say goodbye to your own socks.” She frowned.

Lando smiled into his pillow, eyes still half-closed.

Amelia glanced down at Ada, who blinked up at her with wide eyes and a dribble of milk on her chin.

“That’s fine. You’re spatially efficient already.”

“Are we reading milestone checklists?” Lando’s voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and fond.

Amelia didn’t jump, didn’t even look away from her screen. “It’s her birthday. I thought I should make sure she’s not developmentally behind.”

“She’s licking your elbow,” he pointed out.

“Which is not on the list,” she sighed.

Lando scooted closer, propping himself up on one elbow to see them both better. Ada detached with a soft sigh, then yawned, full-bodied and squeaky. Amelia adjusted her shirt without ceremony and let Ada rest against her, one hand gently stroking her hair.

“She’s perfect,” he said, leaning over to kiss the crown of Ada’s head, then Amelia’s shoulder. “Milestones or not.”

Amelia hesitated. “She’s not pointing at things. That’s apparently a big one.”

“She screamed at Max’s cats until they moved out of her way, does that count?”

Amelia hummed in thought. “I suppose we could classify that as assertive communication.”

They sat like that for a minute, wrapped in the warm hush of early light and baby breaths. Monaco in June was hazy and beautiful, a perfect little jewel box of a day already unfolding around them.

“Do you think she knows it’s her birthday?” Lando asked, voice still low.

“No,” Amelia said simply. “Probably not. But we do.” She glanced down at their daughter again, something unreadable, almost too tender, flickering behind her eyes. “I know it’s been a year since I stopped being one version of myself and started being another.”

Lando’s hand found hers where it rested on Ada’s tiny back. “Yeah, baby?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. I feel… broader. Like I can stretch in more directions now.”

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Ada, half-asleep, made a soft gurgling sound and grabbed Amelia’s Lando necklace in one surprisingly strong fist.

Lando leaned in again, voice warmer now. “Happy birthday, sweet little pea,” he whispered to Ada, then kissed Amelia’s jaw. “And happy birth-day to you.”

Amelia made a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted. “You did all the work. You should get recognition too.”

“I suppose.” She considered it for a minute. “Does that mean I should congratulate you on the anniversary of her conception?”

She was being serious — which was why he just smiled instead of laughing the way he desperately wanted to. “If you want to, baby.”

She nodded and catalogued that away in the small corner of her brain that contained a long list of dates that mattered most to her.

She think about it like this: dates she will never forget. Not because she wrote them down, but because they’re carved into the soft machinery of who she is.

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday.

November 7th – Her father’s birthday.

December 12th, 2021 – Max’s first championship win.

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day.

July 2nd, 2023 – Oscar’s first Grand Prix start.

May 5th, 2024 – The day Lando won his first race.

June 30th, 2024 – The day Ada was born.

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

But those dates don’t need charts or colour codes.

They live in her like heat. Like heartbeat. Like gravity.

Later, there would be cake. Balloons. Chaos. Max will appear with sacks full of wrapped gifts. Ada will probably eat something that she isn’t supposed to.

Lando takes Ada into his arms and lifts her above his head, blowing a bubble at her with his lips.

She drools sleepily, and Amelia winces when milky bile spills from her mouth.

Yeah. Not a good idea to jostle a well-fed baby.

Lando made a face and then used his t-shirt to wipe their little girls’ lip clean.

She stared at him.

And at their small, wondrous girl.

A year old.

—

Seventeen Years Later

The sky was brightening in soft lavender layers over the marina. Monaco looked almost quiet for once — like it was holding its breath.

Ada sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back pressed to the base of her mother’s old desk. The drawer had stuck for years, warped with sea air, but today it had slid open easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Inside: one neatly folded sheet of thick paper. Her name was written in the corner in her mum’s handwriting. Clean, sharp letters.

She unfolded it carefully, even though part of her already knew what kind of letter this would be. Not sentimental. Not flowery. Not emotional in the ways people expected. But honest.

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

You’re asleep right now — finally — with vanilla frosting in your hair and a purple sock on one foot and not the other. Your daddy’s asleep too, mouth open, curled around the giraffe that Maxie gave you today. I should be sleeping. But I’m here, writing this. That probably says a lot.

I don’t know who you’ll be yet. Not really.

Maybe you’ll love numbers the way I do. Maybe you’ll throw yourself into art, or animals, or flight, or noise. Maybe you’ll carry the softness your father wears so easily. Maybe you’ll burn hot like me and never quite know how to dim it.

Or maybe, hopefully, you’ll be entirely your own: unshaped by us, unafraid of being too much or not enough.

All I know is this: whoever you are, whoever you become, I will love you without condition and without needing to fully understand.

Because understanding is not a prerequisite for love. It never has been.

I want to get everything right. I won’t. I already know that.

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

I will learn what you need from me, over and over again, as you change and grow and outpace me. I will listen — even when I don’t know what to say. I will ask you what you need, and believe you the first time.

Love isn’t easy for me in the way it is for your daddy. I don’t always say the right thing, or give affection in the way people expect. But please know: I love you with everything I have. In every way I know how.

It may not always look loud or obvious. But it will be real. And it will never leave you.

I will always be in your corner.

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

The letter smelled faintly of ink and something older; lavender, maybe, or the ghost of her mum’s favourite perfume. Ada folded it carefully along the worn creases and slid it back into its envelope, fingers tracing the edge before getting up and going back to her bedroom, tucking it inside the drawer of her nightstand.

The light from the marina hadn’t reached this side of the house yet, but the sea breeze had — soft and salt-laced through the open windows. Ada padded barefoot across the wooden floor, familiar as the lines on her own palm, and moved quietly into the hallway.

The balcony door was already ajar.

Her mother was there, as she always was on mornings like this — perched in her usual chair, legs tucked under her body, a latte cradled in both hands. Her hair was scraped back in a low twist, pale in the early morning light, and she hadn’t noticed Ada yet.

Amelia was humming. Softly. Tunelessly. A little stim she’d done for as long as Ada could remember.

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

Then she stepped forward, slow and quiet. Climbed into her mother’s lap without a word, curling against her like she was still small enough to belong there.

Amelia stilled for half a breath. Then she shifted, just slightly — letting her daughter fit against her without comment or tension. One hand settled over Ada’s spine. The other stayed wrapped around the ceramic heat of her cup.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she kept humming. A low, constant thread of sound that vibrated in Ada’s ribs as she pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder.

They watched the sun climb over the harbour. The light came in slow and sure, brushing over the rooftops and catching on the water in amber fragments.

Amelia didn’t speak. She just held her daughter. One hand stroking the same pattern — left shoulder to elbow, up and back again.

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

She was older now; too big, probably, to sit in her small statured mum’s lap like this. But not today. Not just yet.

In her mother’s arms, she was still allowed to be small.

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

And Amelia, in the language she had always known best, presence over words, held her through it.

As the light shifted across the sea, the only sound between them was the soft hiss of foam against porcelain. The familiar hum. The heartbeat of love — silent, constant, and entirely understood.

—

2025

It was impossible to sum up the 2025 season in any cohesive way.

There were days she felt like she was balancing on the tip of a needle.

Her car was perfect. That much was undeniable. For the first time since she’d begun clawing her way through every door that had once been locked to her, the machine under her boys wasn’t just competitive — it was untouchable. Fast on every compound. Nimble in the wet. Ferocious in the hands of a driver who knew how to take it to the edge.

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

But McLaren hadn’t combusted. Not yet, anyway. Not under her watch.

Oscar had grown into himself in ways that still caught her off guard — all lean control and precision, carrying the ice-veined patience of someone who had watched others take what he knew he was capable of. He drove like someone with nothing left to prove and everything still to take.

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

There were days he was still impossibly frustrating — still too harsh on himself, too reactive on the radio, still hurt in ways she couldn’t always patch. But he was stronger now. Calmer. Faster. And he trusted her. Not blindly, not because he loved her — but because he believed in her. Her mind. Her leadership. Her.

Every race had been a coin toss. Oscar or Lando. Lando or Oscar. Strategy calls had to be clinical. Unbiased. And every week she made them with the knowledge that whatever she chose could cost someone she loved the chance at something immortal.

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

Not when the car was finally everything she’d spent her life trying to build.

When the upgrades landed and they locked out the front row, she didn’t smile. She just stared at the data until the lines blurred, heart thudding, and told herself she’d allow joy when it was over.

When they took each other out in Silverstone; barely a racing incident, but brutal nonetheless, she didn’t speak to anyone for two hours. Just shut herself in the sim office and breathed through the silence until the tightness left her hands.

When they went 1-2 in Singapore, swapping fastest laps down to the final sector, she didn’t even hear the cheers. She just watched the replay of the overtake again. And again. And again.

Precision. Patience. Courage.

They had everything. And they were hers — in the only ways that mattered in this arena. Oscar, her driver. Lando, her husband. Both brilliant. Both stubborn. Both driving the car she had finally, finally perfected.

In the garage, she never played favourites.

In the dark, she ached with the weight of both of them.

Now, the season was nearly over. One race to go. One title on the line. Between them.

And Amelia?

She felt something not quite like calm. Not quite like pride.

Something vaster.

She didn’t know who would win. She truly didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if she had a preference. Her love for Lando, loud and chaotic, as real as gravity, lived beside her fierce loyalty to Oscar, who had never once asked her to earn his trust, only to maintain it.

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

And whatever the final points tally read, whatever flag waved first in Abu Dhabi, it would not change what she’d built. What they’d built. A machine so complete, so purely competitive, that the only person who could beat it was someone inside of it.

That, she thought, was the mark of something enduring.

And in the quiet before the finale, Amelia allowed herself a breath of pride so deep it nearly broke her open.

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

It was about the fact that the world had doubted her. Them.

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

Amelia had been keeping a spreadsheet. Of course she had.

A private one — just a simple, tucked-away Google Sheet with six columns: Developmental milestone, Average age, Ada’s age, Observed behaviour, Paediatricians’ notes, and Feelings (which she almost always left blank).

She updated it weekly. Sometimes daily. Just in case.

And she knew, clinically, that speech development wasn’t one-size-fits-all. That some children talked at eight months and others waited until twenty. That it was normal, even healthy, for some toddlers to take their time.

But normal never did much to soothe her.

Especially not when the silence had started to feel louder than it should.

Ada babbled — just not much. She gestured, pointed, tugged their hands, grunted with specific frustration when her needs weren’t met. She understood them. That wasn’t in question. But her lips hadn’t shaped a word yet. Not one.

At twenty-two months, Amelia was trying not to spiral. But her spreadsheet had too many empty cells. Too many quiet mornings.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have anything she feels like saying yet,” Lando said one night, rolling onto his side to face her in bed. Ada had gone down late and Amelia had spent the evening researching speech therapy assessments and second-language interference.

“She should have at least one word by now,” Amelia muttered, eyes on her screen.

“She’s got plenty. She just hasn’t said them out loud.” Lando reached out, nudged the laptop closed. “She’s fine. You know she’s fine.”

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

The next afternoon, Ada was with them in the garage — tucked into her earmuffs and her tiniest McLaren hoodie, perched in her playpen while Amelia ran final aero checks on a new floor configuration. Lando had stopped by between simulator sessions and was now crouched beside Ada, offering her a padded torque wrench like it was a teddy bear.

Amelia looked up from her laptop, distracted by a little squeal.

Ada had pressed both palms against the concrete floor. And a smudge of oil had made its way across her hand.

She looked at it, then at Lando, wide-eyed.

Then she scrunched up her nose, a perfect mirror of her mother’s expression, and said, clearly and without hesitation, “Yucky.”

Lando blinked. Froze. Then looked up at Amelia, stunned.

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

Amelia’s heart felt like it missed a step. Her head jerked up so fast she hit the underside of the wing she’d been crouched under.

“Ow—shit—”

Lando was already lifting Ada out of the playpen, laughing in disbelief, oil smudge and all.

“Say it again,” he coaxed gently. “Yucky? Yucky, bug?”

Ada just beamed at him and smacked his cheek with her dirty little hand, leaving a streak behind. “Yucky,” she declared again, giggling like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Amelia didn’t know whether to cry or pass out.

She walked over in a daze, eyes locked on her daughter. “She said it. She actually said—”

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning. “You heard it too, right? I’m not making this up?”

“No,” Amelia said, soft and stunned. “I heard it.”

Then she reached for Ada without hesitation. Let her daughter press her messy little face into her neck and pat her collarbone with smudged fingers.

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect.

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

Not the official kind, with a lanyard and uniform and carefully timed steps. She wasn’t old enough for any of that. She wasn’t even tall enough to reach the front wing of her father’s car without climbing onto someone’s knee.

But she was there — always. Like a mascot, a comet, a little bit of joy wrapped in neon.

At three years old, Ada had developed a sense of style entirely her own. This week, it was neon pink. Head to toe. From the glittery bucket hat she refused to remove, to her sparkly tulle tutu layered over orange papaya leggings, to the pink Crocs decorated with star-shaped charms.

She stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the paddock; all matte branding and fireproof greys. But nobody dared to comment.

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

She’d grown up within the walls of paddocks. Learned to walk behind the McLaren hospitality motorhome in Hungary. Her first solid food had been a biscuit stolen off Oscar’s pre-race snack plate. Her mini paddock-pass gave her access to every team’s motorhome, just in case she got lost and needed a soft place to land.

By now, she knew the names of every mechanic, every engineer, and every race director on the rotating FIA schedule. She greeted them all by name. Correctly. And she remembered who liked what kind of sweets.

The media barely saw her. That was a conscious boundary. Amelia — razor-sharp, unbothered by PR expectations — had drawn the line early and made it immovable. No up-close photos of Ada’s face. No intrusive questions. If Ada wanted to be public someday, that would be her choice — not something sold for a headline before she could spell her name.

But within the paddock itself, Ada was a fixture. A streak of colour and mischief. Fiercely protected. Fiercely loved.

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

One of them involved storming onto the grid like she owned it (Amelia walked slowly behind), pushing past engineers and camera rigs, and beelining toward two very important people.

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

Oscar turned the moment he heard her voice, already crouching down with open arms. He was in his race suit, grinning like he hadn’t just been pacing with nerves ten seconds earlier.

“Oi,” he said, “that’s not my name, trouble.”

“But it’s what Mummy calls you!” Ada argued, already climbing into his lap like a koala. “I remember!”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Lando called from a few feet away, amusement curling through his voice.

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned forward for his good luck kiss. Ada planted a dramatic one on his cheek, complete with a mwah sound effect, then hopped off and marched across the grid to Lando.

Her daddy.

He crouched before she even reached him. She barrelled into his arms with the enthusiasm of a girl who had never once doubted she would be caught.

“You ready, Ada Bug?” he asked as he scooped her up.

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

She nodded solemnly, then leaned forward to kiss him right on the tip of the nose — her signature move. Soft, sticky-lipped from the fruit pouch she'd insisted on finishing on the way in. Then she whispered, very seriously, “Be fast. And be smart. Love you, Daddy.”

Amelia, standing just behind them, caught Lando’s expression shift; just a fraction. A sudden, raw quiet behind his eyes. He pulled Ada closer, briefly, wordlessly. Pressed his nose into her hair.

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

Amelia took her easily — muscle memory now — resting Ada against her hip like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag with her free hand and took a long sip of her iced coffee.

“Drive fast,” she said evenly, meeting Lando’s eyes.

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

And then, casually, almost too casually, she added, “I’m pregnant.”

He froze. One step from the car. “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time. No smile, no build-up — just fact, like announcing the weather.

They hadn’t expected it. Not exactly. They’d been trying for a few months, hopeful but guarded. Amelia had been tracking everything — methodical as ever — but refusing to let herself get too wrapped up in the outcomes. Lando had taken a more gentle approach. Faith over control. He’d just kept telling her, It’ll happen when it happens. We’re already a family.

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

Then he turned fully — slow, like gravity had stopped working — and blinked at her.

Ada, oblivious, was babbling about how she wanted to wave the checkered flag today and if Max’s cats could come to the garage next time.

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice cracking wide open. “Holy shit.”

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

He was already in his race suit, just minutes from lights out, about to hurtle into one of the most competitive qualifying sessions of the season — but suddenly, he looked younger. Dazed. Entirely undone.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to reach for her — didn’t know where to begin.

And Amelia, ever precise, ever composed, leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Solid. Grounding.

“We’ll be fine,” she murmured against his lips. “We always are.”

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

Lando let out a breath. One hand came up to his chest like he needed to physically hold it all in — the awe, the fear, the quiet wonder of it.

Then his comm crackled: “Two minutes to final call.”

He blinked. Straightened. Looked at his wife. Then at his daughter. Then back again.

“Okay,” he said, drawing in one last steadying breath. “Right. Fast. Clever. Safe.”

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

“Love you,” he echoed, already stepping toward Will, adrenaline and awe carrying him forward.

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go and tell Maxie you’re gonna have a baby?” she asked, eyes wide and serious.

Amelia bit back a laugh and turned them toward the edge of the grid. Her mum was already waiting near Lando’s garage to take over babysitting duty.

“Not yet. Your daddy drives better with adrenaline,” she said, adjusting Ada’s ponytail with one hand, “but your Uncle Maxie gets distracted. We’ll tell Maxie another time, okay?”

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

“I think… we’ll tell him next week. At the wedding.”

Ada’s face lit up. “I can’t wait to wear my pretty dress, Mummy!”

Amelia kissed her forehead, pulling her a little closer as they weaved between team personnel.

“I know, baby,” she said softly. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

—

202X

He did it.

The air was electric. No — it was charged, like the world itself had paused mid-spin to catch its breath.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in one hand, heart in his throat. There were tears in his eyes — real ones, wild and stinging, completely unfiltered. His face was flushed, soaked from the spray, but his grin was a thing of pure, stunned wonder.

He’d done it.

World Champion.

A cheer rolled across the circuit like thunder. The fireworks lit up the sky behind him in great booming waves, streaks of orange and silver and gold — and below, just past the glittering wall of photographers, she was there.

Amelia.

The crowd blurred. The moment blurred. But she didn’t.

She stood at the base of the podium steps, her hair tousled from wind and chaos, arms crossed tightly across her chest like if she didn’t hold herself together she might simply combust. Her eyes were glassy. Her face unreadable — until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

He caught her with the kind of ease that didn’t need choreography — years of knowing her weight, her stillness, her everything. His arms wrapped around her middle, and before she could say a word, he spun her. Under the lights. Under the fireworks. Under the full, beating heart of a decade in the making.

Her laugh cracked open the noise. Her legs curled up instinctively. Her hands dug into the back of his fire suit.

She said his name, just once. No title. No superlatives. No team radio.

Just him.

Lando.

He set her down slowly, like she was fragile, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast — but she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the corner of his mouth, where the champagne had pooled and the smile wouldn’t quite leave.

The world spun again.

And somewhere, behind it all, Ada was being passed from Oscar to George to Max to Amelia’s mother, hands raised above the crowd as she screamed, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

What a season. What a finish. What a moment. 🧡👑 #WDC #LandoNorris #F1

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

Congratulations, Lando. You’ve earned every second of this.

And yes — that podium was everything. No, we’re not crying, you’re crying. 🧡🧡🧡

@/formulawivesclub

There is NOTHING more powerful than a man who wins the WDC and immediately spins his wife under literal fireworks. Iconic. Romantic. Cinematic. I am unwell. 😭😭😭

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

the most magical WDC celebration this sport has seen in decades. maybe forever. PAPAYA ON TOP

@/maxverstappen1

*photo of Ada asleep on his shoulder post-podium, wearing her dad’s cap*

she said she had to stay up to see the champion. i think she made it to the fireworks. ❤️

—

202X

Final lap.

The sun was setting in streaks of copper and violet. Floodlights cast the track in electric brilliance, shadows long and sharp. And the world was holding its breath.

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

Not enough to coast. Not when Lando was behind him.

Not when the championship hung in the balance — years of sweat and heartbreak and razor-wire precision culminating in this.

From the pit wall, Amelia’s voice came through steady and clear.

“Final sector. No traffic. You’re clear. Bring it home, Ducky.”

No theatrics. No screaming. Just her voice, the one constant he’d had for the entirety of his F1 career. Focused. Fierce. Full of something rare and warm and undiluted: belief.

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

And then, in the most un-Oscar voice imaginable — thick with feeling, stripped raw, “…I don’t think I’m breathing.”

She laughed. A beautiful, cracked little sound. The comms team didn’t mute it. No one could. “Please breathe.”

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

The fireworks hit the sky immediately; red and gold and brilliant. The pitman and garages erupted. McLaren, orange-clad and screaming, split open with euphoria.

And then Amelia’s voice again; louder this time, breaking apart at the edges: “Oscar Piastri. You are a Formula One World Champion.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t reply. He just let out one long, disbelieving breath, and you could hear the hitched sound of someone trying not to cry and failing anyway. “We did it, Amelia.”

“You did it,” she corrected.

“No,” he said, firm now. Fierce. “We did. All of it. Every lap. You’re the best engineer and best friend I could’ve ever wished for. God, I love you so much.”

The audio went everywhere. Uploaded by the team, by fans, by rival engineers who had no choice but to respect it.

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

It was the most-streamed F1 clip of the year.

Because there he was — Oscar, still barely in his mid-twenties, helmet resting on the halo of his car, chest heaving as the gravity of it sank in.

And there she was; Amelia, halfway to the pit barrier, shoving her headset at a stunned junior engineer, sprinting.

He met her halfway.

She didn’t usually hug. But she did then. Tight and wordless. Face buried in his chest. Years of partnership and pride wrapped into that single, silent second.

And when they pulled apart, he knocked his forehead against hers, grinning like a boy again. “Told you I’d win it.”

“I never doubted you.”

—

The footage of the podium showed Amelia next to the team, arms crossed, blinking hard. Oscar had to compose himself twice during the anthem. And when he raised the trophy, he pointed straight at her.

No words.

Just… pride.

—

2028

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee — her coffee. The specific roast she loved from that tiny roastery near Lake Como. Brewed in silence while she slept in. No baby monitor, no toddler noise, no midnight feeding schedules. Just the steady hush of morning, and Lando moving through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Amelia stirred around 9:00 a.m. — a luxury in itself.

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

Happy anniversary, baby. Today is yours. We’re doing it your way. Uncle Ducky has both of our babies today. Yes, willingly. Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to check in on them.

Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got step one waiting for you.

Love you forever,

— Lando

She blinked. Then smiled. Then got up without rushing — another gift.

When she padded downstairs, wrapped in one of his old t-shirts, she found him barefoot in the kitchen with a table set for two, sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

"Happy anniversary," he said softly, crossing to her with a hand on her cheek and a kiss that lingered. "Sit. Eat."

There were croissants from her favourite bakery in town. Raspberries and whipped butter. Her coffee, perfect. And Lando — already looking at her like the day was made.

“The kids?” She asked eventually, narrowing her eyes.

“Totally fine. They always are with Oscar. He made me promise not to call unless someone was bleeding. He said that you deserve a proper day off.”

“I don’t need a day off from my children,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But it’ll be nice to be able to kiss you without tripping over one of them.”

“Exactly,” Lando said.

Breakfast faded into a walk — hand-in-hand along the coast, slow and sun-warmed. No schedule. No pushing. Just the faint hush of waves licking the edges of Monaco and the occasional squeeze of Lando’s fingers in hers.

They didn't talk much, and that was deliberate.

Afterward, instead of a spa or anything tactile, he drove her twenty minutes out to their favourite low-key golf course — a hidden gem tucked against the edge of a hill, quiet in the off-season.

It had started a few years ago, this habit of hers. Her golf-ball collection was ever-growing, each one labeled and tucked into a little wooden tray above the fireplace. A more serious, tactile comfort that had slowly morphed into a silly, sentimental thing.

Lando had never once questioned the golf ball. Not in the beginning, not in the middle.

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

She picked out a new ball from the pro shop (green) and tucked it into her coat pocket.

“You’ll label that one later?” Lando asked, swinging her hand between them as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's Ada’s favourite colour.”

“This week.” He said.

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.”

—

Lunch came after.

A rooftop place they both loved but hadn’t been to since before Ada was born. White tablecloths, soda on ice. Her favourite risotto, his ridiculous stack of truffle fries, two hours of soft conversation without a single interruption from a baby monitor or a toddler needing to pee.

No baby wipes in her bag. No cutting food into tiny, manageable pieces.

Just them.

—

The sun was setting when they got back to their place.

Amelia kicked off her shoes by the door and reached for her hair tie. Lando caught her hand before she could disappear upstairs.

“One more thing,” he said, almost shy. “Come with me.”

They climbed to the top-floor balcony; her favourite spot in the house. There, waiting: a blanket. Two glasses of wine. A bowl of green olives (Amelia’s vice). And a tiny projector already humming against the far wall.

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

Clips started to roll. Grainy little moments he’d stitched together over months — Ada’s first steps down the hallway at the MTC, the hospital selfie when Amelia had delivered their second baby (Lando’s eyes red from crying, Amelia’s thumb still smudged with blood), lazy footage of her asleep on the couch with both kids curled up on her chest.

Her laugh in the background of a hundred quiet seconds. The clink of teacups. The sound of a little voice calling, “Mummy, look!”

Then his voice — low, warm, recorded late at night from the quiet corner of their bed, “I’m so in love with this life.”

Amelia said nothing. She was biting her lip a little too hard.

Lando didn’t push. He just shifted behind her on the blanket, pulling her gently between his legs and wrapping his arms around her waist — not too tight, just enough to say I’m here.

“You always make things perfect for everyone else,” he said into her shoulder. “So I wanted to make one perfect day for you.”

She swallowed once. Then leaned her weight back into him, just a fraction — a silent thank-you.

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

And finally, softly, “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, I think.” She admitted, truthfully.

Lando smiled into her hair and didn’t let go.

—

Later that night, Oscar sent a photo of Ada fast asleep on a pile of couch cushions in the middle of his flat, a cereal box half-open in the background.

Amelia texted back a blurry photo of her and Lando curled up on the balcony under a blanket, the projector still casting shadows across the wall.

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

Amelia had been trying to hold it back for hours — maybe days, if she was honest. The world had gotten too loud again. Too bright. Too many textures and demands and interruptions.

The fridge was humming wrong. Ada had spilled orange juice and then cried when her leggings got wet. The baby had been colicky all night. Lando was out doing media. Someone had moved the coffee mugs and none of them were in the right order.

She was standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the countertop so hard her knuckles were white, when it all finally crashed down on her.

Her chest seized. Her eyes blurred. The sound in her ears turned to static.

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She slid to the floor, knees curling up, hands covering her ears. Her breathing shortened. She rocked back and forth. Tears leaked out — not from sadness, but from pure sensory overload.

Across the room, Ada, six years old, in a T-shirt covered in glitter paint and crumbs, froze where she stood.

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway.

She found her daddy in the bedroom, changing the baby’s nappy. He’d only come home a few minutes ago. Her little hand tugged at the hem of his shirt urgently.

“Daddy,” she whispered, breathless. “Mummy needs you.”

Lando paused. His head whipped up instantly. “What’s wrong, little-pea?”

“She’s on the floor. She’s crying with her hands on her ears. She’s not talking.”

Lando’s jaw jumped, but he kept his cool and handed Ada her baby brother. “Stay here, okay? You hold him and don’t move. I’ll go help Mummy.”

—

Amelia was still in the same spot, crumpled in front of the dishwasher, the noise of the appliance now too sharp, like claws dragging through her skull.

Lando knelt slowly beside her. Not touching. Not speaking yet. Just breathing in sync.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“I knew the dishwasher was making a weird noise,” he added gently, knowing exactly what she was hearing. “I’ll call someone to fix it tomorrow.”

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

He sat down properly beside her, close but not touching, and began counting out loud.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

“…twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When he finally reached forty, her hands lowered. Just a little. Her breathing slowed.

Lando waited.

And when her eyes finally fluttered open — puffy, red-rimmed, exhausted — he reached out with one hand, offering it but not insisting.

She took it.

No words, just pressure — fingers threading through his, grounding herself.

“I hate this,” she rasped, barely audible. “I was fine. I should’ve been—”

“Nope,” he said. “No rules. No shoulds. You just were. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Amelia blinked. Let out a breath that stuttered on the way out.

From the doorway, a soft voice, “Mummy?”

They both turned. Ada was peeking in, barefoot and clutching the baby monitor against her chest.

“I put the baby in his chair,” she said proudly. “And I put my light-up shoes away so they won’t hurt your eyes.”

Lando smiled faintly. Amelia just blinked again, overwhelmed by the careful compassion of a six-year-old.

Ada padded over, crouched carefully beside her mum, and offered a tiny, glittery toy dinosaur — the kind she usually kept in her backpack for comfort.

“You can hold this if it helps,” she said seriously. “Sometimes it helps me.”

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

And Lando wrapped them both up in his arms, squeezing tight.

—

Later that night, when things were quiet again and the world had shrunk back to something manageable, Amelia whispered into the crook of Lando’s neck, “She went and got you. She knew.”

Lando kissed her hair. “She always knows,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Amelia smiled, small and raw. “No. She’s ours.”

—

2033

They were sitting under the shade of an umbrella, barefoot and sun-drowsy, watching their children build increasingly complicated sandcastles twenty feet away. Ada had her arms bossily crossed, giving instructions like a forewoman. Her little brother — all curls and slightly sunburnt cheeks despite the copious layers of SPF50 — was digging trenches with his hands.

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

Lando leaned back on his elbows, sighing. “Is it Thursday or Friday?”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. Her sunglasses were halfway down her nose. Her hair was damp at the ends from her swim. “Friday,” she murmured. “Pretty sure.”

He nodded, squinting toward the sun. “Days have been blurring. If it’s Friday, it’s already the twelfth.”

He was right. The days had all started to melt together. Long mornings. Naps tangled in hotel sheets. Late dinners with sticky fingers and endless laughter.

Amelia sat up a little. Not sharply — but enough to catch her husbands attention. “Oh,” she said, very quietly.

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

She furrowed her brow. Like she was doing mental arithmetic. Calendar math. Gut instinct. “I’m… late.”

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

“Four days?” She said it more like a question. “Maybe five. I didn’t notice. With travel and the kids and— I don’t know.”

Lando sat up straighter, heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears.

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Down by the water, Ada shrieked with delight. “Mummy! We made a castle for the sea princess!”

Amelia waved back, mechanically, then turned back to Lando. “I didn’t bring a test.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should we go find a pharmacy?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, threading her fingers between his, palm warm. “Let’s just sit. Just for a minute. I want to stay here a little longer, before everything changes again.”

His grip tightened on hers. “Is that okay?”

Amelia nodded. “I’m happy. Just… surprised.”

Lando exhaled, gaze flicking back to their children. Ada was crowning her sandcastle with a plastic fork she’d found. Their son was diligently filling a bucket with sea foam.

“I think we’re gonna be outnumbered,” he said softly.

“I think we already are,” Amelia murmured, smiling faintly. “But that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it? Three of them. A couple of years apart. It’s perfect.”

And they sat there. Under the umbrella, hand in hand, watching the beginning of their forever shift again.

The ocean kept talking, its waves crashing against the rocks at the other end of the beach.

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box.

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.”

“Three of them. Two of us. Five total.” He murmured. “We’re missing four.”

“No we’re not.” She whispered. “You’re right here.”

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her.

—

2034

Ada slammed the front door shut with the theatrical force only a ten-year-old could manage.

“Mummy!” She yelled before she was even properly out of her shoes. “Mummy, I have to tell you something very important!”

Amelia looked up from the kitchen table, where she was re-assembling a snapped pencil sharpener and ignoring the half-eaten apple Ada had left on the kitchen bench to rot that morning.

“In here,” she called calmly.

Ada thundered in, socks half-falling off, her backpack barely zipped. Her cheeks were pink. Her plaits were lopsided.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

Ada flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her. “I’m in love, Mummy. With a boy in my class. His name is Ethan and he wears Spider-Man socks and he let me use his sparkly blue gel pen for colouring even though he really likes it. He said I was clever.”

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

Ada sighed. “Yes, mummy. I know that.”

There was a pause.

From the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, the front door opening again.

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

“In the kitchen!” Ada called sweetly. And then, switching gears with dizzying emotional agility, she leaned in and whispered to her mum: “Don’t tell Daddy. He’ll make it weird.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t lie to your dad. You know that.”

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

Lando appeared in the doorway a moment later, freshly back from sim training. “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime?”

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

“Oh, cool, that’s comforting,” he deadpanned, kissing the top of her head. Then he gave Amelia a suspicious side-eye. “What’s happening?”

“Well,” Amelia said, “your daughter thinks that she’s in love.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “I leave her at that school for six hours—”

“Daddy!” Ada groaned, flinging her arms dramatically over her face.

“—and now she’s in love?” He leaned over her chair, mock-serious. “Who is he? What does he do? What are his qualifications?”

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

“That’s not a qualification,” Lando said, faux-grave.

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

“Daddy,” Ada said solemnly, peeking at him through her fingers, “his name is Ethan, and he gave me the good gel pen. The sparkly one. That’s basically marriage.”

Lando clutched his heart. “God help me. Wait until I tell Max about this.”

“I knew you’d make it weird,” Ada whined.

“I am weird, Bug,” he replied, scooping her up despite her protests. “That’s your legacy.”

He spun her around like she weighed nothing.

Amelia smiled as she watched them.

But when Ada caught her eyes mid-giggle, cheeks flushed, safe and loved and full of her first little crush, Amelia just smiled at her.

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

He moves to Devon at the end of Year 6, and she forgets the way his name made her stomach flutter by the time she’s twelve.

The next crush is taller. The next one after that plays guitar.

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

But she never says anything. Because… she’s Ada Norris.

And Ada Norris grew up being known. Watched. Treasured.

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

Until one day, fourteen years after her dramatic kitchen confession, she finds herself in the back of the paddock in Monaco, barefoot and suntanned, her hair in a braid, with a camera slung over her shoulder and dust on her jeans.

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

And in front of her, sitting on a pile of stacked tyres, grazed knees tucked up under his arms and ice cream dripping down his wrist, is him.

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

She’s known him since before either of them could talk properly.

They played tag between hospitality units. Swapped Pokémon cards in Red Bull’s simulator room.

He once peed in her toy car. She once cut his hair with nail scissors because she thought it would make him less ugly.

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s the way he listens. The way he gets it — the legacy, the pressure, the strange ache of being a paddock kid with a famous surname and the expectation to become someone.

It’s the way he defends her when people assume too much.

It’s the way he doesn’t flinch when she stim-rambles or tells him she needs exactly ten minutes of silence.

It’s the way he waits — patient, steady, eyes bluer than any sky she’s ever seen.

She’s Ada Norris.

And someday soon, someday when the dust settles, and the stars line up just right, she’ll be Ada Verstappen.

And damn… it does have a nice ring to it.

—

2035

Amelia sat in the doorway of Sienna’s nursery, back pressed to the frame, coffee cooling in her hands. The house was quiet — unusually so. Ezra was napping. Ada was at school. Lando had taken a rare moment to go for a run.

And Sienna… Sienna was asleep. Peacefully. A soft halo of curls pressed into her muslin blanket, one fist curled beneath her chin like she’d already begun dreaming of something secret and important.

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

Ada, her first, her fiercest, had taught her what love felt like when it broke you open.

Ezra had come quieter. A gentle soul with his father’s smile and a knack for slipping into people’s arms like he’d always belonged there.

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

Amelia hadn’t cried — not then. Not when the results came in. Not even when the specialists had spoken gently about cochlear implants and early language support and accessibility.

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

It was adjustment. Recalibration. Learning a new language — not just in signs, but in patience. In pace. In how to prepare for a life she didn’t know how to predict.

Sienna would be fine.

Better than fine. She had her father’s stubbornness and her mother’s ability to see patterns in chaos.

She had a sister who’d already started practicing fingerspelling at the dinner table, and a brother who kissed her ear every time she blinked up at him. She had grandparents, uncles, a paddock full of honorary aunties and mechanics and engineers ready to build her whatever she needed.

She had love. The whole, complex, unshakable kind.

Still, this baby, this challenge, this gift, it had made Amelia stretch in ways she hadn’t before.

And there, on the floor, in the hush of a warm afternoon, she finally let herself feel it all. The fear. The wonder. The sheer magnitude of how much she loved these children — all three of them. So differently. So fully. So irreversibly.

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

The garden behind their Monaco home wasn’t large, but it was theirs.

The sea glittered just beyond the hedges, and the sunlight slanted golden through the lemon trees. There were chairs set out in uneven rows, a makeshift arch wrapped in white linen and fresh lavender. No press. No guest list politics. Just the people who mattered — their parents, their siblings, a few of their closest friends, and the three children who had rewritten their lives in the best possible ways.

Ada was fourteen and refused to wear anything but the pink dress she’d picked herself. Ezra, five, clung to Oscar’s leg until Lando knelt and whispered something that made him laugh. And Sienna — three and a half, curls pinned back with daisy clips, cochlear implant nestled behind one ear — was already signing “cake” to anyone who made eye contact.

Amelia stood barefoot in the grass, holding her bouquet with one hand and Sienna’s palm with the other.

Her dress wasn’t new. She’d pulled it from the back of the closet — the pale ivory one she’d worn to a gala years ago, the one Lando had stared at like he’d forgotten how to speak. Soft and silky against her skin, it still felt like him.

Lando met her halfway up the path, smiling like he always had.

“Hi,” he said, taking Sienna’s hand too. “You look beautiful.”

“You look sunburnt,” Amelia replied, then softened. “But handsome.”

Beneath the lazy sway of the breeze and the quiet murmur of waves, Lando took both her hands and said, “I’d marry you a thousand times in a thousand different lives. But I’m really glad I got this one. With you. With them. With all of it.”

Amelia, ever spare with her words, just said, “You’re the love of my life, Lando Norris.”

Later, while the kids played under the fairy lights, Max and Pietra poured champagne, and Oscar stole cake straight from the platter, Lando found her standing off to the side, heels dangling from one hand.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head.

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew.

They had each other. They had their home.

And their love had only deepened with the quiet weight of time.

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

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izzih22 · 2 days ago

Note

u should write a fic abt a post practice/ post game pazzi facetime call

Yours No Matter the Distance

Note: I promised yall I would post today so here you go. Also this is not based off a real game or anything just an fyi

Azzi Fudd had the Wings game pulled up on her laptop the second tip-off happened.

It didn’t matter that she had training at eight the next morning. Didn’t matter that she had weights, film, and a whole to-do list of team responsibilities. It didn’t even matter that Paige had told her not to stress about it, to “get sleep, baby,” and “catch the highlights in the morning.”

Azzi wasn’t missing a second.

Not of Paige.

Not of her girl.

Not for the world.

She sat cross-legged in bed, oversized UConn hoodie on Paige’s, obviously and her phone on Do Not Disturb as she watched #5 lead Dallas with a kind of control and intensity that gave Azzi goosebumps. There were flashes of that same old swagger, that glimmer Paige always got when she locked in. Her jumper was clean, her dimes even cleaner. Azzi swore she could watch her play for hours and never get tired of it.

Even the commentators were gushing, talking about her vision, her IQ, how the Wings were starting to feel like Paige’s team.

Azzi just smiled and whispered under her breath, “Damn right it is.”

By the time the game ended, Dallas had won by twelve. Paige had finished with 17 points, 9 assists, and a couple of defensive stops that had Azzi actually yelling at her laptop like she was courtside. And now, with the post-game interview wrapped up, Azzi was waiting, phone in hand, the FaceTime already set to Paige’s name.

It rang once.

Twice.

And then—

The screen lit up with a familiar face, damp hair slicked back under a towel, cheeks flushed from the game.

“Hey you,” Paige said, voice a little hoarse but still teasing, that grin pulling wide as soon as she saw Azzi.

Azzi melted. “Hi. You look hot.”

Paige raised a brow and tugged at the towel draped over her neck. “I’m literally sweating through my shirt right now.”

“Exactly.” Azzi leaned her cheek into her palm and gave her a soft smile. “You were so good tonight, P. Like—really good. I’m so proud of you.”

Paige’s expression softened, her shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the game had finally let go. “Thanks baby. Felt like I finally found my rhythm tonight. Took me long enough.”

“You’ve been so good, though. The stats are crazy. But more than that? The way you lead out there?” Azzi shook her head in awe. “It’s like you were born for this.”

Paige snorted, but it came out shy, like she couldn’t quite take the compliment. “Coming from you? That means everything.”

“Damn right it should.”

They shared a smile, the kind that lingered, the kind that said I miss you even if neither of them had said it yet.

Paige broke the silence first, shifting the phone to show more of the locker room behind her. “I’ve got like twenty minutes before they kick me out. I should shower but…I kinda just wanted to see your face first.”

Azzi curled tighter into the hoodie, which still smelled like Paige even after a few washes. “I was waiting the second the buzzer went off. Had my phone in my hand like a clingy girlfriend.”

“You are a clingy girlfriend.” Paige grinned wider. “Thank God.”

“Shut up,” Azzi laughed. “Like you’re not the one who texts me every two hours on game day for good luck.”

“That’s…different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m obsessed with you. Duh.”

Azzi buried her face in her hands, giggling like she was sixteen again and falling for Paige for the first time. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, but I’m your worst.”

They paused again, both smiling too hard to speak. Paige leaned back in her chair, towel still hanging around her neck, and gave Azzi a look so full of love it almost hurt.

“Wish you were here,” she murmured, quieter now. “It’s not the same when you’re not on the bench or waiting for me in the tunnel.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I know. I wish I was, too.”

“I swear, every time I make a big play, I look over like I’m gonna see you there. And then I remember…” Paige trailed off with a shrug.

“Paige…”

“I know, I know. It’s just hard. I miss you.”

Azzi blinked hard. “I miss you more.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying to keep her voice steady. “I watched the whole game in your hoodie. Had it on the second I got home.”

Paige smiled so wide it nearly broke her. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”

“You deserve it.”

They both laughed softly, and for a moment, the distance didn’t feel so heavy.

Paige tilted her head. “You doing okay, though? Like, really okay?”

Azzi hesitated, then nodded. “I am. It just…sucks, not being there. I wanna be the one running into your arms after games, not sitting here on my bed pretending like FaceTime is enough.”

“It’s not enough,” Paige agreed. “But it’s something. And you’re still the last person I see before I fall asleep. Even if it’s through a screen.”

Azzi smiled again, sad and full all at once. “You know I watch every game, right? Every single one.”

“I know.” Paige’s voice got quieter. “It means everything.”

“I mean, I’d watch you do anything. Basketball just happens to be the sexiest option.”

Paige choked on a laugh. “Oh my god, Azzi.”

“What? You want me to lie?”

“You’re unreal.”

Azzi smirked. “And you’re lucky.”

“So lucky.”

They sat like that for a while Paige in the dim locker room, Azzi curled up in bed, their connection as strong as ever despite the miles between them.

Eventually, Paige let out a sigh. “Okay. I gotta shower. They’re giving me the side-eye already.”

Azzi pouted. “Fine. But FaceTime me again before bed?”

“You already know.” Paige looked right into the camera. “Love you, Az.”

Azzi felt her whole chest swell. “Love you more, P.”

“Not possible.”

“Wanna bet?”

Paige laughed, that raspy, tired sound that still somehow made Azzi’s heart skip. “I’ll call you in twenty, babe.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

They hung up.

Azzi leaned back in bed, still in Paige’s hoodie, screen dark, heart full. It wasn’t the same as being there in person. But it was theirs. And that was enough for now.

Because no matter how far apart they were, Azzi knew one thing for sure:

Paige was hers.

And she’d be watching every game until they were in the same place again.

Side by side. Where they belonged.

#pazzi fics #paige x azzi #pazzi #paige and azzi #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd

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priisprii · 2 days ago

Text

Insatiable — K.MG & C SC

Summary :Mean mean assholes.

Warnings: dom! Seungcheol,dom! Mingyu, sub!fem reader, blow job, handjob, reader's crop top used as a blindfold, degradation,face slapping, cum swallowing, tit pinching, they are mean but you like them mean :3

Word count: 1.8 k

Read the warnings and click at your own risk and minors don't interact.

mingyu and seungcheol are two simple guys with same fucked up mentality and fantasies. they encourage each other run after things they desperately want no matter how wrong it is. They support each other. It's simple.

And you?

You were obsessed with both of them,not just at surface level like memorising thier hangout places and lurking around there or stalking them on social media. Yeah you did that all but it wasn't enough to satisfy your hunger for them.

You meticulously planned coincidence after coincidence, enrolling into the same classes as them, showing up at every party they would be and what not. To the outside world it would seem a series of coincidence just like you hoped but mingyu and seungcheol aren't as stupid and oblivious as you think they are. They know you were embodiment of lady Gaga's song paparazzi.

Seungcheol wanted to maintain distance from you, according to him you weren't the of girl who would be interested in his and mingyu's ways of mind breaking and ruining the girls they bring to bed. Too vanilla he says, how fucking wrong he was. Mingyu helped him change his mind, he knew you were a sick in the head pervert; just like them and you were expert of hiding that side of you behind your innocence filled eyes.

Nevertheless, three of you got what you all always searched for. You —two hot guys with mean and dirty mouths and huge dicks and them; a girl who is just abnormally obsessed with them. They can sometimes be the sweetest people in your life, catering to your every need, providing you with everything you demand, sometimes sneakily beating up your professor cause' he graded your paper unfairly, seungcheol never holding back a punch on guys who eyed you even for a second and mingyu pirating endless movies for you to watch in your free time. They were everything you ever wished for.

♥

A stinging slap was delivered on your face, the impact of it making you come back from your haze. Your eyes were covered with some rag which happened to be your favourite top — until seungcheol decided to tear it off.

"want us to find some other slut who can actually suck a cock properly?" Mingyu asked. annoyed.an underlying threat clear in his voice. you wanted to argue, scream and cry. your throat was all bruised up —a consequence of them using your mouth like a fleshlight from the past half an hour. they sat comfortably on couch playing whatever shitty game you had no idea about while passing you around between them like a cigarette, your knees burning and on the verge of giving up.

Body decorated with their cum, hair, chest, stomach, any part —you name it. Those sadistic assholes can't seem to get tired no matter what.sitting next to each other and conversing about all the fucked up things they are about to do with you, things that would land them in prison for sure but the worst part was—you loved it , loved each and every word, syllabus, command and insult they directed towards you, you loved it more than they could ever.

"Mingyu, be kind, That's not how we treat our fuck toys" seungcheol chides , but you could feel he's just being pretentious and you were right cause' just after few seconds you felt somone back handing you, not with sheer strength but enough to draw out a choked moan out of your lungs. "See that's how you treat erm" seungcheol chuckles followed by mingyu. They were enjoying this a little too much, having someone like you who's far too gone to think straight and allow them to treat you like an absolute rag doll. It's so fun for them to see you breaking down over and over.

Someone bought your mouth closer to their cock, again, probably Mingyu . You weren't even able to smell the cum or his scent, nose too blocked and runny— completely useless. "Now be a good and useful cock sleeve"

You nod aimlessly, licking your lips in anticipation.that wasn't enough for Mingyu though "words dollface ,words" he commands, tightening his grip around your hair. You let out a choked yes and it was enough for Mingyu to get started with you yet again.

"so beautiful yet so filthy" mingyu grunts, outlining your lips with tip of his cock, faintly coating them with your existing spit and cum. once he was satisfied enough he slapped it few times on your cheek "Need you to choke on it" , forcing his dick into your mouth, a choked noise escaped your throat as he buried himself deep touching the back of your throat roughly, he threw his head back, moaning in pure ecstasy .

He continued with his cruel pace, thrusting his hips upwards making you constantly gag and choke around his length , drool pooling around his balls. Your nails were digging into his muscular thigh, anchoring yourself with help of it as you couldn't feel any sensation in your body except the cries of your pussy —begging to be filled up with anything,cock, fingers, dildos it doesn't matter the emptiness was almost painful, clenching around air helplessly.

"mingyu slow down, she will pass out I don't wanna fuck unconscious body" seungcheol complains from side, half focused on the game and half on the porn show happening beside him. He's no better than mingyu, even worse sometimes, when seungcheol is frustrated, he takes it on you— in the most delicious way possible. Landing slaps on your ass and cunt till it's red and swollen up or making you gag around your own panties, his strange obsession with challenging you to be silent while he ruins your insides. Yeah he's no better than mingyu.

the prospect of your passed out body being used by these two men is extremely hot and intense. having your pleasure completely disregarded and thrown out ,just being a real fleshlight for their big and veiny cocks. You need to talk about this some other time with them.

"hyung, can't help it— her mouth is so warm and wet almost as good as her tight cunt" mingyu whines, his cock twitching inside your mouth as his grip on your hair becomes more rigid , a clear sign of him being close. Something about having such a big guy like Mingyu whining because of you makes your chest tight with emotion similar to happiness and pride.

Seungcheol throws the gaming console somewhere, the loud thud echoing in your ears. He takes your hand and spits on it generously before bringing it to his cock , making you wrap your palm around it, his own palm wrapped around yours. In your head which is floating in another dimension this is practically intertwining hands. almost romantic.

"you feel it baby? How hard I am? It's your fucking fault. parading around us in your slutty outfits. told you to wait for few minutes but you just don't understand " seungcheol sneers, biting his lips remembering how they even got you like this in the first place. Teasing them while they were deeply engrossed in their game, hands reaching down your shorts threatening to touch their property, that made them snap.

you whined against Mingyu's cock, sending vibrations down his spine, he pulled your head back, only his tip remaining in your mouth before slamming you down against his length in a quick motion, making you gag uncomfortably, he kept you like that, his unforgiving grip on your hair making you unable to move while seungcheol made you give him a hand job, guiding each of your moments. You were overwhelmed, not sure where to focus; on Mingyu's pulsating length or Seungcheol's painfully hard cock, unsure whether to cry or scream, eyes blinded by the blindfold.

"fuck cumming" Mingyu slurred thrusting his hips upwards one last time before cumming inside your mouth. Ropes of thick, creamy white pooling around your tongue.

" Dare you waste any drop slut" Mingyu rasps still coming down from his high. " She won't gyu, she needs cum like oxygen, right slut?" Seungcheol comments, seeing you swallow his bestfriend's cum like your life depends on it while having you fist his cock with your tiny hand made him so feral, he has never had such a perfect girl at his disposal. Seungcheol found his own orgasm near but he didn't feel like wasting his cum , it belonged in deepest corner of your cunt.

Finally after few seconds or minutes mingyu decides to let you breathe, pulling you away from his cock. you look like you walked straight out his favourite porn; spit and cum smeared all over your face and dripping down your breast. he looks at seungcheol, both being proud of each other to see your defiled state. "Pathetic whore" seungcheol groans.

Seungcheol reluctantly lets go of your hand which was timidly rubbing against cock. He comes near, yanking the excuse of a blindfold off your face, sharp lights hitting you at once, vision blurry due to tears. Mingyu gathers the tears around your eye bags carefully scoops with his two fingers, then puts it in his mouth. The simple action making your pussy needy with desire.

"please touch me" you beg, voice unfamiliar to your own self. your knees finally give out, ass hitting the floor and sitting pathetically. Your headspace was all mushy and soft, blurry vision drinking up their visuals. their upper body was fully exposed,sweat glistening down their skin which you might lick happily if they gave you permission to do so. "touch me please, anyone" you whimpered again.

seungcheol hmms, like he's thinking deep about something before he smirks, getting down on the floor at your level . His hand moves to your exposed breast, carelessly pinching the perky sensitive nipple. "Poor baby, dying to have her desperate pussy filled" seungcheol sings in a patronizing way, continuing his cruel torture on your breast, cupping and pinching the poor bud till it turns into angry shade of red.

"mingyu what do you think? Should we fuck this slut or leave her here all exposed and dripping on the floor like a broken cum dump?" seungcheol leaves the question hanging in the air, slapping your right tit, an evil smirk dancing on his face.

"please, don't leave please I am —" your words were cut off by Seungcheol's slap on your cheek, eyebrow raised, looking at you with disapproving glare.

"are you mingyu dumb slut?" he asks, massaging the area he just hit previously.

"sorry" you mumble, voice barely audible.

Mingyu cooes, feeling bad for you, just a tiny bit, he gets down on the floor, pulling you closer, your back pressed to his chest. hand circling around your neck lightly.

"she's begging, it's only right decision to fuck her hyung till she's begging us to stop" mingyu says tightening his hold around your neck, hand moving down between your legs, moving between your folds and collecting your wetness. " she's so fucking wet" mingyu says, bringing his fingers up near seungcheol, which Seungcheol proudly puts in his mouth, groaning at your taste. He sucks them clean.

"let's take this to our bedroom" seungcheol says, he cups your cheek tenderly"shall we Love?" He asks, masking the lust behind his eyes, mind corrupted with all the possible positions he's about to put you in.You got yourself insatiable freaks who would always stay hungry for your taste.

A/N: I have so many evil ideas for this au .would you all like to read them?

#seventeen #seventeen smut #seventeen scenarios #seungcheol smut #seungcheol x reader #seventeen drabbles #mingyu drabbles #mingyu smut #svt smut #mingyu x reader #seungcheol imagines #mingyu imagines #seventeen fanfic #scoups #mingyu

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neonbonded · 2 days ago

Text

Right Here, but Still Too Far

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: emotional distance, soft angst, quiet longing, domestic disconnect, subtle heartbreak, husband-core devastation ♡ a/n: You live together. You sleep in the same bed. You share meals,kiss each other goodnight. But sometimes? Love gets quiet. And all it takes is one soft, honest “I miss you” to shatter the space between.

Caleb

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter.

The sun’s already gone down, but the lights are still off—just the stove hood casting a soft yellow over the counter, catching on the steam from the pasta pot.

Caleb’s moving like a machine. Quiet. Efficient.

One hand stirs the sauce, the other balances the baby monitor against his shoulder. He hasn’t sat down in hours. The front of his shirt is wrinkled from being used as a napkin. His hair’s a little damp at the edges like he forgot to fully dry it after his three-minute shower.

You’re watching him from the table.

You’re not fighting. There’s no coldness. No tension.

But something’s… distant.

Like you’re living next to each other. Not with each other.

He hums to himself softly—some melody you can’t place. He opens a cabinet with his foot. He says, “You want cheese?” like it’s code for love, but he doesn’t look at you when he asks.

You smile anyway. “Sure.”

He grates it. Sprinkles it. Passes you a bowl.

Then goes right back to moving.

The baby monitor crackles.

A timer goes off.

He starts unloading the dishwasher.

And you just sit there, soup cooling in front of you.

You’re still staring at him when it happens—when the words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Soft. Honest.

Like breathing.

“I miss you.”

He doesn’t turn around right away.

His brain doesn’t process it at first. He’s too busy checking the time on the oven clock, flipping dinner, wondering if the laundry’s dry.

Then the words echo back in his chest.

I miss you.

His hand stills on the spatula.

“You…” He turns. “You what?”

You shrug. A little too fast. “Nothing. I mean—you're here. I know. It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.” He sets the pan down—burner still on. Crosses the room in three strides.

“You miss me?” he asks again, slower now. Like he’s scared of the answer.

You nod. “You’re always doing stuff. For the baby. For me. You never sit down anymore.”

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t realize I stopped.”

You smile, just a little. “You didn’t. You just… drifted.”

He sinks to his knees in front of your chair, rests his cheek against your belly like he used to before the baby was born.

“I’ve been right here,” he whispers. “But I’ve been so focused on taking care of everything—I didn’t realize I left the part that mattered.”

Your fingers slide into his hair.

He lets them.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. “So much it hurts.”

You bend down, rest your forehead against his.

And for the first time in weeks?

He breathes.

Really breathes.

Xavier

You don’t even realize how quiet it’s gotten until the microwave beeps.

Xavier is still standing where he’s been for the last five minutes—staring blankly at the digital numbers. Not opening the door. Not speaking. Just… existing.

He’s like that lately.

He’s here, technically. He tucks you in at night. He leaves lights on when you fall asleep on the couch. He still makes tea for you in the morning—even if it’s lukewarm by the time you notice.

But it’s like you’re in the same room, and still a world apart.

You don’t blame him. Not really. He’s always been a little detached, a little distant, like his thoughts are off somewhere else.

But lately?

He doesn’t come back.

Not all the way.

You shift on the couch, blanket pulled up around your knees. “The tea’s cold,” you say, just to say something.

He nods without turning. “I’ll reheat it.”

Silence again.

The microwave keeps beeping.

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not even thinking about saying it.

But then—

“I miss you.”

It comes out soft. Small. A little raw around the edges.

And it lands.

Xavier blinks. Slowly.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just… stands there.

Then the microwave beeps again, louder this time.

He opens the door. Reaches for the mug. Stops halfway.

His hand is shaking.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally. Voice low. Controlled.

You shift on the couch, throat tight. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I thought I was being present.”

You shake your head. “You’ve been nearby. That’s not the same.”

He turns, tea still in hand.

When he sees your face—really sees it—something in his own shifts.

He walks to you. Kneels down in front of the couch.

And offers the mug like a peace offering.

You take it. He doesn’t move.

Then he says—soft, barely audible:

“I didn’t realize I was missing you too.”

And for the first time in days?

He lets himself stay.

Rafayel

It starts with him in the kitchen—shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, music playing in the background, something herby and over-complicated simmering on the stove.

He’s singing. Loudly. Off-key.

You watch him from the kitchen table, head resting on your hand, eyes half-lidded. You’ve been watching him for twenty minutes—gliding back and forth across the tile like a tragic chef-prince in exile.

He narrates everything he’s doing. Dramatically.

“The rosemary must be coaxed, not crushed!” “Where is the sea salt?” “Oh, my darling olive oil—don’t burn me now—!”

You should be laughing.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because this is the third night this week he’s filled the space with music and dancing and noise. Third night he’s performed affection like a monologue—but hasn’t touched you once.

It’s not cold. Not cruel. Just… hollow.

Like he’s afraid that if he slows down, he’ll feel something he doesn’t want to.

You look down at the pasta cooling in front of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect.

“I miss you.”

He stops mid-stir.

Just stops.

Spoon still hovering in the air. Sauce bubbling behind him. Frank Sinatra cut off mid-note.

He turns around slowly. Frowns. “I’m right here.”

“I know.”

“You just watched me kiss a tomato with more passion than most romance leads.”

“I know.”

He stares at you. Blinks once.

And then you see it—the panic. The way his whole body falters. Like he’s realizing something very, very important too late.

“Oh no,” he breathes. “Oh no.”

“Raf—”

He crosses the room in three fast steps, kneels beside you like you’re about to fade.

“You miss me? I’ve been serenading you with pasta and praise! I told the eggplant it was regal! What have I done?”

You reach for his cheek. “You’ve been everywhere but here.”

He leans into your touch like it hurts.

“I thought I was making things brighter,” he murmurs. “Turns out I was just making them louder.”

You smile, a little sad. “I don’t need louder. I just need you.”

He lets out the softest breath. Presses a kiss to your palm.

Then: “I’m going to burn dinner, aren’t I?”

You glance at the stove. “Probably.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. Then let me hold you while it burns.”

And when he pulls you into his arms on the kitchen floor—flour on his sleeve, sauce on his collar, guilt in his throat—you finally feel him come back.

Zayne

It’s 9:07 p.m.

The kitchen is spotless. The baby monitor is on. The dinner plates are in the dishwasher, stacked in perfect symmetry. Zayne’s at the counter writing something down—something for tomorrow. Groceries, probably. He doesn’t say what.

You’re still sitting at the table, legs pulled up under you. Watching him. Quiet.

He’s been like this for weeks now.

Present. Helpful. Perfect, really. Except you can’t feel him anymore.

You speak without looking at him.

“I miss you.”

His pen stops moving.

The silence hits hard. Sharper than you expect.

“…What?” he says. Not defensive—just confused. Like the words didn’t compute.

You repeat it. “I miss you.”

He turns around slowly, brows drawn. “I… don’t understand. I’m here.”

You offer a soft smile. “I know. But you feel far away.”

He frowns—deep. Like the idea physically bothers him.

“I make dinner,” he says. “I do the morning routine. I check in. I—” He stops.

You don’t interrupt.

Zayne runs a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth like he’s trying to hold in something sharp.

“I thought I was doing everything right.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re doing everything. You’re just not being with me.”

That lands harder than you meant it to.

He grips the counter edge. Shoulders tense. Not angry. Just overwhelmed.

Then, voice quieter:

“I didn’t know how to come back.”

You step up behind him. Wrap your arms around his waist. Feel the tension in his spine.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be enough,” you whisper. “You just have to let me hold you.”

He exhales, shaky. Eyes closed.

“…Okay.”

And for the first time in weeks—he lets go.

Sylus

He’s on the couch with his boots still on.

One arm stretched across the backrest, the other holding a glass of something dark, untouched. He hasn’t said much since dinner—just grunted in response to your “long day?” and slipped into his usual, quiet brooding comfort zone.

You’re curled up on the opposite end of the couch. Close enough to touch him if you reached. But you don’t.

Because lately, it feels like when you do, he flinches—emotionally, if not physically.

You glance at him now, the sharp angle of his jaw softened by the warm lamplight. He’s not tense. He’s not closed off.

He’s just… somewhere else.

You turn your head away before he can catch the way your face folds a little.

And you say it.

“I miss you.”

The words hang there. Casual and devastating.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just blinks. Breathes in slow.

Then, softly:

“…I’m right here.”

You nod. “I know. But it still feels like I haven’t had you in a while.”

He sets his drink down.

Stares at the floor for a moment. Then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to clear static out of his head.

“You think I’m pulling away.”

You stay quiet.

He glances over—just once—and when he sees your expression, something shifts in him. Less defensive. More wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, lower now. “I just… get stuck in my head sometimes. And I guess I thought being in the same room counted for something.”

“It does,” you say. “But it’s not the same as being close.”

He leans back, scrubs a hand down his face.

Then mumbles, half to himself:

“God. You’re gonna make me talk about feelings, aren’t you.”

You smile. Barely. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He looks at you again—longer this time. Like he’s really seeing you. And that’s what finally gets him to move.

He scoots closer. Wordless. Slow.

Then pulls you gently into his side, your head tucked against his shoulder. One hand over your thigh, grounding. Solid.

You feel him exhale.

“I do miss you too,” he says eventually. “I just didn’t realize it until you said it first.”

You nod.

You don’t need anything else right now.

Just this.

Just him.

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asshaticus · 2 days ago

Text

Do you believe it's possible for these two dynamics to ever be similar? Do you believe that we can acknowledge the oppressive nature of the present world without accepting it as an unchangeable inevitability? In turn, by clumping them together, you're accepting real unchangeables into your conception of the oppressive nature of the present i.e. people making everything about themselves = they hate women. The former can't be helped, the latter can, or at least I think so. Do you believe misogynistic perspectives can be challenged, and do you believe shaming people into it is the way to do it? Because to me that never seems to work, and it seems more like you've given up, and do see women's oppression as inevitable and unchangeable, and you're just going out of your way to prove yourself right, even though you really wish that you could be proven wrong. Insecurity and concession is groomed into our concept of femininity under the patriarchy, and it's that way specifically because it sets you up for failure. If you tell someone they don't care about you, they might deny it at first and try to prove you wrong, but eventually they're going to get fed up and accept it. But I don't accept it; I like women, everyone does, they just don't know it yet! And whether or not that's remotely true (and there are many very good reasons to assume it's not), I think it's more productive to project that kind of confidence than get hung up on these extremely petty things, if for no other reason than that women remember to love themselves and not get manipulated by anyone who wants to isolate her by convincing you her that everyone else is her enemy (again, part of the oppression, it's why women end up in cults and bad relationships, not a good notion to foster in contrast to "unity"). So believe in yourself! Thank you :>

You know that when a girl makes a post about being a girl you don’t have to reblog it with the “but what about men” version right? What is wrong with you? Do you hate women having things so much?

#i'm sorry I said all this here and now specifically it's just been building up for a while #[EVERYONE HATED THAT]

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velvetvisionsaurora · 2 days ago

Text

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.

18+ only- No Minors

<<Previous Next>> Masterlist

Chapter 4: Memory and Unexpected Comfort

You sit curled on the window seat of your temporary prison, knees drawn to your chest as you stare out at the garden below. The evening light casts long shadows across the perfectly manicured grounds, but your attention is fixed on a particular tree—a massive oak with sprawling branches that looks achingly familiar.

Too familiar.

The memory hits you like a physical blow, transporting you back fifteen years to another garden, another oak tree, and the moment everything began.

Fifteen years ago...

"Yes, Mama," you had called back, though your attention was already wandering to a butterfly fluttering near the roses.

Your mother and Mrs. Kim were good friends—weekly lunch companions who shared gossip and genuine affection in equal measure. After months of begging, she had finally brought you along to one of their gatherings.

The Kim estate garden had been your wonderland that day, sprawling and mysterious with its winding paths and hidden alcoves. You had been content to explore alone, admiring the flowers and chasing butterflies, when a shadow fell across the bench where you'd settled.

Looking up, you found a boy standing before you—slightly taller than your eight-year-old frame, with serious dark eyes and hair that fell across his forehead. He regarded you with a mixture of curiosity and wariness, as if you were some exotic creature he wasn't quite sure how to approach.

"You're Y/n Ricci," he said, not a question but a statement delivered with the confidence of someone accustomed to being right.

You nodded, sitting up straighter under his scrutiny. "And you're Hongjoong Kim."

He seemed pleased that you knew his name, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My mother says we're supposed to be friends."

The bluntness of his statement made you consider the proposition seriously. "Do you want to be friends?"

Your directness seemed to catch him off guard. He tilted his head, studying you with those intense eyes. "I don't know. I don't have many friends who are girls."

"I don't have many friends at all," you admitted with the brutal honesty only children possessed. Your half-brother Marco, fifteen and perpetually busy with teenage concerns, was your only consistent companion, and even he often had better things to do than entertain his little sister.

Something in your admission softened Hongjoong's expression, melting the careful reserve he wore like armor. "Do you want to see something cool?" he asked, extending his hand toward you with newfound determination.

You glanced back at your mother, who was deep in animated conversation with Mrs. Kim, before slipping your small hand into Hongjoong's. His fingers closed around yours with gentle possession. "Okay."

He led you away from the main garden, following stone paths that wound deeper into the estate grounds. "We have to be quiet," he whispered conspiratorially, his voice thrilling with shared secrecy. "It's a secret place."

The path curved around a tall hedge, revealing a hidden alcove dominated by the same massive oak tree you now stared at through your bedroom window. Beneath its sprawling canopy sat a wooden platform—not quite a treehouse, but a deliberate structure built for childhood adventures.

"My father had it built for me," Hongjoong had explained, helping you up onto the platform with careful hands. "I come here when I want to be alone."

You had looked around with wide, wonder-filled eyes, taking in the cushions scattered across the wooden surface, the small trunk tucked in one corner, the string of lights wound through the branches above like captured stars.

"It's like a castle," you breathed, genuine awe coloring your voice.

Hongjoong's answering smile transformed his serious face into something bright and open, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "It can be whatever we want it to be," he said, settling cross-legged on a cushion. "Today it's a pirate ship."

"A pirate ship?" you repeated, delighted by the possibility.

He nodded with solemn authority. "I'm the captain, of course."

"What am I?" you asked, dropping onto a cushion across from him, already caught up in the magic of pretend.

Hongjoong considered this with the gravity of someone making a crucial decision. "You can be... first mate."

You frowned slightly, your eight-year-old sense of equality bristling. "Why can't I be captain too?"

"A ship can't have two captains," he explained patiently, as if this were an immutable law of nature. "But the first mate is important. They're the captain's most trusted person."

The prospect of being Hongjoong Kim's "most trusted person" had filled you with warmth, a glow that started in your chest and spread outward like ripples in a pond. You nodded, accepting your role with newfound pride. "Okay. What are we doing, Captain?"

His grin was pure boyish delight as he reached for the trunk. "We're hunting for treasure, of course."

That afternoon had stretched like golden honey, filled with elaborate games of pretend that transformed the platform from pirate ship to desert island to underwater kingdom at Hongjoong's creative direction. You discovered that the serious boy you'd first met possessed a vivid imagination and an infectious enthusiasm for make-believe, delighting in your willingness to follow his lead into whatever adventure he devised.

By the third Wednesday, you and Hongjoong had settled into a comfortable routine. Your mothers would lunch on the veranda while you disappeared into the garden with him, only returning when called for dessert or farewells. Those moments became the highlight of your week, a pocket of pure joy in a life often overshadowed by the weight of your family name.

It was on one such Wednesday that Hongjoong seemed distracted, glancing repeatedly toward the front of the house as you played.

"What's wrong?" you finally asked, setting down the toy boat he'd brought for your latest ocean exploration.

"Nothing," he said quickly. Too quickly.

You crossed your arms, giving him your best stern look—a miniature version of the expression you'd seen your father use when he suspected deception.

Hongjoong sighed, defeated by your persistence. "Fine. Some of my friends are coming over. My mother invited them."

"Oh," you said, disappointment pricking at your chest. You'd grown accustomed to having Hongjoong all to yourself during these precious Wednesday visits. "Should I go back to my mother?"

"No!" The vehemence of his response surprised you both. He looked embarrassed by his own intensity. "I mean, you don't have to. They're just coming to play too."

"Are they nice?" you asked, sudden nervousness fluttering in your stomach. Group dynamics were foreign territory for a sheltered eight-year-old.

Hongjoong considered this with his characteristic seriousness. "Mostly. Wooyoung talks a lot, and Jongho can be grumpy because he's the youngest. But they're my friends."

Before you could voice more questions, the sound of approaching voices reached you—several boys by the sound of it, their chatter growing louder as they navigated the garden paths.

"They're here," Hongjoong announced, a mixture of excitement and something like reluctance coloring his tone. He stood, motioning for you to follow. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Your first glimpse of the group that would reshape your entire life came as you rounded the hedge—six boys of varying heights and expressions, all regarding you with undisguised curiosity. They stood in a loose semicircle, a collection of young faces that would become as familiar to you as your own reflection.

"Guys, this is Y/n Ricci," Hongjoong said, unmistakable pride threading through his voice as he made the introduction. "Y/n, these are my friends."

The memories flood back in vivid detail—Seonghwa's elegant bow, Yunho's bright declaration that you were prettier than Hongjoong had let on, Yeosang's quiet nod, San's mischievous smile, Mingi's gentle wave, Jongho's serious questions about your family, and finally Wooyoung's dramatic entrance that left you dizzy and giggling despite yourself.

Seven boys who had accepted you into their circle with the easy generosity of childhood. Seven boys who had become your entire world.

Seven boys who had ripped that world apart without explanation.

* * *

A sharp knock at your door jolts you from the painful reverie, anger flaring immediately at the interruption.

"Hongjoong, I swear to God, if this is you I'll stab—" You jerk the door open, words dying in your throat as you find Yeosang standing in the hallway instead of your so-called fiancé.

Of all of them, he's the last one you expected. Yeosang, the quiet observer, the one who spoke least but somehow always saw the most. He stands in your doorway with that same thoughtful expression you remember from childhood, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.

"May I come in?" he asks quietly, his voice carrying none of the desperate energy that had characterized Wooyoung's earlier attempt at connection, none of the possessive intensity that radiated from Hongjoong.

You step aside wordlessly, too surprised to maintain your defensive stance. He enters your room with careful steps, taking in the space without judgment—the hastily unpacked suitcase, the formal clothing draped over chairs, the way you've deliberately left everything looking temporary and unwelcoming.

His gaze settles on the window seat where you'd been sitting, noting the indentation in the cushions, the way the curtains are pulled back to frame the view of the garden.

"You were looking at the oak tree," he observes, not a question but a gentle statement.

Your throat constricts unexpectedly. Of course Yeosang would notice. Of course he would understand the significance without needing explanation.

"It looks the same," you say finally, your voice rougher than intended. "Exactly the same."

"Some things don't change," he agrees, moving to stand beside the window but not intruding on your obvious sanctuary. "Even when everything else does."

The comment hangs between you, weighted with meaning. You wait for him to elaborate, to launch into explanations or justifications like you expect the others might. Instead, he simply stands there, a quiet presence that somehow doesn't feel threatening.

Minutes pass in silence. Yeosang has always been comfortable with quiet spaces, never feeling the need to fill them with unnecessary words. It's one of the things you'd loved about him as a child—the way he could sit beside you in companionable silence while you read or drew, offering his presence without demanding anything in return.

"I'm not going to tell you why," he says eventually, his voice barely above a whisper. "You wouldn't believe me if I did. And honestly, our reasons don't matter anymore. What matters is that we hurt you. Deeply. And we knew we were doing it."

The admission hits you like a physical blow. No justifications, no excuses—just acknowledgment of the pain they'd deliberately inflicted. It's both what you've needed to hear and the last thing you expected from any of them.

"You all made your choice," you say flatly, though your voice wavers slightly. "Whatever your reasons were, you chose to make me believe I meant nothing to you."

"Yes," he agrees simply. "We did."

The honest acceptance of culpability is so unexpected that you find yourself sinking onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted by your own anger. You'd been prepared for denials, for attempts to minimize what they'd done, for the kind of gaslighting that would let them feel better about their actions.

You hadn't been prepared for acknowledgment.

"I used to wonder," you whisper, the words torn from somewhere deep inside, "what I'd done wrong. I replayed every conversation, every moment, trying to figure out where I'd failed you all."

Yeosang's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You did nothing wrong."

"Then why—"

"Because we were cowards," he interrupts, the harsh assessment delivered in his characteristically matter-of-fact tone. "Because we made a choice that we thought was right, and we were too proud and too scared to find another way."

You look up at him, searching his face for signs of deception, for the careful manipulation you've learned to expect from men in your world. Instead, you find only quiet regret and a weariness that seems to age him beyond his years.

"Seven years," you say, the number falling between you like a stone into still water. "Seven years of silence."

"Seven years of regret," he counters. "Seven years of knowing we'd broken something precious and being too afraid to try to fix it."

"And now you think you can?" The question comes out sharper than intended, edged with the bitter laughter that's become your default defense. "You think marriage will magically erase what you did?"

"No," Yeosang says with devastating honesty. "I think we're all going to live with the consequences of our choices for the rest of our lives. You, us, our families—everyone."

The brutal assessment should hurt, but instead it's almost a relief. No false promises, no romantic declarations about second chances. Just the harsh reality that some damage can't be undone.

"Then why are you here?" you ask, genuine curiosity coloring your tone. "What's the point of this conversation if nothing can be fixed?"

Yeosang is quiet for a long moment, his gaze returning to the window and the oak tree beyond. "Because you're in pain," he says finally. "And pretending you're not won't help any of us survive the next three months."

Something cracks in your chest at the simple acknowledgment. When was the last time someone had seen your pain without trying to minimize it, excuse it, or make it about themselves?

"I don't know how to forgive you," you admit, the words pulled from the deepest part of your heart. "Any of you. I don't even know if I want to."

"You don't have to," Yeosang replies. "Forgiveness isn't something you owe us. It's something you do for yourself, if and when you're ready."

He moves toward the door, his visit apparently concluded, but pauses with his hand on the handle.

"There's something else you should know," he says without turning around. "Mingi and Wooyoung—they don't show it the way the others do, but they were affected the worst by leaving you."

You frown, confusion replacing the fragile peace his presence had created. "What do you mean?"

"Mingi barely spoke for months afterward. He used to sit in that oak tree for hours, just staring at nothing. And Wooyoung..." Yeosang's voice softens with something that might be pain. "Wooyoung stopped laughing. He just... stopped being himself for a long time."

The information sits heavily in your chest, creating an unwelcome ache. You don't want to care about their pain—don't want to feel anything but anger toward all of them.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask.

Yeosang finally turns to face you, his expression holding a gravity that reminds you of the serious boy he'd been. "Because I know you want vengeance. I can see it in your eyes, the way you're planning to make us all pay for what we did." His gaze meets yours directly. "Take it out on the rest of us if you need to. Just... not those two. They've suffered enough."

Before you can respond, he's gone, leaving you alone with the weight of his words and the uncomfortable realization that your carefully constructed hatred might be more complicated than you'd allowed yourself to believe.

You return to the window seat, but the view of the oak tree no longer brings only painful memories. Now it carries the image of a heartbroken Mingi sitting among its branches, and the knowledge that Wooyoung's infectious laughter had died the same day your friendship did.

For the first time since arriving at the compound, you feel something other than anger.

You feel the dangerous, unwelcome stirring of empathy.

And that, perhaps, is the most frightening thing of all.

* * *

You dress with meticulous care the next morning, selecting a crisp white blouse and tailored black slacks that speak of wealth and breeding. Every hair is in place, your makeup flawless, your jewelry understated but expensive. If they want to play games, you'll show them exactly what kind of opponent they're dealing with.

The kitchen is bathed in morning sunlight when you enter, and you're surprised to find only Yeosang sitting at the marble island, fully dressed despite the early hour. He looks up as you approach, and without a word, slides a steaming mug across the counter toward you.

You freeze, staring at the offering. The aroma that rises from the cup is unmistakably your preferred blend—dark roast with a hint of vanilla, two sugars, a splash of cream. Exactly how you take your coffee.

But that's impossible.

"I didn't start drinking coffee until..." you begin, then trail off, the implication hitting you like a physical blow.

"I missed your voice," Yeosang says quietly, his eyes never leaving your face.

The simple statement carries the weight of seven years of silence, of carefully gathered intelligence, of someone who cared enough to learn your habits from a distance. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for the mug, the warmth seeping through the ceramic a stark contrast to the chill running down your spine.

Before you can process the full implications of his knowledge, the kitchen door swings open and Wooyoung stumbles in, his usually immaculate appearance disheveled and wrong. His hair sticks up at odd angles, his shirt is wrinkled, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of a sleepless night.

"Morning, sunshine!" he tries for his usual bright tone, but it falls flat, hollow. His smile is too wide, too forced, and doesn't reach his eyes. "Beautiful day, isn't it? I was thinking maybe we could—"

"Wooyoung," you interrupt softly.

He stops mid-ramble, blinking at you with something like surprise. You've never been able to stand watching him lie, especially when he's so obviously terrible at it. Even as children, his face was an open book, every emotion written clearly across his features.

"You look like hell," you say bluntly.

His forced smile crumbles. For a moment, he looks so young, so lost, that your chest tightens with unwelcome sympathy. But then he's rebuilding his facade, piece by careful piece.

"I'm fine," he insists, moving to the coffee machine with jerky, too-bright movements. "Just stayed up late working on some... organizational stuff. You know how it is."

You don't respond, but you don't look away either. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken truths.

The kitchen door opens again, admitting Yunho and Mingi. The contrast between them is stark—Yunho's eyes hold a desperate hope that makes your stomach clench, while Mingi looks like a man walking to his execution, resignation written in every line of his body.

"Good morning," Yunho says carefully, his voice carrying none of its usual easy warmth. He's watching you like you might bolt at any moment, or perhaps like he's afraid you might disappear if he blinks.

Mingi says nothing, but his gaze is so intense it feels like a physical touch. He looks at you the way a starving man might look at a feast—with longing so profound it's almost painful to witness.

The dynamic in the room shifts, tension ratcheting higher with each passing second. You sip your coffee, tasting the perfection of it, and try not to think about what it means that Yeosang knows exactly how you take it.

Then Hongjoong walks in.

If the others carry their emotions like open wounds, Hongjoong has locked his away behind a wall of icy composure. He's immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly styled, his expression giving away nothing. He moves through the kitchen like he owns it—which, you suppose, he does—completely ignoring the charged atmosphere.

It's as if last night never happened. As if you hadn't shattered his carefully constructed dinner party with your fury. As if he hadn't agreed to marry a woman who clearly despises him.

The casual dismissal of your pain, the arrogant assumption that he can simply pretend away your confrontation, sends fire racing through your veins.

Without so much as glancing in your direction, he pours himself a cup of coffee, his movements deliberate and controlled. "Are you done with your temper tantrum, little one?" he asks conversationally, stirring cream into his mug. "Or will we continue this childish behavior until the wedding?"

The words hit like a slap. Temper tantrum. Childish behavior. Little one. As if your seven years of pain, your justified anger, your very reasonable objection to being treated like property is nothing more than a petulant outburst.

Your anger flared white hot, vision narrowing until all you could see was his smug face. Without conscious thought, your hand found the knife lying on the cutting board beside you. In one fluid motion honed from years of your brother’s insistence that a Ricci should always know how to defend themselves—you sent it flying across the kitchen.

The blade embedded itself in the cabinet beside Hongjoong’s head with a solid *thunk*, quivering from the impact.

Hongjoong didn’t even flinch. Doesn't even blink. He simply turns his head to look at the knife, then back at you, his expression shifting into something that might almost be... pride?

He glanced at the knife, then back at you, one eyebrow raised in what appeared to be mild interest. “I suppose that’s a no,” he said dryly, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that had once made your heart race and now made you want to throw something else at him.

A slow smirk spreads across his face, transforming his cold features into something dangerously attractive. "Better," he says approvingly, as if you've finally done something worthy of his attention. "But your aim needs work."

The casual dismissal of what should have been a terrifying moment, the way he's almost pleased that you tried to kill him, pushes you beyond rage into something colder and more dangerous.

"Y/n—" Yunho starts, his voice tight with alarm.

Wooyoung let out a nervous laugh. Yeosang sighed deeply, turning a page in his book with deliberate care. Mingi just looked pained, his eyes darting between you and Hongjoong as if watching a car crash in slow motion.

"It's not even eight AM," comes Seonghwa's weary voice from the doorway. He takes in the scene—the knife in the cabinet, your white-knuckled grip on the coffee mug, Hongjoong's satisfied smirk—and sighs like a man carrying the weight of the world. "Could we perhaps save the attempted murder for after breakfast?"

“They’ve been like this since we were twelve,” Yunho pointed out. “Remember when she put hair dye in his shampoo because he said her dress made her look like a cupcake?”

“Or when he hid all her shoes because she called his music taste ‘aggressively mediocre’?” Jongho added, the youngest being the last to join the gathering.

“Or the time they didn’t speak for three weeks because—” Wooyoung began, enthusiasm returning to his voice.

“Enough,” you snapped, slamming your mug down hard enough to slosh coffee onto the counter. “We are not taking a nostalgic stroll down memory lane. We are not friends reminiscing about good times. We are strangers who happen to be trapped in the same house due to circumstances beyond my control.”

The room fell silent, the brief moment of normalcy shattered by your words. You could see them all exchanging glances, some sort of silent communication passing between them that excluded you, another reminder that you’re an outsider now.

Every eye in the room is on you as you straighten, smoothing down your blouse with deliberate calm.

"Enjoy your coffee, gentlemen," you say with poisonous sweetness. "I seem to have lost my appetite."

You walk out with your head high, your steps measured and controlled. But inside, you're screaming.

* * *

You barely leave your room for the next four days.

The isolation isn't complete—you emerge for meals when you're certain the main areas are empty, moving through the house like a ghost. You raid the library for books, creating a small fortress of literature around your bed. Classic novels, poetry, even some of the more academic texts on political theory that line the shelves.

Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Your phone becomes your lifeline to the outside world. Marco calls twice daily, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos of your emotions. You don't tell him about the knife incident, but somehow he seems to sense your escalating desperation.

"How are you holding up, sorellina?" he asks during your afternoon call on day three.

"I threw a knife at Hongjoong's head," you admit, staring at the ceiling from your bed.

A pause. Then: "Did you hit him?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Marco's laughter is warm and understanding. "Next time, aim lower. Harder to duck."

"Noted," you say dryly.

"But seriously, Y/n. Don't let them drive you to actual violence. Prison orange is not your color."

Your other constant contact is Chris—Christopher Bang, heir to another allied family and one of the few people in your world who understands the particular hell of family obligations. His messages are a mixture of sympathy and dark humor that keeps you grounded.

Chris: Heard you moved into the ATEEZ fortress. How’s life treating you?

You: Could be better. Tried to impale hongjoong with a kitchen knife this morning

Chris: Success rate?

You: Disappointingly zero.

Chris: practice makes perfect. It’s gonna be weird not seeing you around after the wedding. those monthly dinners at Santeros wont be the same

You: What do you mean? We’re not moving to Siberia. It’s just a business arrangement, we can still meet up

The response takes longer than usual to come through.

Chris: Y/n… word came down from the Kim family yesterday. You're officially off limits to all unmarried men in the alliance. No contact, no meetings, nothing.

Your phone slips from your suddenly numb fingers, clattering to the floor as rage unlike anything you’ve ever felt crashes over you in waves. The book falls forgotten as you surge to your feet, your vision going red around the edges.

“KIM HONGJOONG!”

Next>>

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rainrot4me · 3 days ago

Note

After reading the pregnant hcs, what type of parent do you think the creeps would be after the baby is born? Seriously LOVE your work and have a wonderful day!

✦ . jeff the killer

Unhinged but trying (badly).

Jeff didn’t want a kid. At first. But the second that tiny baby grabbed his finger with those impossibly small hands?

“Okay what the fuck, why is it… cute?”

Still terrible with crying. He’ll hold the baby at arm’s length like, “Why’s it making this noise again??”

Surprisingly very protective. You’d have to pry that baby from his cold dead hands. Literally.

The baby starts laughing when Jeff pulls faces, and suddenly he’s doing it more than killing. Not soft, but for them? Yeah. A little.

Constantly tells them dramatic stories of how he “killed a guy for looking at mommy funny.”

✦ . ticci toby

Anxiously attentive, very soft dad energy.

He’s twitchy around the baby, scared he’ll hurt them, but he loves holding them to his chest so they can hear his heartbeat.

You catch him humming to them when he thinks you’re asleep.

Stims with baby toys. Chews on the baby’s teething rings more than the baby does.

“No, you don’t get it. This o-one’s high-grade silicone. Look at the bounce.”

You’ll catch them laid out on the couch at all times, the baby laying flat on his chest while they zone out at the television. They’re both equally focused on the kid’s show that is playing.

Insists the baby sleeps in the room with you two and never lets them out of his sight.

✦ . eyeless jack

Gentle giant who’s surprisingly intuitive.

Jack is terrifying to most people, but babies don’t care about eyeless faces. This one just giggles when he sniffs them.

Knows everything about baby nutrition. “Don’t feed them that. Their pancreas isn’t ready.”

Stitches up tiny plushies when they break. You find him sewing by lamplight, brows tense in concentration.

Carries the baby in one arm like they’re made of glass. Absolutely walks them around whenever he’s going like a little daddy-baby mission. Takes mid-day forest walks every time they get fussy.

“They smell like you. It’s… grounding.”

Dead silent killer at night. Baby’s never once woken up from noise. You suspect he paces the halls when they cry just to make sure they’re okay.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Trauma-ridden but loving. Dad mode: activated.

Tim never thought he’d be a father. His first instinct is to panic, to baby proof every inch of the mansion. But once that baby looks at him like he’s their whole world? He melts.

Obsessively schedules feeding, changing, naps. “Consistency keeps them stable.” Maybe he needs that more than the baby.

Paces with them at 3am when they cry, murmuring,

“It’s okay, little one. I’m right here, we’ve got each other now.”

Snaps if anyone gets too close to you two. Territorial in a predatory scary way. Your shared bedroom is off bounds to anyone else.

Holds the baby against his shoulder like it’s the last safe place on Earth. Tucks his arm under their legs and pats their bottom with all the gentleness in the world.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Emotionally constipated but incredibly present.

Doesn’t talk much, but the baby always calms when Brian holds them. They recognize his steady heartbeat and silence.

Knows how to swaddle like a pro. Could put the baby to sleep in two minutes flat.

Doesn’t let them near screens. Is weirdly intense about it.

Not a fan of nicknames, but you catch him calling them “bug” when no one’s around. You’ll usually find him sitting on the swing on the front porch, cradling the baby against his chest and humming them to sleep.

Gives quiet little smiles when the baby grabs his hoodie string or sneezes while asleep.

✦ . kate the chaser

Hot, scary, soccer mom energy.

Wears the baby strapped to her chest while doing combat training. You scream. She rolls her eyes.

“It’s good for their inner ear balance.”

Genuinely loves snuggling them when no one’s around. Will never admit it.

Gives them little plush knives. “Gotta start young.”

Hair always smells like baby shampoo because they nest in it.

Tells them bedtime stories where you and her are always the good guys. You cry. She pretends not to notice.

✦ . ben drowned

The most unserious dad—until it counts.

Teaches the baby how to press buttons on a controller before they can crawl.

“They’re gonna speedrun ‘Ocarina of Time’ by the time they’re three. Watch.”

Surprisingly soft-spoken with them. Talks like they’re a sensitive little thing.

His laptop wallpaper is the baby’s ultrasound. He keeps that thing like it’s a trophy and shows off to anyone willing to look.

Yells at you to come look when the baby does anything even slightly new.

Pranks the baby by glitching his voice through tech. Baby just giggles. It’s adorable and a little cursed. You’ll hear his crackling voice coming from the talking stuffed animal he bought them.

✦ . clockwork

Tough but incredibly maternal.

Picks the baby up one-handed like it’s nothing. Still coos and kisses their nose.

Teaches them to be strong early on. “You crying? That’s okay. Wipe your tears and try again.”

Doesn’t baby them emotionally, but fiercely protects them.

“If anyone lays a hand on you, I’ll make them count their teeth while I pluck them out of their head.”

Lets them paint her nails while she rocks them in her lap.

Reads bedtime stories with the most expressive voice. The baby is obsessed with her. Little hands always messing with the clock face in her eye.

✦ . laughing jack

Unholy blend of terrifying clown and doting parent.

Makes balloon animals that the baby never fails to pop, then remakes them again.

His lullabies are oddly morbid but calming. “This little piggy got revenge~!”

Has a toy chest that makes actual circus music. You’re suspicious when he starts to pull out cotton candy and buckets of popcorn.

The baby laughs way too hard when he does slapstick. LJ gets fake-injured just for that laugh.

Also? Wildly protective. No one lays a finger on them without facing his wrath.

✦ . slenderman

God-tier calm and terrifyingly competent.

You didn’t think an eldritch horror would be a great dad. You were wrong.

Creates the quietest space possible for the baby. No noise, no chaos, just warmth and stillness.

Rocking them in his arms is the only time his tendrils look gentle.

Baby doesn’t cry around him. It’s like they feel his presence and just… stop. It’s infuriating.

You swear he whispers things in a language you don’t understand to help them sleep. Nonetheless, it always works.

꩜ .��

244 notes · View notes

sowerpatch · 3 days ago

Text

terms of play [chapter 6 - turnover]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: A chance encounter in a nightclub ignites tension between Paige and Azzi, forcing emotions to the surface neither of them are ready to face. One night. One confrontation. Everything shifts. Warning: Substance and druge use. Semi sexual content. And Jake. Author's note: If this is what you guys are waiting for, I hope it meets your expectation. Word count: 5,226

The Grand Night Club, San Francisco. May 2025.

"Wait—shit," she muttered, eyes darting past her.

Paige pulled back abruptly, breath still caught between her lips, hand rising to the girl's shoulder as she stepped away.

The girl blinked in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

Paige barely looked at her. “You’re gorgeous, seriously, but I—just—sorry.” The apology hit the floor with all the sincerity of a half-finished beer.

“Asshole,” the girl snapped behind her.

Paige didn’t stop. She was already moving, shoving through the haze of music and bodies, eyes locked on a navy silhouette disappearing deeper into the crowd.

Azzi.

She was walking fast. Purposeful.

Paige slipped past a group of laughing dancers and turned a corner. The lights dimmed further near the back of the club, pulse of the bass thudding low against the floor. Her breath caught again, but this time for a different reason.

“Azzi,” she called out, more breath than sound.

Paige pushed through the last knot of dancers and caught up just as Azzi slipped past a shadowed corner of the club. Heart racing, she reached out and grabbed her arm with a little force.

The weight of consequence snapped back like a live wire. Azzi's tone didn’t rise. It cut clean and cold, sharper than the grip on her arm.

“If you still want that professional career,” Azzi said, eyes locked and merciless, “I’d let go. Right now.”

Around them, music was loud and lights shifted here and there. But Paige’s world narrowed to that voice. Her hand dropped. Her mouth opened, then closed again.

She hadn’t expected to see Azzi here.

The last she'd heard from interns and some of the Valkyries staff, Azzi was still in London handling Fudd Holdings business. And even if she’d flown back, this wasn’t the kind of place Paige ever imagined spotting her.

The club pulsed with bodies and bass. Too chaotic, too public, too far from the world Azzi kept wrapped in silk and distance. She also hadn’t expected Azzi to see her like that. Lips on someone else’s, mouth chasing heat, pressed against the wall of a dark bar like it meant nothing. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But something about it felt off, sour in her chest. Paige took a breath, words catching behind her teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?”

The question came sharp and clean, slicing through whatever explanation Paige had lined up. She blinked once, stunned by the coldness wrapped around the words.

“I just thought…” Paige trailed off. “I just thought… what you saw—it didn’t mean anything.”

Azzi let out a short, cold laugh. Her eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking. “Funny. It looked exactly like what I’ve always expected from you.”

Paige’s brows pulled in, confusion flickering fast across her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “It means I drafted an exceptional athlete. One of the best. But that’s all you’ll ever be to me. A name under contract. Someone I pay to win games.”

The words landed with surgical precision. Paige stood there, visibly gutted.

“Anyway, you’re a grown woman. What you do outside of team hours is your business.” Azzi’s expression didn’t soften. “So, I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for because this—whatever this is—was never anything at all.”

Paige felt like she’d been slapped a million times.

“One last thing.”

Her gaze found Paige, sharp and deliberate.

“If you touch me again without asking, I’ll have HR involved.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just disappeared into the crowd, leaving Paige frozen in place, the weight of the warning hitting harder than she expected.

Azzi climbed the staircase with her heels muffled by the plush carpet, posture steady and eyes cold.

At the top landing, a man in a black suit stepped forward from the shadows near a closed door. He gave a short nod of recognition.

“He’s inside?” Azzi asked, voice low but crisp.

The man didn’t speak. He only nodded again and pushed the door open for her with a slight bow before escorting her in.

She nodded back and followed with precision and authority.

The bass from the club below dulled to a hum. Laughter echoed across the lavish suite, and Trey Fudd reclined on an oversized couch, arms stretched, head thrown back mid-laugh.

His friends flanked him, drinks in hand, their eyes glazed. A tray sat on the table, glossy and too clean, with a thin line of powder untouched beside a gleaming credit card.

Her eyes found Trey’s with a burn that could level buildings.

His laughter died in his throat the second Azzi stepped closer.

Her presence swallowed the room. The air felt heavier, colder.

She glanced once at the table — at the powder, the mess, the recklessness — then back at him with surgical disgust.

“Azzi,” he said quickly, as if her name alone might soften the blow. “How did you even—how’d you know I was here?”

"Congratulations," she said, voice dripping with venom. "Barely a month out of rehab and you’re already back to snorting lines in public like it’s a family tradition."

Trey straightened, color draining from his face.

“I warned you,” she said, voice low and deadly. “One more slip, and I walk away. Completely. You overdose, you get arrested, you vanish off the grid again? I won’t lift a finger. I won’t bury you. I won’t save you.”

Trey stood frozen. His hands trembled slightly.

“You think I enjoy being the one who has to scrub your name from headlines? Who has to smile and lie while the company hemorrhages trust because the CEO’s son is a walking cautionary tale?” Her tone never rose, but it sliced deep. “You disgrace our name one more time, and I swear on what’s left of this family’s dignity, I’ll treat you like any other liability. And I’m very good at cutting those out.”

Trey swallowed hard, eyes wide.

But just Azzi turned to leave, the door burst open, and Paige rushed in, breath caught in her throat, hair a mess like she’d run from the end of the block. “Azzi.”

Her name rang out, sharp and urgent.

The room shifted in an instant.

Trey shot to his feet, eyes narrowing. “Who the fuck is this?”

Before Paige could answer, two suited men reacted on instinct, closing the distance and seizing her arms.

Her gaze swept the room, sharp with confusion, until it landed on Azzi. The sudden weight of where she was settled fast across her chest.

“Let her go,” Azzi snapped, voice like flint. Azzi was seething beneath her polished exterior. Rage pulsed beneath her skin, sharp and volatile, but so was the weight of exhaustion. “Paige, what are you doing here?” she snapped, not hiding the edge.

Before Paige could speak, Azzi motioned sharply to one of the suited men.

“Tony. Please escort Miss Bueckers to my car. Now.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Make sure no one sees her coming out from this room.” The suited man, tall and broad-shouldered, clasped Paige’s arm and pulled her out with deliberate force. She glanced back once, eyes searching for answers, but Azzi had already turned away.

When the door closed, Azzi faced the room with an icy calm that barely covered the heat surging beneath her skin. Trey stood stiff, his face pale. His friends sat frozen.

“That didn’t happen,” Azzi said, her voice like steel. “She was not here.”

She took a step forward. “And if anyone says otherwise, I will make sure you lose everything you think you’re entitled to. Try me.”

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. May 2025.

The black car rolled to a stop in the lower levels of the tower’s parking structure, headlights casting a faint glow across polished concrete.

Tony got out and opened the rear door without much of a glance of his passengers.

Azzi stepped out first. Her stride held purpose, movements clipped and controlled, like she had already filed the last twenty minutes under damage control.

She didn't look back. She didn’t wait.

Paige followed.

Her limbs were sore from the game, her chest still unsettled from everything that had unraveled since. Azzi hadn’t spoken a word in the car. She hadn’t asked if Paige wanted to go home. She hadn’t even acknowledged her while they both sat in the back seat.

Paige trailed a few steps behind, unsure if she was meant to keep going. She had no idea where they were headed, and Azzi hadn’t offered.

They stepped into the private elevator without speaking. Azzi swiped her keycard, the motion fluid, practiced.

The panel lit up and the doors slid closed behind them, sealing off the world below. Paige shifted her weight, eyes flicking toward the polished steel walls, then to Azzi’s reflection—composed, unreadable.

The ride stretched in heavy stillness. No music played. No questions passed between them.

When the elevator reached the top floor, a soft ding broke through the quiet tension. The doors opened to the penthouse.

Paige followed.

The moment she stepped inside, Azzi’s voice cracked through the air like a whip even before the door hadn’t even shut behind them.

“What the hell were you thinking?!”

Paige stopped on her tracks.

“Did you even consider what would happen if someone saw you in that room?” Azzi’s voice rose, sharp and biting. “If anyone had the tiniest idea you were even near that scene—”

Paige stood still, heart hammering. Her thoughts spun, colliding with the sound of Azzi’s fury. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Azzi’s words cut deeper. “There were drugs there, Paige. Drugs that could ruin everything.”

“I didn’t know!” Paige burst out, her voice frayed. “I didn’t even notice.”

“That doesn’t matter. Perception is everything.” Azzi’s voice was raw but sharp. “If a single photo, a whisper, even a fucking tweet gets out that you were in the same room as my brother with coke all over the table, you’re done. You understand that?”

Paige stared at her, chest rising too fast. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t find anything to say that didn’t sound like begging. Azzi wasn’t just angry. She was scared. And so was Paige.

She slumped onto the couch, her hands covering her face, the weight of everything finally breaking through. Her shoulders shook once, then again, and when she finally looked up, there were tears on her cheeks she didn’t bother to hide.

Paige dropped to her knees in front of her. She didn’t hesitate this time.

“Hey!” she said, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, ma.”

Azzi let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-heartbreak. “You really picked a moment to start using nicknames.”

Paige tried to smile, but it faltered. “I didn’t want the night to end with you mad at me. That’s why I followed you upstairs. I didn’t want that to be the last thing between us.”

Azzi’s eyes were searching Paige’s face like she was trying to decide if she could afford to believe her. The air around them felt too fragile to break, like one more word might shatter whatever thread still held.

“I don’t even know what this is,” Paige said, her voice thinner than before, like the words scraped coming out. “But I’ve never fought this hard to matter to someone who won’t even look at me the same way twice.”

Her fingers curled into her palms.

“I joke around because I don’t know what else to do. I flirt because it’s safer than saying I care. But I do. I care more than I’ve ever let myself, and I don’t know if I’m making a complete fool of myself or if you’re just never going to meet me halfway.”

She let the words hang in the air between them, her throat burning.

“I followed you up there because I couldn’t stand the idea of tonight ending with you walking away. Mad. Hurt. Done. I messed up, I know that. But it didn’t mean anything. That girl didn’t mean anything. You—”

Paige faltered. Her eyes dropped to the floor, voice barely audible now.

“You mean more than I want to admit. And I don’t even know if I’m allowed to feel that way.” Azzi’s voice came quiet, softer than Paige had ever heard from her. Barely held together.

“You kissed her.”

The words were fragile, not a question, just a quiet fact. Azzi blinked once, then added, “You literally made out with her in the corner.”

Paige felt the shame hit square in her chest. “I know. That’s not—God, I know there’s no excuse.”

She exhaled hard, rubbing the heel of her hand against her brow like she could scrub the mistake away.

“It was stupid. I was stupid. I get reckless when I feel like I’m losing something I never really had. But that’s the thing. I keep trying to tell myself you’re just my boss, and we’re just two people who orbit in the same space. But it never feels that simple with you.” Then there was a shift on Azzi’s eyes. It was darker than midnight outside. “How did you expect your night to end with that girl?”

Azzi grabbed Paige by the wrist and pulled her up to stand. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was forceful, laced with frustration, and with something deeper she hadn’t named yet. “Huh, Paige?” She pushed with force. “Were you going to take her home?”

Azzi’s voice rose, and with another push, Paige stumbled back a step. “Was that the plan?”

Paige blinked, completely thrown. “Azzi, I don’t—what are you doing?”

But Azzi looked like she didn’t even hear her. Like something had cracked, and all that restraint she wore so easily had started to splinter.

Paige couldn’t make sense of it. She had seen Azzi composed in front of press rooms full of sharks. She had never seen her like this. Not this emotional. Not this affected. “Were you going to fuck her?” Paige flinched.

“Were you going to fuck her good?” Azzi was seething. Her breath ragged.

“I don’t know!” “Stop lying to me.” Azzi pushed her back hard against the wall. “Was this what you were thinking when she had her mouth on your neck? When you dug your fingers into her hips like you couldn’t wait to fuck her right there?” She stared at Azzi for a long moment. “Maybe I would’ve. I don’t know.” Azzi’s stare didn’t waver.

“She touched you like she had something to prove. And you let her.” Her voice dipped lower, bitter with restrained fury. “It’s almost insulting how easy you make it look. I could’ve done it better. I would’ve.”

A beat passed.

She took a single step forward, voice dropping. “You think that was good? The way she kissed you? The way she pressed into you like she had something to prove? I could make you feel like your whole body was mine to command.”

Paige's breath caught somewhere in her throat, her back still against the wall. Azzi hadn’t even touched her, not really, and yet the room felt heavier, denser with every word.

Her voice came out lower than she expected. “Azzi, what are you doing?”

It was meant to come out sharp, teasing maybe. But it faltered under the weight of Azzi’s stare, under the bite in her voice, the promise in it. Azzi’s voice dropped, eyes steady. “You want a girl who listens? Learns fast?” She leaned in, lips barely parted. “I can be your good girl, if that’s what you want.”

Paige’s chest rose unevenly. Her pulse hadn’t calmed since Azzi backed her against the wall. She was still trying to gather herself, still trying to decide if this was a warning or something else entirely.

“Last time I touched you…” Her voice broke through the charged air, low and hoarse. “You told me to ask for consent.”

Azzi's expression didn’t soften. She only looked at Paige like she was daring her to try again.

Paige swallowed hard. The tension curled down her spine.

“So, I’m asking,” she murmured, heat tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Can I...” A pause, quieter. “Can I touch you?” Azzi’s eyes flicked down to Paige’s lips. It looked soft and inviting.

The silence between them stretched, full of sharp edges and everything unsaid. For a long second, she didn’t move.

Then, without warning, as if something inside her cracked open, she surged forward and kissed Paige.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision of need and fury, messy and breathless. Teeth scraped. Fingers clawed at fabric.

Paige stumbled a half step back into the wall, catching herself only because Azzi held her there. Every ounce of restraint shattered the moment their mouths met.

“Touch me,” Azzi whispered, low and deliberate. “Touch me like you touched her.”

The words made Paige go still for just a beat.

Then she surged forward, pulling Azzi back into her like she’d been waiting to be told.

Her hands roamed as her body answered without hesitation. Her mind losing ground to heat. Every inch between them burned with intent.

The kiss deepened. Less war now, more hunger, more claim.

Her fingers followed the curve of Azzi’s jaw, her thumb grazing the tender spot just beneath her ear.

She leaned back slightly, their lips separating with a soft, lingering sound.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with longing.

Azzi’s eyes drifted shut, her breath catching as Paige’s hand slid to her neck, fingers threading through the curls that framed her face. Paige’s heart thundered as Azzi grabbed her by her shirt and pulled her toward the couch with deliberate force, their bodies colliding before Paige dropped back onto the cushions.

The look in Azzi’s eyes was searing—hungry, impatient—and it lit Paige up from the inside.

Azzi stepped back just enough to let the tension bloom between them. Her eyes dark, locking onto Paige like she was already imagining every way she was going to ruin her.

Her fingers moved to the top button of her blouse.

Paige watched, chest rising and falling fast, as Azzi worked each one open with deliberate slowness.

One.

Two.

Three.

The fabric parted inch by inch, revealing the glint of damp skin beneath, the curve of her collarbone, the faintest flush climbing down from her throat.

Paige swallowed hard.

The blouse slipped off her shoulders, caught for a second at her elbows before Azzi let it fall to the floor in a soft heap.

Time stretched.

Paige could feel the heat crawling up the back of her neck, pooling between her legs, spreading low in her belly like wildfire.

Her eyes drifted over Azzi’s bare skin, down the taut lines of her abdomen, the way her bra clung tight to her chest, damp with sweat from anticipation alone.

It was too much and not enough all at once. Every inch of her ached to touch, to taste, to lose herself in the woman standing before her like a slow-burning flame.

Azzi stepped between her legs, the air between them thick, buzzing, ready to snap.

Paige reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the side of Azzi’s thigh. She felt the slight tremble beneath her skin and knew Azzi was just as wrecked by the tension as she was.

Azzi leaned in, close enough that Paige could feel her breath across her lips, but she didn’t kiss her yet. She hovered.

Teased.

Let the moment stretch until Paige was straining for more, her whole body alive with wanting.

She climbed into Paige’s lap like she was staking a claim, her body flush against hers in one smooth, heated motion. Her grip on Paige’s shoulders was firm, fingers curling hard enough to make a point.

The grinding started.

There was nothing soft in the way she moved. Every shift of her hips, every inch of contact was laced with something deeper.

Jealousy.

Possession.

A fury that simmered just beneath her skin. “You let her touch you,” Azzi said, her voice low and sharp, almost a growl. “You let her kiss you like she had the right.”

Her hands slid up into Paige’s hair, not tender, but demanding, forcing Paige to look at her. Her breath shook between her teeth, and her eyes were wild with something she hadn’t bothered to hide.

“Did you like it?” she asked, her words clipped, dangerous. “Did it feel good when she put her hands on you?”

She leaned in closer, her mouth barely brushing Paige’s, her grip tightening in her hair. The weight of her body pressed Paige down into the couch, every inch of her coiled and burning.

"No," Paige whispered, her voice barely audible.

“No?” she echoed, bitter and breathless, her hips grinding down harder against Paige’s lap. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Her body pressed flush, heat radiating off her skin as she rolled her hips again, slow but punishing. Her breath hitched, but her gaze never left Paige’s, like she needed to watch every reaction, every falter in her control.

“Because I saw the way she looked at you,” Azzi hissed, jaw tight. “Like she thought she had a chance.” Her hand slid from Paige’s hair to the back of her neck, pulling her forward until their foreheads touched, rough and intimate. Her voice dropped, sharp and shaking.

“Tell me she didn’t make you feel like this,” she growled, hips dragging against Paige’s again, rougher this time.

She caught Paige’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugged—just enough to sting, just enough to punish.

“Because if she did,” Azzi whispered darkly, “I’ll fuck you right here until you forget she even existed.”

Paige felt it in the rhythm of Azzi’s body, the way she moved with sharp, almost punishing intent. Every roll of her hips came with a weight that wasn’t just desire.

Azzi's fingers clutched her like she was holding her in place, like she couldn’t stand the idea of letting go.

The heat in Azzi's eyes wasn’t the same kind she had seen before. It was darker. Fierce.

Her breath caught as the realization hit her.

Azzi Fudd was jealous.

A slow smile spread across Paige’s lips, sharp and cocky, her fingers tightening at Azzi’s waist.

“That’s what this is,” she said, voice low and taunting. “You’re jealous.”

Azzi scoffed, fingers still tangled in Paige’s hair, her body grinding down with steady, punishing rhythm.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, voice tight and low, heat laced through every word. “This isn’t jealousy.”

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing the corner of Paige’s mouth as her hips rolled again, deeper this time.

“This is control,” she whispered, breath hot against Paige’s skin. “I control you.”

“Fuck.”

Paige’s smile curled wider, lazy and smug. Her hands gliding down to grip Azzi’s ass, holding her there with just enough pressure to make her feel it.

“You keep talking like you're in charge,” Paige groaned, her voice soaked in heat, “but you’re the one grinding like you can’t help yourself.”

She leaned in, lips brushing Azzi’s throat without kissing, letting her breath drag slow and warm against her skin.

“Tell me, baby,” she whispered, her tone low and taunting, “how do you want me to touch you?”

Her fingers flexed against Azzi’s bare waist, teasing, not moving higher, not moving lower.

“Fast and dirty like you’re pissed? Or slow enough to make you beg?” “Fuck you.” “Oh no, babe,” Paige licked Azzi’s throat up to her ear and whispered. “I’ll be fucking you.” Azzi released a sound caught between a moan and a whimper, and Paige swore it was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard.

Paige’s fingers moved with intent, unfastening the button on Azzi’s pants with a practiced ease. Her touch dipped lower, pressing just enough to make Azzi’s breath catch, her hips twitching forward.

Azzi leaned in, her lips brushing against Paige’s, hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt like she needed something to hold on to.

Paige’s fingers slipped just beneath the waistband, slow and teasing. The heat between them impossible to ignore.

Then the phone rang.

A vibration buzzed loud against the cushion beside them.

Paige pressed her lips to Azzi’s throat, her tongue dragging slowly down to her collarbones.

Every touch was deliberate, a wordless dare for Azzi to forget the phone completely.

It rang again. Longer this time.

Azzi’s body stilled.

Her eyes dropped to the screen, and her heart thudded once—hard.

Jake.

The name glowed bright against the screen.

Paige saw the name too.

The tension in her spine pulled tight like a snapped wire, and she suddenly felt the weight of everything. The sweat on her skin, Paige’s hands inside her waistband, her thighs straddling someone who wasn’t supposed to be touching her like this.

“Shit,” she whispered, voice raw.

She exhaled shakily, then shifted, climbing off Paige’s lap with a kind of quiet urgency. Her back was already straightening.

The phone kept ringing, insistent, a sound that sliced through the heat of the room. Azzi answered the phone softly, but breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey babe! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay?” Jake’s voice came through, full of concern.

“I was just in the shower,” Azzi replied quietly. The lie rolled in naturally.

“You’re still flying to LA tomorrow, right?” he asked after a pause.

Azzi glanced at Paige, who sat hunched forward, eyes fixed on the floor. Her jaw was tight, lips parted like a word had caught in her throat. One hand gripped the edge of the cushion, the other limp in her lap. The heat in her face had faded, replaced by something hollow and quiet.

“Babe?” Jake’s voice was steady, waiting for a response. “You still there?”

“Yes,” Azzi said, swallowing hard. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Great! My parents can’t wait to meet you. Looking forward to it.” Jake said with relief.

“Uh, yeah. I have to go now. I’ll message you when I land.”

She set the phone down without turning toward Paige. Something had changed, a tension neither of them wanted to admit, but both knew couldn’t be left unspoken. Paige stood, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. The second Azzi ended the call, the weight of it hit like a brick.

"You picked up," Paige said, voice tight. "You actually picked up his call."

Azzi didn’t turn around.

Paige stepped forward, her hands shaking. "After everything. After what you just said to me. You touched me like I was yours. You looked at me like I was the only thing in the world. And then you answered his call."

Azzi’s shoulders rose slightly with her breath. "It was just a call."

Paige let out a sharp laugh, one that cracked on the way out. "Are you serious? That’s what you’re calling it?"

She moved closer, her voice rising. "You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t get to fuck with my head. You don’t get to put your hands all over me and then act like that call doesn’t mean something."

Azzi turned around. Voice calm, almost cold. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to happen.” “You’re afraid of wanting me.” Paige’s voice had dropped now, but it cracked on the edges.

“I’m not afraid of anything,”

Azzi held her posture with precision, but the pressure inside her was relentless.

Paige’s words sank deep, scraping against everything she worked to keep buried. Her chest felt tight. Her pulse throbbed at her neck, a quiet tremor she couldn’t stop.

She kept her hands still even though they itched to react, to reach for something, to push Paige away or pull her closer. She hated how right Paige sounded.

Paige stepped closer, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s face.

“I see you,” she said, voice steady. “Even when you think I’m not looking.” Azzi’s breath hitched. She stayed rooted in place. Her breath shallow, her expression carved from stone.

“You walk into a room like nothing touches you, like you’ve already decided how the story ends before anyone else can even read the first line.” Paige lifted her hand and touched Azzi’s cheek, the gesture soft, like she was holding something fragile.

“But I see past all of that. I see the way your eyes flick to me when you think I’m not watching. I see how your hands tighten whenever my name comes up. I see you.”

A flicker passed through Azzi’s eyes, too quick to name. Her jaw tightened, but she kept her stance rigid, as if any shift would crack through the restraint she fought to maintain. The heat behind her ribs rose, slow and aching, but she refused to let it reach her face.

“I can’t do this, Paige.”

The words landed like a final chord between them, cold and deliberate.

Paige’s expression cracked. She didn’t speak, but something shifted in her shoulders, in the way her arms crossed tight against her chest as if bracing for impact.

“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” Azzi continued. “Any of it. I shouldn’t have touched you. I shouldn’t have crossed that line.”

Her tone didn’t falter, but there was weight behind every word, the kind that didn’t come from doubt, but from resolve.

“I let things get out of hand tonight. And almost,” she paused, her eyes flicking briefly to Paige’s mouth before she caught herself, “almost let it go further. But I can’t. You’re just starting your career. You deserve to do it clean without this distraction and mess tied to your name.”

Paige’s brows drew in, pain evident in her expression, but Azzi pushed on.

“I know I slipped. More than once. And it keeps happening, because around you I forget how to stay where I’m supposed to be, but it needs to end here.” Paige stood still for a long moment, her jaw clenched, her eyes locked on Azzi like she was trying to memorize every angle of her face. Her voice came quieter, but there was no hesitation behind it.

“What happened felt real,” she said. “At least to me.”

Azzi didn’t respond, but the silence between them thickened, stretched to its breaking point.

Paige stepped closer.

“When you stop being a coward to your own feelings,” Her voice lowered to a whisper, barely brushing the air., “you’ll know where to find me.” Then she turned and walked out with every ounce of hurt carried in the quiet strength of her exit.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Azzi remained frozen, her arms stiff at her sides, her breathing shallow. The silence in the room echoed around her now, louder than anything Paige had said.

She stayed standing for a moment longer, her eyes on the door as if willing it to open again, but it never did.

The strength she had wrapped so tightly around herself finally gave out.

Her shoulders dropped. Her hands trembled. And then her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank to the floor.

The first sob caught in her throat, sharp and sudden. She pressed her hand over her mouth, as if she could contain it, but the emotion came in waves, rough and merciless. Her face crumpled, her body folding in on itself.

For the first time that night, Azzi let herself feel all of it. And it wrecked her.

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi fic #pazzi #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn wbb #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd #pazzi fics #terms of play series

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wonluhver · 3 days ago

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Mingyu Focus

M = Content Warnings for Smut

! = Personal All Time Favs.

Red Card [M] - smut/fluff, non-idol au, 80s au (aesthetics only), childhood friends to lovers, oneshot.

Mingyu's been there through everything. From childhood to now. What happens when he gets hurt and someone else has to step in and play the hero?

! Clarity [M] - bf's best friend mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut, you could say there's a drizzle of fluff, one shot. side of bad bf!jungkook.

Mingyu doesn't want to pay you any mind. To him, you're just another girl that'll get her heart broken by his dumb best friend.

Why would he care, right? He shouldn't care about the crying sounds he hears from his bedroom when his friend stands you up for the girl he's actually in love with. And he shouldn't be getting close to you. He shouldn't dread the day his friend decides to end things with you and bring someone else home. He shouldn't be wishing to have met you first.

! Save the Date [M] - smut, fluff, angst, frenemies to lovers, oneshot.

5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.

Theories and Heartstrings [M] - Neighbours AU! Fake Dating AU! (but only one is fake dating. It’ll make sense when you read it, lol). Non-Idol AU!. angst, fluff, smut. completed series.

As a writer with a mildly cynical take on love, you’ve always believed people have a “type”—a pattern they never stray from when it comes to dating. And Kim Mingyu? He’s the textbook definition of someone who wouldn’t go for someone like you, nor would you go for him. But you test your theory when a fateful run-in with your charming neighbour sparks an unexpected attraction.

The plan? Go on dates with him and count how many it takes before your heart gets involved—if it ever does. But Mingyu is unpredictable, effortlessly breaking down your carefully constructed walls with every smile, every late-night conversation, every moment that feels too easy to be just an experiment.

The real problem? Secrets never stay secrets for long. And when Mingyu finds out the truth behind your so-called theory, will it prove you right, or that love doesn’t follow the rules you thought it did?

! Again and Again [M] - exes, fake dating, mutual pining, idol!gyu, vet!reader, mild angst, fluff, smut, oneshot.

your mother calls one day, asking if you’re bringing mingyu along for chuseok this year. in your panic, you end up giving her an affirmative—never mind the fact that you and mingyu have stopped seeing each other over half a year ago.

Covert Desires - spy au, mafia, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, mutual pining, spies, angst, fluff, killing, oneshot.

he mission is simple - infiltrate a high-stakes auction that the top leaders, businessmen, women, and politicians of the world attend every year and steal one of the most highly guarded and hidden-away paintings from the target’s collection. the only downside, you had to work with kim mingyu, whom you absolutely hated. and to make it even worse, you had to pretend to be his wife for this mission to work.

! Challenge me [M] - College!Au, porn with plot(s), crack, OT13 x afab!Reader (mingyu/scoups focused), smut. unfinished series.

you have never been a person to turn down a challenge, but when your best friend challenges you to hook up with 13 boys in one semester you kinda wish you were.

Wicked Games [M] - angst, fluff, smut (18+), bartender mingyu, friends to rebound fucking, no strings attached (fwb to lovers), mingyu/wonwoo focused. unfinished (? i think) series - still ongoing.

Kim Mingyu came into your life at a time when you needed a friend the most. And that he was: a friend that you could confide in and laugh together, share your secrets with and perhaps, share a burden that was too similar to his.

Kitty Claws - a svt spiderman x jujutsu kaisen au, spiderman!mingyu, blackcat!reader, lots of banter, mild fighting scenes = mentions of blood and injuries !!, fluff with angst if you squint. oneshot.

being a superhero isn't as easy as it seems, and it's even harder when you're notorious supervillain black cat with a past threatening to catch up with you and a pesky spider that won't leave you alone.

Get Him Back [M] - lead guitarist!kim mingyu x lead singer!fem!reader, romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex (please stay safe irl!), wall sex, angry sex, overstimulation, dirty talk), exes to lovers au, band au, oneshot.

years after your messy breakup that broke up the band, you and mingyu are forced back together for a reunion tour—and the public can’t get enough of your chemistry. on stage, you’re electric, but backstage it’s all snide comments, heated arguments, and mingyu slipping in petty lyric changes just to piss you off. you’re not sure what’s worse: how much you still hate him or how much you don’t.

What Do I Call You? [M-ish] - college au, idiots friends to lovers au ; angst, fluff, suggestive ? slightly smutty? themes. football player!kim mingyu x fem!college journalist!reader. oneshot.

your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you.

! Dessert First [M] - baker! mingyu, wedding planner!YN, fluff, smut, angst, exes to lovers, oneshot.

You've got a great life. Your wedding planning business is booming, your clients are great, and you're finally over your ex-boyfriend after years of pining. Or you are, until the universe decides to test if those three things are actually true.

! Lost in the West [M] - fake dating (kind of), friends to lovers, holiday!au | fluff, smut, romance, oneshot.

where your best friend pretends to be your boyfriend for the holidays so you can avoid more nagging from your mother. except your whole family thought you were already dating.

!!! Kim Mingyu's (unhelpful) Guide to Losing your Virginity [M] - smut, fluff, humor, college au, best friends to lovers au, friends with benefits au, oneshot.

after accidentally telling your friends that kim mingyu took your virginity (he didn’t), you’re shocked when he proposes to relieve you of the fabled v-card for good (he does).

! The Very First Night [M] - angst, smut, exes to lovers au, roommates au. oneshot.

the search for a new place to live takes a turn for the worse when the only person willing to split rent with you is your ex-boyfriend

for my best friend who i promised i would post mingyu recs for,, youre welcome. ignore how half of these are exes to lovers, or fake dating to lovers... i'm okay...

other recs

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jaeminvore · 21 hours ago

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Credit Card Baby | Z.CL

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

WORD COUNT: 15.5K

NOTE: first Chenle fic kinda nervous but also excited because I've been wanting to write for pookie for a loooong long while!! So I gathered all the remaining brain cells I have and came up with this hot garbage (affectionate). This is legitimately the most unserious piece of fiction I’ve written so far, so if you’re in the mood for some fun and entertainment centered around vibes n mild-horniness you’ve come to the right place! The title comes from a song with the same title which is funny to me because the song itself (Credit Card Baby by Wham!) is the complete opposite of the story I'm telling here LMAO

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes (as in, there's very little implication to sex and masturbation here if it bothers anybody. Just to put it out there so proceed with caution), crude jokes and language, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda), Chenle majors in business, MC majors in architecture, everyone yaps a lot... for some reason, Chenle’s also a micro-celebrity (streams and posts on TikTok), brief discussion of OnlyFans, but I am in no way encouraging it.

DISCLAIMER: none of this is meant to represent anyone in real life. This is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

According to an article you’d come across, an OnlyFans creator earned an average of one-hundred-eighty dollars a month. Multiply that four or five times, you’d have enough for one ticket.

“Alright,” you sighed, bringing your knees up as your eyes glued to what laid out in a neat pile right before you and the girls you lived with. “how much do we have all together?”

“Twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents. One banana flavored condom. Three sticks of gum—a chewed piece of gum, ew—a crumpled tissue and a… hairball.”

Jesus. This was getting ridiculous.

“Fantastic!” You clapped, looking at both girls with a wide smile and desperate eyes. “Anything else?”

“A maxed out credit card,” Minjeong sniffed as she threw the offending piece of useless plastic onto the pathetic pile. “That’s all we have to our names combined. We’re broke as shit.”

No, really. You had everything you needed for a flourishing career of flashing your nether regions to the world behind a paywall.

A laptop with a webcam. A pretty face. A small collection of toys. Very small. A pink two-in-one vibrating dildo the girls had gotten you as a gag gift for your birthday still in its packaging type of small. Vaguely resembling a swirly ice pop you’d get on a hot summer day, and you had lovingly named it ‘Pinky’ before it had gotten shoved into the depths of your drawer, never to be seen again.

Your imaginary audience probably wouldn't mind, right? So long as they’d get an eyeful of a pretty girl playing out starved men’s depraved fantasies.

Then again, the idea didn’t seem too hard in theory considering how far gooners were willing to throw a couple of dollars for a five seconds long clip. They wouldn’t even notice the difference between an overexaggerated moan resembling a cat’s mating yowl and a genuine moan of pleasure, far too busy jerking it until their keyboards were dank from their own mess. You’d be earning enough to broaden your pathetic sex toy collection.

Simple-minded people were easy customers and you sure had no problems capitalizing off of that.

It was a good plan. A perfect long-term plan even, if it didn’t earn less than minimum wage and if you weren’t racing against time.

“This sucks,” Yizhuo whined, throwing her head back and staring forlornly at the ceiling. “Where the hell are we gonna get that kind of money in four days?”

Minjeong raised a groomed eyebrow. “Can’t you ask your parents? Say it’s an emergency or something.”

Yizhuo’s head lolled to the side, frowning at her. “They still have me cut off, remember?”

And the thought wasn’t just devastating to Yizhuo who, up until a few months ago, had been living the life of a spoiled princess with the world right in the palms of her dainty, never-worked-in-her-life hands. Naturally, being the closest to Yizhuo where you all were practically sisters, you and Minjeong were tangled up in the punishment as well. That meant leeching off of her and her unlimited access to her parents’ money was ineffective until she learned her lesson.

After all, she was the reason why you and Minjeong had a roof above your head because apparently buying a house out-of-pocket was much more cost-efficient than renting, leaving you girls the responsibility of paying for groceries and sparing you just enough to spend for personal items. Yizhuo handled the rest as she had become somewhat of a sugar mommy.

“Apparently Daddy thought I was being very irresponsible with their money.” Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means—that I spend most of my time shopping rather than studying, which is so stupid when I already know the business like I know Daddy’s card details by heart! Why should I go to university when I’m set for life?”

She had gotten a job a week after spending what was left of her savings in a fit of panic. Lavishly, one could say, where the amount of clothes, bags, makeup and accessories had your eyes bugging out at the exorbitant prices printed on each receipt. Minjeong hadn’t been responsive all throughout. You didn’t think she was breathing either when she stared hard at a receipt from Prada.

Lucky for Yizhuo, Minjeong’s job at a thrift store had recently let go one of their former employees after her boss had caught them doing lines in the break room.

It was perfect for Yizhuo, low effort as she’d be manning the cashier and would occasionally keep the racks in stock. And best of all, she won’t be alone. She’d be with Minjeong which also came as a relief to you since it was a huge adjustment from not lifting a finger all her years on Earth thus far, to suddenly contributing enough to keep your mouths fed for at least twice a day.

“Wow,” Minjeong drawled, “your life must be so hard.”

“Ugh,” Yizhou groused, crossing her arms as she leaned against the foot of the couch with a moue reminding you of a spoiled child being told ‘no’. “You don’t even know.”

Judging by the look on Minjeong’s face, she was not having Yizhou’s tone-deafness in the slightest, and while you silently shared the sentiment—that the youngest of the household could have refrained from flaunting her privileged life, you didn’t want any casualties that could potentially turn into a court case. Because as sweet as Yizhuo was, she could be just as evil and vindictive to anyone that wronged her in some way.

“At least your parents let us keep the house,” you joked, patting Yizhuo’s knee with a smile. She at least appeared genuinely apologetic by the situation. “Any ideas on how we could get at least fifteen hundred dollars for three barricade tickets in”—you glanced at your calendar app—“four days?”

“Girl, you are asking for a goddamn miracle,” Minjeong sighed, “even Jesus took three days to resurrect.”

You nodded sagely and added, “took him six days to create the world,” which got a confused noise from Yizhuo.

“I thought it took seven?”

Minjeong shook her head. “No. He rested on the seventh day. Didn’t you go to Sunday School?”

“Not really. I barely lasted half a day.”

Well, all of you were definitely losing the plot here, quoting holy scripture, or whatever, but Minjeong was right; none of you were divine beings capable of pulling miracles out of your proverbial asses in time when the goddamn concert was in four days.

One could argue that you were given a long enough timeframe to save up for pre-sale, but when you had a friend like nepo-baby heiress Yizhuo Ning who had connections everywhere, it was guaranteed that you'll get the best seats at a concert of a big-named artist with her influence regardless of the limited time frame. Perhaps backstage passes if Yizhuo liked them enough. And she liked this one. A lot. She could never resist Sabrina Carpenter’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde curls.

So, no. None of you had the forethought of pulling out the ‘Saving Up For A Concert For Dummies’ manual. Not when you had Yizhuo and her endless pockets full of hard cash to fall back onto.

Then she lost access (temporarily) to the Ning family vault, with barely anything saved up from her job because her spending problem wouldn’t vanish with just a snap of her father’s fingers, apparently. Now here you were: sitting in a circle on the plush, mauve, floral embossed carpeting that must have costed a fortune with crumpled dollar bills and junk you found deep in your purses like you were all trying out a crude summoning ritual for fat wads of cash.

Nothing could get worse than this. You’ve been through worse than this.

“We could sell feet pics?”

“Hell no. Feet freak me the fuck out,” Minjeong shivered.

You plucked the condom from the pile and lifted it up at face-level. “Would a used condom sell a lot to some weirdo freak out there?”

“Maybe,” Yizhuo replied the same time Minjeong said, in absolute disbelief that one of you would ever think of something so unhygienic, “I wouldn’t know, I’m a lesbian.”

“Yeah, no.” You wrinkled your nose. “You would not catch me pulling out a condom with some guy’s jizz in it from the trash. Ew.”

“How about a sugar daddy?”

“Eh. I’m not really into older men.”

“You saying you wouldn’t let the guy who played M-C-U Bucky Barnes hit?”

“Oh sure,” you said, sarcasm dripping thickly with each word that followed, “let me just hit up my buddy, my pal, Sebastian Stan on Instagram. Maybe I should call his phone number too! Y’know, the number that I don’t have.”

“Okay, sheesh. You don’t need to be so mean about it,” Minjeong mumbled.

“Oh! OnlyFans!” Yizhuo suggested with reverence as if she figured out how to attain world peace, earnest as her eyes rounded with excitement. “I’ve heard plenty of success stories. It can’t be too hard for any of us.”

A beat of silence, and then—

“Not it!” Minjeong exclaimed, touching the pad of her index finger to the tip of her nose.

“Not it!” came Yizhuo’s shrill voice a close second, copying Minjeong.

“Not it—fuck!” you wailed, half from being the sacrificial lamb and half because you smacked yourself in the fucking face from momentary panic which the girls didn’t seem to catch, too busy shrieking and hugging each other in relief. “No fair.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty fair,” Minjeong shrugged, pressing her cheek against Yizhuo’s. “You were just slow.”

“And if anything, this’ll be easy for you!” Yizhuo cheered.

“Easy? okay—this“—you motioned wildly to your own body—“isn’t for the masses.”

Minjeong snorted. “Oh, sure. Tell that to the three guys you keep on rotation.”

“They’re just three guys. God forbid a girl has a healthy sex-life,” you whined. It was either wither away when you weren’t agonizing over your Architectural Design course—any of your courses, really—or fuck around with the guys you’ve met through mutual friends as your mode of relief. “and why does it have to be me? I’m sure either of you could pull off being an O-F model.”

“One,” Minjeong raised a finger, “don’t ever call me that. Even if it’s in a hypothetical sense. And two, the thought of men being the majority of my audience unnerves me. I don’t think you could make it so only women could see me, so fuck that.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it.” You turned to Yizhuo with an expectant look. “What about you?”

She returned it with an unimpressed one, bordering on disbelief the longer you stared at her, waiting to say her piece.

“You’re kidding, right?” No, you were not. Was there a joke hidden in those three words forming a question? Not that you knew of, so you gestured for Yizhuo to get on with the program. “I’m like, the last person you should send to the wolves.”

“Why not?” You pouted. “You’re like, the most charismatic of us three. Got a pretty face too, if that wasn’t obvious enough.”

“Uh-huh, yeah—calling me pretty won’t change my mind,” Yizhuo said, firm and that meant she won’t tolerate any more of your pushing, yet the pretty blush tinting her cheeks told you enough that you almost got through her. “I’m an heiress to one of the largest Chinese conglomerates back home. How’d you think that would look for me?”

Bad, I’m guessing, and you knew this first-hand.

There was an approximate six-thousand mile distance from where Yizhuo was brought up to where all three of you resided, yet that didn’t stop the Chinese media from getting their updates on how Yizhuo Ning was faring as an international college student.

You had a few run-ins with the paparazzi just dying to get dirt on Harbin’s sweetheart, fought with some too which had caused quite a buzz on both Weibo and Xiaohongshu when pictures of Yizhuo stumbling down the stairs of a frat house, looking drop-dead gorgeous were shared. No one could tell she was barely clinging onto sobriety. Or that she had already emptied her stomach twice in one of Sigma Chi’s bathrooms and a plant that surely had seen better days being under the care of jaunty frat boys who barely knew the concept of photosynthesis.

There was also a handful of you elbowing one of the paparazzi in the face when they had gotten too close. Your face, thankfully, had been blurred out. Same with Minjeong’s who had been trying her absolute damndest to keep you from getting aggravated assault charges while being tipsy herself.

If they had somehow caught wind of Yizhuo being involved in something so obscene—and you knew they would eventually—her life would be over. And yours. And Minjeong’s, because God forbid her parents might as well treat you as their own children with how often their darling daughter talked about you during their weekly check-up calls.

“And my parents would literally kill me if they found out their only daughter isn’t as virginal as they thought!”

“But you haven’t been a virgin since sophomore year.”

Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “They don’t know that, obviously.”

“And so that leaves me to be the breadwinner of this fucking household,” you said, heaving a conceding sigh. “God I hate you rich people.”

“I know you do. You say ‘eat the rich’ at least three times a day like it’s ‘grace’.” Yizhuo didn’t even sound remotely annoyed by your diss, basking in the relief of not taking your place and sacrificing her dignity. “It’s just until we get the tickets. Then you can be boring and gate-keep yourself until we have to slut you out again.”

“My body is a temple,” you said, feigning offense as you crossed your arms, cupping your breasts in a protective hold while Minjeong cackled. “Besides, OnlyFans might be easy on paper, but executing it? Four days won’t be enough. There are many factors involved and engagement won’t be that easy from how oversaturated it is. I’d be a no name. It’d probably take me months to get the amount we need and Miss ‘have you ever tried this one?’ would be in Europe by then.”

“And you did the math for that?”

“Only since we took all the shit out of our purses.”

“Right, because you always do the math for everything.”

“It’s a reflex.” You shrugged. You could even say it had been ingrained in you, haunted by the fact you almost failed Calculus I. You struggled less with it now, spending all summer drilling numerous Youtube tutorials into your brain and electing one of your classmates as your tutor. “How do you think we’ve survived this long without your parents’ money?”

Yizhuo shrugged. “Fair enough. Nerd.”

She gets a pillow to the face for that.

“Well,” you said with a clap. “If that’s all, I gotta go in”—you glanced at your watch and then panicked as you scrambled to get up—“five minutes ago. Fuck, I’m gonna be late!” The pop in your knees made you wince when getting on your two feet, making a bee-line towards your bedroom and stumbling over Minjeong’s thighs in the process.

“For a dick appointment?”

“If you count AutoCad fucking up my chances for a four-point-oh, then sure.”

So maybe you had lied about the dick appointment, but in your defense, you actually had shit to do.

It just so happened Renjun also majored in Architecture, and that you shared all of your classes with him because if you were walking into five years of hell, you sure as hell weren’t going to suffer alone. You were simply hitting two birds with one stone.

If only those two hypothetical birds you hypothetically murdered coughed up fat wads of cash enough for three tickets, then you’d be set.

You let out a defeated sigh. “I need fifteen hundred bucks.”

Renjun, who just got back from a shower, blinked at the bold request.

“Say that again? You need how much?”

“Fifteen hundred bucks,” you repeated.

Renjun's face twisted as he stuck his pinky into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m definitely hearing things ‘cause there’s no way.”

You rolled your neck to blankly stare at him. “I can say it again in Mandarin, if you want.”

“Please don’t,” Renjun shook his head, not minding that you were trying really hard to set him on fire with your eyes. “That’s like, using what I taught you for evil.”

“Well that’s too damn bad,” and you repeated what you said in near flawless Mandarin.

The conversation should have ended there. He just had the most underwhelming orgasm to-date due to whatever weird headspace you were in throughout your—ahem—session that made it less passionate and more robotic, but getting blue-balled was considerably worse than having to act as your last-minute financial adviser.

He simply could ignore anything that had just left your mouth when your attention was set onto the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, but the unfortunate thing was that Renjun was nothing but indulgent at the moment.

Dregs of lust in his brain prevented any of his usual no-nonsense approach and it certainly didn’t help that he could never say no to a girl—a pretty girl, no less—no matter how insufferable they were. Specifically you with his sheets wrapped around your still naked body. Renjun was still a man, and his IQ could still lose a few points if a girl so much looked his way.

Since you were both things, a girl and pretty, he calmly graced your dilemma with an answer.

“I can only give you orgasms, I’m afraid.” He said with a pout you knew was meant to be patronizing, mocking almost, especially with a detached lilt to his voice.

This wasn’t new to you as it was one of his methods to get under your skin. He knew you hated it, and you could definitely tell he’d prefer to discuss something else. Or nothing at all, but he had already poked the bear which meant he had to listen to you whinge until you either 1.) get it out of your system yourself or 2.) or he did something about it, and Renjun knew exactly the choice he made, yet that obviously didn’t work.

“What’s the fifteen hundred for anyway?” he conceded, barely tampering down the reluctance of circling back on your current financial struggles while rubbing his hair dry.

“Barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter,” you said shifting onto your side so you could face him properly. “VIP too if possible. For me, Ningning and Minjeong.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. Saying other girls’ names post-coitus should be considered an act of violation or something, but he digressed.

“I thought Yizhuo got you tickets already?” His eyes snapped open to regard you with a lost look. “Before the whole cutting her off from her parents’ money fiasco?”

“Well, no one was really expecting her to go broke. She didn’t think it was a priority when she could just get the tickets last minute.”

“And since they took away access…”

“No money for us until further notice.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at the sheer ridiculousness of Yizhuo, self-proclaimed number one Sabrina shooter who could not go one day without singing Feather as much as her lungs could take, not being able to cop tickets. “The concert is in four days.”

“Oh don’t I know it.” When it rang like a giant alarm in your head, it was hard to not think about it. “I’m thinking of taking out a loan from my bank.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped and tossed his damp towel onto your face. You shrieked and clawed it away because, ew, gross. “No way in hell are you going into debt because of a concert. Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s not like I can ask someone to buy them for me either!”

Renjun just barely resisted the urge to groan at the fact your persistent yapping almost ruined your then stellar bed chem.

“Like, who would be dumb enough to buy me a ticket? Let alone three?”

It’s surprising how you were able to come up with coherent sentences aftergetting your brains fucked out, but Renjun had always thought you were a weird one. Stamina on good days, yet a common cold could have you acting like you were knocking on death’s door.

“I’m sure I can name at least one person,” he said, thoughtful.

“Does this person have two-toned hair, perchance?” you wheedled, rolling onto your stomach to cup both of your cheeks with your hands looking like a flower in bloom for him. “Is his name Renjun Huang? A-K-A my favorite guy in the whole wide world?”

“You’re cute,” Renjun snorted, sitting on the foot of his bed. “But no.”

Your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “You’re no fun.”

“There’s Jaemin,” he offered.

You grimaced. “Too needy.”

“Haechan?”

“Too mean.”

“And you still go to that asshole?” Renjun asked, incredulous.

“He’s a good lay?” you offered, sheepish almost under the glare of his disbelief and the full force of his eyebrows. “C’mon, at least one ticket for your best girl?” you cooed, laying it on thick with a flutter of your eyelashes. “The other two can probably work something out.”

Minjeong and Yizhuo were your girls. No one could ever doubt the love you had for them, being housemates for two years and counting, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It’s every man (well, woman) for themselves and if there was an opportunity right in front of you, might as well take it.

“Yeah…” he trailed off with a wince and you already didn’t like what he was about to say when he glimpsed at you and then at some random spot behind. “about that—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” you ground out.

Renjun pretended like he hadn't heard you. “Someone from the student association gave me a ticket.”

“And you’re going?” You hoped he wasn’t.

As if he read your mind, Renjun’s mouth parted in offense. “It’s Sabrina Carpenter. It’s a great opportunity to clout chase.”

Oh he was definitely going to be insufferable on Instagram, talking about it for days on end. Just like you would be.

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, both hands covering your face, muffling your scream. This felt way worse than the time you almost didn’t meet the deadline of a plate submission that made up a large chunk of your grade. “Is everyone and their goddamn moms going except me?”

“Guess so.”

You peeled your hands away to Renjun scrolling through his phone in mild interest.

“Can you at least pretend to feel sorry for me?”

Renjun let his phone drop in between his crossed legs. “My condolences that you won’t get to see Sabrina do her Juno pose five feet away from you.”

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, sitting up and holding the blanket tightly to preserve your modesty. “I’m literally out of options and you’re already kickstarting the FOMO.”

“And what were your”—he waved absently to the air—“options exactly?”

“There was the OnlyFans route—and before you say anything else,” you gave Renjun a look that was sharp enough to make him think twice about his needling. He said nothing, thankfully, but his pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows said a lot. “yes, I did the math and we all agreed—surprisingly—that it would be impossible to earn that amount of money before the concert. Then Minjeong suggested a sugar daddy, but I’m not really up for being a geraitric’s pretty play-thing. What if he dies mid-sex—”

You got cut off from Renjun doubling over with laughter. “Sugar daddy? Why don’t you just ask Chenle then?”

“Why should I ask Chenle?”

“Why shouldn’t you ask Chenle?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” you quipped back.

Renjun laughed again. A rich, belly-deep equal parts loud and grating. “You cannot be this dense,” he said as he calmed down. “I just mean—you guys are close, right? Close enough that he bought you a replacement T-square.” He watched you, amused, as you considered the question. Renjun can almost see the gears turning in your head, chin resting in his palm and using his leg to balance his elbow.

“It was an emergency,” you stressed with an eye-roll, though you didn’t exactly fight the fond smile settling on your lips at the memory of Chenle getting rung up for a new sixty-four-inch long acrylic T-square while you perused the rows upon rose of cute stationery. You hadn’t meant for your old one to snap cleanly in half, but when there was a guy who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and, well, there was a reason why the running joke of a T-square doubling as a weapon was still relevant to this day.

“Doesn’t he pay for you guys when you hang out?”

Renjun snorted. “Sure. If you count him demanding us to Venmo him later.”

“Huh. He usually just pays for us both.”

Actually, now that you’ve thought about it, his housemates hadn’t ever gotten the privilege of Chenle covering for any of their expenses, much less a cheap meal from a well loved hole-in-the-wall restaurant. You didn’t think it was favoritism either. Was that a thing in friendships too? You had no idea, and you never had to ask when Chenle never thought twice to remind the waiter or waitress that he was paying for two. For me and her—he would nod his head towards you—only and leave the rest to settle their shared bill among themselves.

“Huh.” you repeated.

“Yeah-huh,” Renjun echoed with one corner of his mouth lifted up in a smirk. “Seriously, if you’re that desperate to see Sabrina up close, I’m sure he can work something out for you. What’s fifteen hundred gonna do?”

You both knew the answer to that. Nothing, because although Chenle wasn’t as high profile as Yizhuo and her family was, you had a vague idea on how deep his pockets ran if he barely spared a glance at his receipt from Gucci for a track-suit set he’d been meaning to get. He might as well have slapped you in the face with a thick stack of one-hundreds.

It would have invoked the same feeling of being too poor to even breathe inside the store and it had been a relief you thought of dressing up that day too despite the fact you’ve pulled an all-nighter to complete a handful of plates for design class the night before. You were at least spared from any judgment from the sales reps.

Still.

Renjun clicked his tongue, sensing your mental turmoil. “Just ask him. If he says no, then there’s your answer.”

Just ask him. Easy for Renjun to suggest when he wasn’t the one stewing away in a puddle of anxiety. He already had a ticket! Of course he’d think nothing of it.

Walking into Yizhuo’s obscenely large living room, you were once again reminded how excessive it was.

There was a grand piano in there, for fuck’s sake, in the far end after the actual living area with the plush seating, yet none of you could play any elaborate musical pieces except for Twinkle Twinkle Litter Star. Right next to it was a sunken conversation pit with a modern fireplace built into the large concrete column and there were a series of floor-to-ceiling windows and glass sliding doors encompassing the pit.

Other than overlooking the luscious, grassy backyard, the doors led straight to the deck where a round pool resided as its main attraction. There was a goddamn fountain just beside it, too. Who needs a fucking fountain in this economy anyway?

Actually, everything about the house was ridiculously extravagant for three college girls to live in. Your bedroom included. Yizhuo ended up giving you one of the bigger rooms and you were sure the drafting table you bought off of a grad student for cheap would do its job and cramp it up, but you knew the saying about gift horses and Mom raised you better than complaining about convenience being handed to you on a silver platter.

The round floor table of the conversation pit was vacant, though there were scattered papers, notebooks, textbooks and all sorts of pens on top of the reflective glass surface. That meant either one of the girls was home. Or both, as Minjeong’s and Yizhuo’s voices grew louder by each step towards the kitchen.

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid on towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head—” (“I did not need to know that.”) “—anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“What?”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” That definitely wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating”—Yizhuo made air quotations—“on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying. And if I can remember correctly, he still gave you more than enough for your Lyft.”

“He didn’t have to laugh at me, then.” Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

The argument still carried on deep in your weekly ‘everything shower’.

“Face it, babe. He’s like your personal A-T-M.”

“Chenle doesn’t always get me things.”

You were aching in places you never knew existed as you passed the foamy loofah over your skin, yet the girls had denounced what it meant to have boundaries, making themselves at home in your bathroom to prove their joint points.

Yizhuo scoffed from where she sat on top of the closed lid of the toilet. “The shampoo you used earlier? That was imported from Japan.”

“So? He noticed I ran out the last time he was here. It’s just shampoo.”

“From Japan,” Yizhuo countered.

You pulled a face. “Is that supposed to mean anything? It’s fucking shampoo.”

She just threw her hands up in the air, visibly annoyed.

“And the body wash you’re using? From Chenle.” Minjeong piped up from the separated bathtub, pointed at the towels hanging on the towel warmer and added, “The bath towel set? Chenle.”

“Alright, fine, maybe—”

“The year’s supply of assorted sheet masks in the fridge we use?” she offered.

“The gargantuan tin of tea leaves you’ve mentioned you liked.”

“Okay. I get it—”

“A new backpack because your old one ripped at the seams.”

“Your underwear—”

“Hah!” You pointed triumphantly in Minjeong’s direction. “No, he hasn’t bought me any.”

“Not yet,” girl-in-bathtub emphasized, resting her chin on top of her arm propped on the tub’s edge. “Shit, he probably bought everything you own.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely exaggerating.” You snorted, walking into the spray of the shower to rinse off the suds. “I’m not that broke.”

“Should I also mention that if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met us? Or that you would have been homeless?” Well, yeah, and you would have figured something out eventually, but you weren’t expecting Yizhuo to bring that up to one-up you in an argument.

“I can’t believe you would use the ‘you would’ve been homeless if it weren’t for me’ card against me.”

“If it weren’t for Chenle, you mean,” she corrected, propping her cheek on top of her bent knee. You glared at the needless addition, though the usual effect wasn’t as strong with warm water sluicing down your face. To Yizhuo, you were definitely doing an almost perfect rendition of ‘wet cat’. “You can’t be this stupid. You’re literally his favorite. I doubt there’s another guy out there that would willingly—again, listen—willingly spend money on you.”

“Does Jaemin buying me a pack of gum the other day count?”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re hopeless.”

Minjeong shrugged. “Maybe he was lowkey telling you your breath stinks.” (“Ex-fucking-scuse you?”) “Didn’t Chenle buy you a ring that looked like a bent nail?”

“As a gift, yeah?” Your wince was immediate the moment Yizhuo gasped at your confirmation.

“That was Cartier!” She whipped out her phone from fuck knows where and showed you the website and its price. Did she have that tab open all this time just for a ‘gotcha!’ moment? Jeez, she scared you sometimes. “Look—Juste un Clou ring. Classic model. I would’ve given you rose gold, personally, but the white gold looks pretty too,” she mumbled, nodding approvingly. “He knows his stuff, at least.”

“Viola!” You turned to Minjeong making jazz hands with flourish. “If he can blow three grand on you without blinking, fifteen hundred would be nothing.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rinsing the loofah free from the suds. “How sure are we that there are any tickets left? Last I heard, three nights sold out.”

“It’s Chenle. He has connections everywhere. He’ll probably end up tracking scalpers too if he could help it.” She weighed her own words for a moment. “As long as you’re the one asking.”

“If you say so,” you trailed off, still not entirely convinced even by her radiating certainty.

“Uh-oh.” Yizhuo promptly sat up. “That’s not good. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—I feel kinda weird. Asking him. Like, I’ve never really had to ask him for… stuff before.”

“What,” the girls said in a way so dry that you most likely would have broken out in sweat with how serious their faces were right now. Thunderous even.

“What do you mean by ‘not having to ask him’?” Minjeong asked, deathly calm.

“Just as I said. He just does it on his own. Without me telling him.”

In hindsight, Chenle might have been an option right from the very start if the thought of simply asking for help financially didn’t bother you in the slightest, but that’s the thing. The idea did bother you to your very core because, again, it wasn’t like you were broke. A victim to capitalism? Absolutely.

Once you broke the news to your parents and brother about your acceptance to one of the top universities in the state on a full-ride scholarship, they had insisted on a monthly allowance. They hadn’t minded extending a helping hand at all, and it was the least they could do to lighten the burden with the condition that you should be devoted to your academics.

Consequently, you were also good with multi-tasking, so you’ve managed a healthy work-play balance so far. What your parents and brother didn’t know wont hurt them and you hadn’t given them a reason to not trust you on your own, miles away from home, either. Not yet at least.

Deciding for a part-time job was after the realization that majoring in architecture was a bit heavy on the pockets from the consistent need for materials and printing out your designs brought to life by the handful of software provided by your department. The café pay was decent, you were tipped just as okay, and you wouldn’t say no to some cash on the side. Adding that to the remnants of your monthly allowance, it was enough to buy a thing or two at the end of the month as a treat.

And then came Chenle, guns ablazing, with no qualms swiping his card on your behalf.

You never really had to ask him.

Literally.

He would already have it taken care of before you could even pluck your wallet out and split the cost. You couldn’t remember if you had a time where you outright asked (begged) him for a few bills, and if you did, you always always promised to pay him back.

That being said, Chenle wouldn’t let you fight him on it either. When his mind was already made up, it was like talking to a brick wall, standing tall and impervious to almost everything. A losing battle when you’re up against someone headstrong yet so goddamn stubborn.

That’s where your hesitation had stemmed from, because it could either go two ways: he could say no and you could kiss your chances of brushing hands with Sabrina Carpenter goodbye, which would be the best case scenario, or he’d say yes, and once he said yes, there was no turning back. A yes from Chenle was law—signed and sealed that not even expressing the preconceived regret of asking a favor would shake him.

This was entirely different from Chenle just doing whatever the fuck he wanted with his own money without any of your persuasion. You never had to ask him for anything before and the fact of the matter was, you were damn terrified of asking if Chenle could be a bro one last time and drop what was equivalent to the price of a newly released iPhone for you.

Asking him would literally be so detrimental to your conscience that you would probably go insane with guilt and you couldn’t afford getting thrown into the nearest psych-ward when you had tons of deadlines to meet.

Minjeong leaned back to stare forlornly at the ceiling. “Lord, I see the luck you’ve bestowed upon this girl so stupid.”

“Hey!” You whined.

“Congratulations on getting a sugar daddy,” Yizhuo said, dry. “Can you ask him for tickets now?”

Oh God, you thought with abject horror. What if Chenle is my sugar daddy?

Technically speaking, though, you both fit the description. Minus the ‘sugar’ part so, quasi-sugar-daddy then?

Okay, no. That’s definitely not a can of worms you’re gonna open, like, ever. Chenle just happened to be there whenever you had to go out and buy shit. Just happened to be faster whipping out his wallet than you were. After all, he’s the spry athlete while you were five cans of Monster Energy away from keeling over.

What you’d like to get into now was how this conversation developed backwards where you had to be naked and wet to get some sort of pep-talk. Was this even considered pep-talk? This was somebody else’s form of nightmare for sure.

“This is really weird,” you said, neither confirming or denying Yizhuo’s so-called congratulations as you glanced between the two girls unabashedly staring at you in your birthday suit, expecting. “Can you guys leave?”

“Nothing we’ve seen before.” You met Minjeong’s eyes for a second before they strayed to your naked breasts and back up again. “Bet Chenle would love to see you right now.”

For whatever reason, Yizhuo mirrored Minjeong’s sentiments as she bobbed her head so fast you would think the idea was exciting for her. “Only right for you to give him some sugar, too.”

“Or—get this—I don’t do that?”

“Why not?” Minjeong frowned. “You fuck anything that moves.”

“Correction: I do not. I’ve only been with, like, five guys my entire life,” you said, brandishing one hand so they would get the picture. “And Chenle’s my friend! We’re like this”—you crossed your fingers, shaking them for emphasis—“tight, y’know? Literally everything’ll change if I go… do that.”

“You and Renjun are also”—she copied your crossed fingers—“like this, but you’re still fucking.”

“Well… that’s—that’s obviously different! He doesn’t count!” you said with each word increasing in pitch.

“Oh pray tell why you wouldn’t sleep with Chenle Zhong,” Minjeong goaded. “I may not like guys, but looking at him through an objective lens, he’s one of the good ones.”

“There’s no risk with Renjun because it’s strictly casual and platonic, and I know I wouldn’t get attached and develop—” you quickly clamped your mouth shut. Shit. “Uh—um—you’re breaking up,” you blurted, closing your eyes as you stepped into the heavy downpour of the rainfall shower. “I can’t hear you,” you said, though that likely sounded like incoherent blubbering. You were sure you’ve got your point across with that piss-poor save anyway.

“We can literally see you.”

You turned your back to them. They could talk to your ass if they wanted. Out of sight, out of mind. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

You hoped that was the end of it, though it was made clear time and time again that the girls weren’t satisfied with your hedging. A growl was heard, followed by the quick plap plap plap of feet against the cold tiles. As the glass door squeaked, the brief water prison you’ve enclosed yourself in stopped soon after and you opened your eyes to a hand retracting from one of the knobs.

There was barely a second for you to complain before an undignified yelp was forced out from your throat when you were spun around to find Yizhuo’s dour face, her hands clamping down on your shoulders.

“You’re just admitting this to us now?” she said, incredulous, and a little surprised that you’ve managed to keep a crucial detail from them for this long.

“It wasn’t like an immediate thing I needed to resolve!” you argued, “but the thought was always there, I guess. Just sitting in the back of my mind until you brought up sex with Chenle. And I’m busy, in case it wasn’t obvious enough to you non-architecture majors. Never had the chance to explore it, y’know?”

Busy was the biggest understatement of the year. Your life revolved around sketching, drafting, rendering—hell, even printing your designs on sheets of paper almost (more or less) half your height had never been this stressful. Adding a part-time job to that? It was a miracle you were still kicking.

With all that combined, you didn’t have the time to give a damn about relationships running deeper than casual, less emotionally charged flings. Those were easier to manage without the messiness of feelings involved.

“Well, Dora the Explorer,” Yizhuo tendered as she handed you your heated towel. “you better start explorin’ because you’re gonna fuck him either way.”

You swiped the towel from her. “No I’m not.”

“No you’re not,” Yizhuo agreed, and maybe the shrewd glint in those beady eyes of hers was only your imagination, toweling yourself dry and wrapping it around you once you were less damp. “but at least keep it as your trump card if he gets difficult—which I’d doubt, really.”

“You guys’re that confident he’d say yes?” you mused, pushing past Yizhuo to grab the other towel for your head. “It’s gonna be so embarrassing if he says otherwise.”

“To the tickets? Or the sex?” Minjeong then heaved a dramatic gasp, eyes wide as her voice dropped to a staged whisper. “Or worse, your alleged feelings.”

You puffed out your cheeks, ignoring the rush of warmth blooming onto your face. “Now I’m hoping he says ‘no’.”

“Oh, girl, trust me when I say ‘no’ is the last thing he’ll say to you.” Yizhuo said, looking very sure of herself. “So. How soon can you get to him?”

“God I hate you rich people.”

Yizhuo beamed. “I know.”

Well, it wasn’t like you were a stranger to testing your luck.

You: wyd

Lele: ? Lele: I’m not one of your groupies Lele: need something?

You: wanna get groceries with me? :D

Lele: be there in 15 Lele: need to grab Daegal’s kibble too

You: ur the best ✨✨

Lele: i know i am

You: girl whatever.

Lele: ❤️

“You know, when you said groceries, I was expecting personal stuff—like skincare or some shit,” Chenle said loftily. “Pads? Tampons? God forbid a menstrual cup—“

“How do you even know what a cup is,” you muttered. “and my period ended a week ago.”

“I know.” You looked up from your work to Chenle squinting down at his phone. He caught your eye and beamed, pocketing the device. You were too afraid to ask what that was about. “We could have gone to Sephora after.”

Oh you definitely could have if you had been more specific with what groceries meant, but you simply said to take both your asses to the nearest H Mart. Cute as the thought was, you weren’t exactly in the mood to watch Chenle try and figure out which products were on your current rotation. It would have made good content for him though, a sure hit for his predominantly female fanbase, yet the looming three days left to secure tickets above your head kept you from suggesting that.

“Well, I can’t exactly cook you a five-star meal with hyaluronic acid now can I?”

He blinked and answered with a bland, “I have no idea what that is.”

You squinted at him, taking in the way he’s got his head tilted at an angle where the lighting hit one side of his pale face just right. No texture whatsoever, like a smooth, almost blank canvas marked by a singular mole on the cheek.

“‘Course you don’t,” you grunted, envious of his near perfect skin.

Chenle’s gaze slid towards the pot on the stove, then to his wooden chopping board where a humble spread of your additional ingredients had been neatly organized in small piles with two open noodle packets. “Also, that’s just your classic Shin ramyeon and some crab balls.”

“Well damn, Chenle, I’m no Gordon fucking Ramsay,” you snapped, swatting at his arm. “So ungrateful.” An elaborate recipe was out of the question when you were too busy panicking about how the hell you were going to pull this off.

(“The one thing you’re gonna ‘pull off’ is your top,” Yizhuo instructed as she followed you out the gargantuan front door. “You know how guys are with boobs. They’re like catnip for them.”

“Please don’t compare my tits to catnip.”)

He cackled, tucking himself into your side with an arm thrown around your shoulders in a side-hug. “Thank you,” he cooed, and like a cat, rubbed his head against yours. “You didn’t have to do all this, but I’d never say no to food.” You couldn’t exactly see his face like this, but you could hear his appreciation. Your heart squeezed at the press of his cheek against your temple.

See, it’s little moments in time like this were what jump-started the on-going betrayal you would never expect from your own beating heart, and Chenle made it extremely hard for you to not entertain any straying thoughts formed by the casual intimacy between you. It really didn’t help that Chenle was physically affectionate, and it especially didn’t help that you spent most of your time with him despite majoring in vastly different programs.

Starting the day with Chenle waiting in his car to take you to school, ending it with him driving you home and everything in between was a sure gateway for neutral feelings to gradually do a one-eighty. Reaching that level of comfort where you felt safe with him was just as inevitable, too. Chenle was safe. Always has been.

But for both of your sakes, it had been a conscious choice of burying yourself into your work—letting yourself get fucked over by the workload you had to do. The minor breakdowns you’ve had every time your calculations went wrong, or when color or material swatches didn’t seem to go together than you’d originally thought saved you from overthinking every single interaction with him.

You wouldn’t risk it. You couldn’t risk it.

“What’s the occasion?” Chenle prodded. Still there. Still close. Still trying his hardest to weld himself to your side that he would soon figure out something was up the moment you went stiff in his hold, but you were just as quick coming up with some bullshit excuse to save your own ass. Though it begged the question whether it will hold up against Chenle’s incessant need to stick his nose into anyone’s business.

The longer he stayed quiet, the more your nerves fried. His house—house because Chenle was a loose cannon with money like Yizhuo—was always set to a cool temperature and you wore an outfit that wasn’t meant to cover up much at all, yet you could feel yourself break into sweat the moment he pulled himself away from your space. You still stood there frozen and the pot was taking too long to fucking boil.

“No occasion!” you exclaimed, spinning on your heel to face him with the sweetest and most disarming smile you could muster at the moment. A drop of sweat trickled from your temple down to your cheek when all Chenle did was wrinkle his nose as he took a step back. “‘was just in the mood to cook… something. For you—uh, for us. I was craving ramyeon.”

“You were craving Shin ramyeon,” Chenle echoed, not looking at all convinced. “Shin ramyeon that Yizhuo has stocked in her pantry.”

“That’s why I asked you to get groceries with me,” you replied in haste. “We were running out.”

Which wasn’t a lie. Technically.

The three of you used to gorge on whatever there was in the kitchen, fridge or pantry, or DoorDash when any of you craved something specific. Key words were ‘used to’ because snack options had been limited to cheaper alternatives and what was cheaper and filling than a packet of noodles that took less than five minutes to cook? Really, it was like you were back in your freshman dorm, living off of instant noodles.

“Running out.” The more Chenle repeated whatever you said, the more you started to realize how deep of a grave you had dug for yourself. “You bought just enough for two people to eat.”

“Right.” You drawled, snapping your fingers and hitting him with the finger-guns. Might as well make yourself look even more like a jackass than you already are with the dogshit lying. “Right—so no plans later? I could use another H Mart run.”

Chenle cracked this time. “You’re a shitty liar,” your name tapered off into laughter. “You want something, don’t you? You’re never this nice to me.” He simpered with a certain type of fondness you’d usually see in people witnessing a puppy scaring itself with its own bark—he should really stop that. You were already kind of a mess from the way he’d freely insert himself in your bubble like he owned the space. You didn’t need the ooey-gooey, cavity-inducing stares to go with that too.

This was all clearly very amusing to him—you stumbling over your own words picked out from throwing darts at random in an attempt to gaslight him. He shouldn’t find any humor in this, really, but Chenle had always been chill like that. Marching to the beat of his own drum or however the saying went that the ease of falling into character, the jester to his court, wasn’t surprising.

If it made him that happy, then you’d continue shaking your fool’s cap for him. As a friend, of course.

“What? Me?” you said, guileless and with a hand flat on your sternum, eyes rounded with that faux gleam of innocence for the full effect. “I have never wanted anything in my life.”

“Anything?” he pressed and received a firm nod. “Not even barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter?”

You gaped at him, stuttering out words that weren’t even qualified to be in the English dictionary until you settled with a broken, “who told you that.”

Chenle smiled serenely in kind, not at all fazed by your brain blue-screening in real time. “Renjun.”

The mention of a name sobered you up in record speed.

“That snitching bitch,” you seethed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I only told him because I was hoping he'd help me think of options, or buy me a ticket himself. The girls could figure something out.” You paused, absorbing the situation as your hand fell back to your side. “Less work for me, though. I've been shitting my pants since, like, yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

You huffed a short laugh. “Oh yeah. There’s this theory going around—not that I believe it—that it’d be easy convincing you.”

“Easy,” he huffed, amused.

“Easy as in—I just have to ask you.”

Chenle tilted his head, considering you for a moment. “Alright. Ask away.”

You balked, grasping straws for a response.

“Ask away?” Nod. “Just like that.” Nod. “I’m not asking just for me, y’know? I’m also asking for Minjeong and Ningning. Since we’re broke and desperate girls who just happen to love the same singer.” Chenle only raised an eyebrow, slowly nodding in a way that said, ‘yeah. I know. What are you trying to say?’.

“Are you not worried how much it’s gonna cost you? Even just a little bit? I’m already feeling sick just thinking about it.” You grimaced.

“Not really, no.” He shrugged, slanting an easy smirk.

You pursed your lips. Right. Okay. So maybe you had severely underestimated how disposable money was to him, then. It didn’t seem like he minded at all, barely showing any negative emotion sans the boredom slowly coloring his features.

You, on the other hand, were already knee-deep in a bog of guilt and regret that you could honestly spit-up today’s lunch from how nerve-wracking this was; standing in front of him while carrying as much audacity a human being was allowed to and asking for something so expensive.

“You’re insane if you actually say yes. I don’t know about you, but if someone asked me for a thousand bucks and told me, ‘oh, bee-tee-dubs, I’m not gonna pay you back. Like ever.’, I’d consider suing the hell out of that person until they have to file for bankruptcy.”

“I mean, money’s never been an issue so I don’t see why my attorney should be involved.” The fact that he actually has an attorney (or a full-blown legal team. You never know) at the ready did not bring you comfort in the slightest. Chenle still tried though. You could at least appreciate that. “I wanna circle back on your so-called theory, though.”

“Don’t look at me.” Both of your hands raised in defense. “I’m not the one who came up with the ‘I’m Chenle’s favorite’ theory. The girls did.”

“Did they?” And for some ungodly reason, he looked delighted by the claim. “Well, can’t say they’re wrong.”

“Chenle,” you warned with a tone so biting you would think it’d have him think twice with this blasé approach.

Though maybe there was something on your face that betrayed the annoyance you’ve vocalized when all Chenle did was smile genially as the syllables making up your name passed through his lips in smooth succession.

“I’m not a charity case,” you muttered, flexing your fingers then curling them into fists. You weren’t too sure if you were pleased hearing it from the source. That you were Chenle’s favorite, confirmed by the man himself. Whatever that meant, or more annoyed that he really couldn’t care less about the money he’d wasted on you because you were his favorite. “You know I don’t take charity as well as normal people would.”

“Why do you think I never let you argue?” He said cheekily. “It’s easier and faster that way. And it’s no big deal! Seriously,” Chenle emphasized quickly at the sight of your deepening frown.

“But it is to me! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing is ever just free. People these days are always expecting something in return. Maybe not right away and what if you’re just letting me rack up enough debt so you could ask me for my soul, or something.”

Chenle snickered. “So this is an exchange, then. Your noodles for concert tickets. You drive a hard bargain,” he wondered with an impish quality to his words, giving you a once over. Twice. It made you a little self conscious, shifting from foot to foot the longer sharp, cat-like eyes passed over your form. “Is that why you’re dressed like that? In case your cooking didn’t make a good bribe—oh, sorry—exchange?”

“Like what, exactly?” You asked, a little offended that he wouldn’t completely fold—or at least crease—at the first bite of a dish that earned its Michelin stars back in Yizhuo’s kitchen. Or that your chosen outfit wasn’t creaming any pants.

“Didn’t you wear this exact outfit when you skipped class to meet with Haechan that one time?”

“It was a different top, I think.” A top that was just as fast to remove too, so you understood the confusion. “How do you even remember that?”

“I remember lots of things,” he clarified, closing the distance until you could make out the top notes of his five-dollars-per-spray perfume with each inhale. “Like how you dress differently whenever you meet with one of your guys.”

“Gee what a coincidence. I wonder why I’m dressed like I am about to meet with one of my guys while in your kitchen.”

This time it’s Chenle who got the surprise of a lifetime, eyes almost bugging out of his skull as those lips you had once imagined yourself kissing just to see how they’d give under the soft pressure parted in a delicate ‘o’. He was quick to recover though, with a sly uptick of his mouth replacing the initial shock of finding out that, yes, you’d probably sleep with him if it came to that.

“Didn’t think you’d be that desperate for tickets.” He’s closer now, too close for comfort that you backed into the edge of the kitchen counter. “Is that how you’re gonna repay me?”

“It’s charity work,” you answered blithely, emboldened by Chenle’s interest because, fuck, might as well. “Fuck knows if you’ve been getting your dick wet or not. I’d literally be doing you a favor.”

Chenle didn’t seem to take offense to that as he threw his head back in raucous laughter.

“Charity for charity.” He grinned. “Seems fair.”

And the words had never sounded sweeter until they came from Chenle’s mouth. You could already hear yourself screaming with the crowd filling up the arena, with your girlfriends who you absolutely did not resent for essentially pimping you out to the one guy who could arguably make your dreams come true—

“I’ll think about it.”

Both Minjeong and Yizhuo were dead to you.

“Think about—” you paused, taking steady breaths until you were calm enough to start talking again. “Chenle. Lele,” and out came the big guns, being sweet to him and using the cutesy nickname the girls from the Chinese Students and Scholars Association would croon to get at least five seconds of his attention. Watching that play out from the sidelines always left a sour aftertaste, how they all would go as far as touching him when they decided holding eye-contact wasn’t enough to fuel their delusions.

You’ve soon come to realize that it was jealousy that caused your eye to twitch when Chenle’s capitalistic smile turned honeyed towards his junior. Because there wasn’t a day where you were short of his attention.

Perhaps the thought was a little unhealthy, but what if you said it was what you were used to? Can anyone fault you for being a little catty after that interaction?

Calling him Lele worked, you thought. Or so you hoped. You weren’t sure rendering him silent was a good thing, actually. Silence never bode well with larger-than-life Chenle Zhong whose entire personality was being loud, especially with eyes as expressive as his. Dark as shots of espresso you’ve brewed countlessly at work laced with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“The concert is in two fucking days! There’s no time to think—you know what? This was a bad idea. I don’t know how Ningning talked me into—” you shook your head, pressing the back of your hand to your cheek with a heavy sigh. “We can just eat the goddamn noodles and forget all this. I’ll just tell the girls they were wrong, and you said no—”

“Oh, no no no,” you would never admit to making such an undignified sound when Chenle pulled you back by his steady grip on your wrist. “you can’t make that offer and leave just like that, c’mon.” And he had the audacity to whine on top of it.

“Well that’s before I—what are you doing.”

“Making sure I am getting something out of this,” he murmured, crowding in on you further where all you could see right in front of you was Chenle, and whatever you could see over the slope of one hoodie-covered shoulder.

Which by all means wasn’t a lot to begin with, him being taller and broader than you. And Chenle wasn’t even super tall. You knew plenty of people that exceeded the one-hundred-and-eighty centimeter mark, like that Jisung kid who hung out with you both on occasion. Wasn’t even built like a brick shithouse like Jaemin and his friend, your on-and-off tutor, Jeno.

Yet the way he had you cornered, hands planted firmly on the polished quartz countertop boxing you in, kind of screwed with your perception—made him appear bigger than he actually was. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, pinning you down with deep pools framed by gradually thinning rings of brown the longer this stare down went on.

Coupled with the heat radiating off of Chenle, from standing so much closer where it totally crossed the limits of what it meant to be platonic, something just as heated unfurled beneath your navel.

“What—whatever you want,” you stuttered, swallowing thickly when the soft material of his jacket brushed along the strip of skin left exposed by your cropped top.

“Whatever I want?” Chenle’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he studied you. “Even outside of sex?”

It was really hard trying not to not stare at his mouth. “I think being your errand girl will get you your money’s worth than a regular pump n’ dump.”

“The mouth on you.” Chenle cracked a lipped smile, wide enough that a hint of teeth peeking between the soft rosebud pink of his lips. “‘My girl’ does have a nice ring to it.”

Warmth creeped up your neck. “You forgot the word ‘errand’.”

“I know what I said,” he murmured, coming in closer that the tip of his nose gently nudged yours. “Kiss me.”

Your breath hitched, eyes growing into saucers because kiss me could imply anything. Everything.

“What—“

“You said whatever I want,” Chenle pointed out. “and I want you to kiss me. Or I want to kiss you, actually. Real bad.”

Words, apparently, weren’t enough to prove how much Chenle could want something as simple as a kiss.

Slender fingers splayed themselves along your waist, just marveling that you’re allowing him to touch you like this—with reverence. Palms cooled by the counter and the calluses earned from years of basketball raised gooseflesh along your skin when dragging them along the expanse of your stomach. The dips of your waist again—like he couldn’t resist how softer you were there—your back, until one of Chenle’s hands settled beneath the curve of your spine, the other just shy under the side of your breast.

Chenle was impossibly closer now and your body’s natural response was to arch into him and—oh, he’s hard. So hard—straining against the fly of his jeans pressed against your stomach, and you’ve barely done anything except letting him feel you up, leaving phantom brands of his touch along the way.

“Feel that?” Chenle said, voice low and gravely, delivered like it was a secret only you two should know. He pushed his hips further into yours causing him to groan quietly as you gasped, your hands laying flat on his chest to steady yourself. “You’re definitely getting your tickets if it’s the last thing I do.”

Somehow, out of everything Chenle said, that knocked the breath out of you. The utter conviction. How positive he was in his own right that he will get those tickets for you, one way or another.

Frankly, you couldn’t care less about them now, nor what you had to do in exchange for what was essentially overpriced pieces of paper. All you cared about was who you were getting them from: Chenle, his mouth just a couple of centimeters—all yours for the taking, how secure his hold was around you as if the mere thought of you drifting away any second unnerved him, and the fact that he wanted to kiss you.

Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t at all one-sided. Maybe what Minjeong and Yizhuo had been speculating held some substance that, yes, it wouldn’t be too hard if it was you appealing to Chenle’s sweeter side. Maybe the notion was that gratifying to your dwindling self-esteem because how could you deny his simple request?

So with a breathy, almost breathless, “just—just shut the fuck up about the tickets for a second,” you cupped his face with both hands and yanked him down for a kiss.

Chenle’s kisses were syrupy-sweet, if not purposely drawn out as though he was savouring a once in a lifetime opportunity; uncertain if he’d ever get the chance again. The most surprising thing about kissing Chenle, other than the act itself, was the unhurried pace. So unlike the man you would see loping over with this restless energy ready to leave him bursting at the seams, harrying his friends (anyone, really) to play ball with him.

It had been near impossible, forcing him to sit still when all Chenle knew was to keep on moving. Keeping close at his heels was a fixed workout you didn’t remember ever signing up for. It was only to your relief that he made sure to keep you right behind him. Beside him, rather. There wasn’t a time where Chenle would knowingly leave you behind and if that ever happened, he would always wait for you to catch up.

There was no rush, and maybe that was the point of it all. Chenle’s willingness to adjust for you with no terms and conditions applied, and you have yet to see him stop.

With each push and pull, worrying teeth on lips and a shallow press of a warm wet tongue, Chenle kissed you like he was a man starved, stumbling upon an oasis and letting himself drown after a drought lasting so long. He kept with the pace, not doing too much or too little, lips slotting together like perfect puzzle pieces. Sweet and deliberate, each movement holding intention. Chenle really wasn’t fucking around when admitting he wanted to kiss you.

You shared that want too. More than you had initially allowed yourself, but that was to be expected when you’ve basically repressed every not-so-platonic thought regarding Chenle for a long while. And you know what they said about bottling it all up.

It came bursting in a flurry rush of movement. From their tender cradling, your fingers reached up to curl into Chenle’s freshly dyed jet-black hair just as he mirrored your own growing need, lithe arms coiling around your torso as your mouths grew greedier by the second. A show of teeth pulled an airy moan out of you turned muffled the second he licked into your mouth.

From there, kissing just became a mere afterthought. Devolving into a carnal dance of tongues, lapping it all up to get your fill.

Chenle tasted just as sweet as he kissed before, like the lemon ginger candy he had stocked around his house, his car and sometimes you would catch him plucking a piece or two out of his pockets. And it was quickly becoming a problem where you just knew there was no coming back from this.

That nothing will ever be the same once you walk out of that door when all of this is over. You couldn’t go back, not when you’ve gotten a taste of what it was like swapping spit with the guy, the same guy who you had thought wasn’t worth the risk.

Fuck it, might as well risk everything, then. You’ve already kissed him, already bulldozed past that boundary you swore you would never cross. So long as Chenle wouldn’t mind a kiss, or two, or three—until he has to pry you off of him and say enough is enough, you’d let yourself crave the sensation of having his mouth give under yours.

Just like how you chased after the plushness of his lips with a meek whine when he drew back, grinning at the state he reduced you to—a needy little thing this high strung over a kiss.

Please. As if he didn’t pop a boner at the thought of kissing you.

Just as you were about to voice out the retort, one of his hands raised to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch, feeling small under his thoughtful gaze as his thumb swiped over your kiss-swollen lips. You chased after that feeling, too, each drag winding the coil of your self-control tighter and tighter ‘til it snapped like you did, catching his thumb in between the edges of your teeth.

Chenle’s gaze darkened then, no traces of the playful glint you were used to seeing as he surged forward and kissed a searing path from the corner of your mouth, all the way up to the swell of your cheek. Then lower, and lower until the scrape of teeth under the hinge of your jaw made your knees buckle from the sensation with a gasp.

You gripped his hair tighter, though you made no move to pull him off. “That—this is more than just a kiss,” you lightly chided, voice shaky. “Greedy.”

“So what if I am?” He mumbled, mouthing his way down your neck. Your fingers left his hair and curled around his nape. “Want me to stop?”

Pulling him in further by his neck told him enough. The vibration of his pleased humming against where your pulse was at its strongest made you shiver. You could feel him smirk. Like a knife to your neck.

“Thought so.”

Staying true to his words, he didn't stop. Chenle latched onto your mouth again and you’ve quickly grown familiar with his rhythm. Only this time, his hands joined in the fray, seemingly needing more than just having you secured in his arms.

Though perhaps you bit off more you could chew.

Like, yeah, getting fucked by Chenle wasn’t the most horrible idea you’ve had so far in your early twenties, but thinking about it was vastly different from actually doing it.

So you were definitely in your right to squeal when one of your best friend's wandering hands went up your skirt.

Chenle stilled and pulled back with his eyebrows knitted together. Your face was on fire, both from his bold move and the embarrassing sound you made.

“You okay?” He asked, the same hand that was under your skirt—right below your ass cheek—rubbing soothing circles. It was anything but soothing. When you’ve got thighs as sensitive as yours, the only thing Chenle was helping with was making you hornier.

If he moved his hand a little further up and a little further in, he would have felt just how soaked your panties were.

“I—uh—I’m not ready.”

He blinked. “My hand is literally up your skirt that’s barely covering your cute little butt,” he pointed out as his hands trailed higher and squeezed the plump flesh. “and you’re not ready.” Now he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. Shit, maybe you were. And it’s his fault. He’s just as crazy for calling your ass cute to your face, too.

“I mean yeah, that’s nice and all—your hand is really warm, um—but I may or may not have been talking out of my ass about fucking you.”

Chenle snorted. “I dunno. Your outfit clearly screams ‘fuck me!’. Cute shirt, by the way.” A stray hand wedged itself under the tight fit of your tube-top, earning him a sharp intake of breath when his fingertips grazed the underside of your tit. His touch didn’t go further than that, hand simply splayed across your ribs. “If you can call it that.”

“You bought me this shirt, dumbass.”

“Even better,” he said, delighted by the thought. “Feeling cold?” Chenle wondered, almost in an innocent, offhanded manner you wouldn’t think much of if the twitching of his mouth slipped under your radar. You caught his leering stray south, too. Just what could he possibly be intrigued by when he was quite literally sharing your breathing space?

With eyebrows furrowed, you let your curiosity get the best of you, tracing his line of sight.

You should have stayed curious.

Better yet, you shouldn’t have acknowledged the change of his focal point because of course he’d take notice of your nipples poking against the soft material of your shirt; as if they were saying ‘hi’ to the man who had come so close to giving them some attention.

Chenle dissolved into a fit of cackles. You could only imagine how embarrassed you looked to him. Why were you even embarrassed? You chose to forgo a bra in hopes of distracting him with your boobs if all else failed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you acquiesced, keeping your chin up as you blindly reached for his hands. “Hands where I can see ‘em, pervert.”

Only, you don’t exactly take his hands off of you. This was like, casual touches here and there dialed up to an eleven, right? It wasn’t a foreign concept to you, being held by him. Being friends with him for this long and counting, hugs were a thing you were frequently subjected to, and Chenle loved those, so you did your due diligence of settling his hands on your hips as a pseudo form of it.

A peace offering, if you will, for cutting the closeness short and a little because you were starting to like the warmth emanating from a more intimate touch.

Seemingly pleased by your initiative, Chenle graced you with the sweetest of smiles, squeezing you. That got him a snort and a fond shake of your head, though the amusement dimmed into contemplation as you lingered on the silver padlock-shaped pendant hanging from the dainty chain of the same metal around Chenle’s neck, not knowing where to go from here.

Eventually, you found your voice. “That better be worth fifteen hundred bucks,” you joked because if there was one thing about you is that you had a knack for making light out of an emotionally charged situation.

“I’ve spent more on you before, and you're worth every single penny so far.”

That shouldn’t have flustered you. Really, it shouldn’t have you hot in the face when you weren’t sure if he meant the dig towards you unintentionally milking him of his fortune. But Chenle’s ease of letting weighted words spill from his mouth was the sure contender here, and to deliver the final blow was the charming grin that ensured you everything was going to be just fine. He’d make sure of it.

“That’s definitely something a sugar daddy would say,” you said with a wry curl of your mouth. “Are you my sugar daddy? Because I can’t remember the last time I had to pay for my shit when you’re around.”

There was one time you went out for a bagel on your own, though that didn’t seem like a big girl purchase compared to your ergonomic chair he had ordered from Amazon. The look he had given you when you told him you made do with the many dining chairs Yizhuo had around her huge glass dining table had been the funniest thing you had ever seen. Like stiff chairs having multiple uses was a foreign concept to him.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were mostly on your feet when you had to (by hand) draft floor plans and vignettes that took up almost the entire space of your choice of paper. And the chair was comfy. Good for your back too.

“It does look like that, huh?” Chenle laughed at that, shaking his head as he did so out of endearment because you just wouldn’t get it. “What if I just like taking care of you?”

Now wasn’t that an insane thing to say out loud? Granted that you could kind of see where he came from as he did save your sorry ass a bunch of times with either a tap or a swipe of his card, this was Chenle you were dealing with. The likelihood of him just pulling your leg under the guise of flattery was great and backing down that easy had never been your forte. No matter how sweet he was being about it.

You could count the serious conversations with him on both sets of your fingers and this regularly scheduled bout of psychological warfare won’t even count.

“You just want to get in my pants,” you accused with a defiant raise of your chin.

“You almost let me in your pants,” Chenle pointed out, his fingers gently grasping your chin so he could tilt your head back at its normal angle. “My hand was literally up your skirt and I heard no complaints until you got stage fright.”

“Fair,” you allowed with a shrug. “Still not gonna fuck you though. Not now at least.”

“Whatever you want,” he said softly as he bent down to catch your gaze. “and you know I won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

You hummed, thinking Chenle’s words over. “I’ll give it a few days until you’re on your hands and knees begging to stick just the tip in.”

Chenle’s smile wobbled then turned pained. “If I have to.”

It took three whole seconds for his admission to register in your brain before you sputtered a laugh, falling forward until his shoulder cushioned your forehead. No wonder you and Chenle worked so well. There was not a serious bone in any of your bodies and you wouldn't want to change it for the world.

“Down, boy,” you teased, still cackling as you nuzzled into his neck. “Who’s desperate now?”

He huffed. “Like you weren’t trying to eat my face moments ago.”

You pulled back with a pout. “I could say the same about you.” You poked him in the chest. “Were you actually trying to suck my soul out?”

“Regret anything yet?” Chenle’s question was posed as playful, but there was undertone of uncertainty to it too and over the years, you’ve gotten good at figuring out his tells. The uncharacteristic sudden stiffness in his frame, the way he chewed the inside of his cheek (subtly as he could) and the tightness around his eyes—he thought you did. Regret it, that is, but it was the farthest from what you were feeling right now.

“The only thing I regret is not seducing you sooner.”

And that did it. Anything that fell in the same vein of uncertainty gave way to the radiance you were much more familiar with.

Chenle looked like an absolute winner—the cat that caught the canary and washed it down with cream in celebration of his win before diving in for his prize.

Until Daegal barked at the sound of jingling keys the moment your lips were a hair breadth away from touching, her excitement piercing through the bubble and granting you awareness from beyond it; namely the pot barely having any water being left on the burner for too long.

There was a flash of white from your peripheral as you shared a panicked look with your qausi-sugar-daddy when the front door opened, followed by one of Chenle’s housemates, Beomgyu, announcing his arrival with a loud, “I’m home!”

“Shit,” you whispered and the two of you set into motion. Harried, if anything, yet still efficient with the swiftness Chenle displayed in fixing your clothes just as you smoothed stray strands of his hair back in place.

For a quick moment, he took a good look at you, a crease in the middle of his eyebrows before he was shucking off his hoodie and urging you to wear it.

“Didn’t take you for the protective type,” you teased, yet took it without question as Chenle rolled his eyes with a gentle shake of his head, watching you pull on the sleeves; a smile equal parts warm and mischievous playing on his lips.

With the zipper in place, you glanced at him then down to his very obvious problem beneath those denim jeans. “You gonna do something about”—Chenle’s eyes blew wide in alarm and stuck his hand in his pants—“yeah, okay,” you mumbled.

His smile widened into something annoying and you quickly pushed him towards the kitchen sink, a silent command to wash his hands once Beomgyu walked right into the kitchen, surprised that you were here. Daegal trotted closely behind, her tail wagging happily as you bent down to pick her up.

“We’re going to get groceries after some noodles,” Chenle answered the silent question for you while pouring water into the pot. “Want some?”

“I’m starving,” Beomgyu groaned. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Hope you’re excited for Shin ramyeon and crab balls, then.”

Over Beomgyu’s shoulder, Chenle winked at you and you nuzzled into Daegal’s fur, hiding your smile.

In the end, after letting Beomgyu devour most of your noodles, Chenle did take you out for another H Mart run.

“Are the two carts necessary?”

You didn’t think so. One full cart was pushing it, but two? For a second, you feared he might just buy out the whole store if you dared him. Then again, Chenle wasn’t familiar with the concept of limiting oneself and it seemed like it applied to you too. Well, in a way where he showed you it was okay to want things. That it was okay to ask him for things.

Because it’s Chenle who did most of the shopping. Fresh produce, different kinds of meat that didn’t need to be cooked in complicated ways for it to come out edible—namely the humble samgyeopsal. Quick, easy and absolutely delicious—he glossed over most of the condiments seeing you still had them at home, then he absolutely went insane when it came to the snacks, ice cream and, of course, packets of instant noodles.

Chenle had another pack of a different variant in his hands, tossed it into the snack-filled cart he was pushing around.

“You’re really playing into the sugar daddy thing,” you said as you mentally calculated the amount of debt you were in now with the addition of groceries that could last you and the girls the whole month.

“Better than you starving,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a dozen of Buldak Carbonara noodles and dumping them into the cart like a dad finding out their kid’s favorite snack. “Wouldn’t want you living off of shin ramyeon and crab balls.”

You scowled. “It wasn’t that funny.”

Chenle laughed and laughed and laughed anyway because your failed seduction plan was that hilarious if he was still making jokes about two-person groceries.

The drive home was quiet. Peaceful. Less awkward than you had initially expected when the soulful drone of music filled in the spaces with you sat in the passenger’s seat, reaching over to feed Chenle the Pepero you elected on sharing. When it all ran out, you relaxed in your seat and just… watched.

Watched your best friend in his element with his hand on the wheel while the other patted his thigh along the beat of the current song. He looked good. Unfairly so. With the lights glinting off the watch that likely made up your yearly university tuition and the high points of his face, the ruffled look of his hair and the way his jaw flexed every time he sang along the melody.

All this filled you with the urge to kiss him. Reach over and plant one on him and the thought still lingered even as you drove past the house’s gates opened with an app on your phone.

As Chenle helped put away the groceries while you pretended not to notice the leering from the peanut gallery.

As he helped himself to a Melona while keeping up with the verbal spat between him and Yizhuo munching on something yoghurt and blueberry flavoured.

It was all you could think about as you saw him out the door, and if you couldn’t help yourself and acted on it—a quick peck to the corner of Chenle’s plush mouth as thanks—leaving a sheen of your lipgloss, then that was between you, God and the security camera angled to where you stood.

Yizhuo wouldn’t notice if you deleted a few seconds of footage anyway.

Late into the night and you could still feel it. Feel him—the ghost of his kiss, his touch as everything that had transpired in the afternoon played on loop in your head.

You couldn’t sleep. Not when your mind was chanting Chenle Chenle Chenle like a mantra set to summon him. Like an itch you couldn’t get rid off no matter how hard you scratched.

If only…

That night, you decided to get well acquainted with Pinky, fishing her out deep within your drawer.

Mornings like this were rare, where all of you were awake at the same time. Even rarer that you were all up before ten, quiet. Relaxed.

No sense of urgency found on anyone’s person. No school, no jobs to clock into, no not-so-secret meetings—none of you girls had anything of priority today.

There was breakfast, arguably the most important meal of the day, though it seemed Minjeong and Yizhuo weren’t exactly in a rush demanding their eggs be cooked just the way they liked. Just fine with nursing a steaming cup of whatever energized them for the day ahead as they sat at the island counter.

Your phone chimed in the middle of cooking Yizhuo’s scrambled eggs. A text from Chenle—a sent photo to be specific and—

You screamed, nearly dropping the spatula.

fine shyt: [IMG_6969]

You: WWHAT THEBFUCJ

fine shyt: got your tickets 🤓

You: YEA I SEE THAT???????????

When you screen faded into Chenle’s caller ID, a photo of him holding up Daegal, Minjeong immediately took over the cooking as you rushed towards the living area.

“You got the tickets,” you said as you accepted the request to FaceTime, half in wonder and in disbelief that he was able to nab tickets in less than twenty-four hours and a day before the concert. You really should stop doubting Chenle and his ability (see: privilege) to get whatever, whenever. “Not that I doubted you, but the first night usually sells out quick—so how the hell.”

“You underestimate how far money can get you,” Chenle laughed. He looked sleep-ruffled, like he had just woken up. This was his cutest state yet and you really wished you were with him right now. “Think you’re ready to find out?”

“As I’ll ever be.” As long as he held your hand through it, sure. What the hell. You could survive future heart attacks caused by six figures by sheer will alone, you thought. “I asked for three tickets though. Who's the fourth one for?”

“Me,” he answered, beaming. “Someone has to drive you girls.”

“What? I mean—thanks.” That was one less thing to worry about then. “But since when do you listen to Sabrina?”

“Since last night. Still at it, by the way.” he clarified, a little too happy and if you listened closely, you could make out Sabrina’s crooning of Read your Mind on his end. “An enlightening experience, I might say.”

“Good luck on memorizing twenty-one songs then.”

“Oh, Princess. I released an album when I was eight. Memorizing the setlist is light work. Bet I could sing louder than you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll grill you on the album thing next time because what the fuck.” The ‘Princess’ thing you elected to ignore, too early and dire to suffer an aneurysm when a concert was waiting for you.

“I’ve lived quite the life,” he mused (“oh I’m sure.”) combing his fingers through his hair. “So what do we say?”

You scoffed, fond and grateful for his generosity whether you were deserving or not. “Thank you.”

“Thank you what, baby?”

Your face twisted in horror, quickly clocking what he was trying to get you to do. “Bye Chenle.”

He was cackling when you hung up, your face on fire, yet you didn’t put in any effort to tamper the giddy grin threatening to split your face.

The tickets were yours. Chenle got the tickets and they were yours. Gosh, this was probably the best morning in your life so far and nothing could dampen your mood from doing your girls proud.

“Now do you believe us when we say you’re Chenle’s favorite?” Yizhuo asked with a mouthful of scrambled egg.

You laughed, cheeks aching from how hard you cheesed at a simple fact. “I’m starting to.”

And selfish as it sounded, you hoped that it would remain that way for a long time because you couldn’t remember a life so dull when Chenle walked in with colors so bright that it sung, and because he was your favorite, too.

a/n: waow you've reached the end! Here, have a cookie 🍪 as always, thank you soo so much for reading until the end! I'd like to thank the girls: Aria, Moon and Aeriel for letting me talk my shit about this fic and help with ideas! and yes, brainstorming with them is an almost daily occurrence and it's great mental exercise imo lol! I hope you had fun reading the chaos that was this fic. I know I had fun laughing to myself writing all this 😆 and please please please let me know your thoughts! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna @spacejip @ykvdani @drunkhee @neozon3nha @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce @sunghoonsgfreal @champagne1221 @yuyita-rosier @grimlinshere @jvngw0n @nanaxwi @kissesfromdarling @peterm4rker @haechology @evergreeneyesx @bbina @nctseventeensworld (special thanks to those who asked to be part of the taglist!)

#zhong chenle x reader #chenle x reader #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #zhong chenle fluff #chenle fluff #zhong chenle one shot #chenle one shot

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papayainsectorone · 2 days ago

Text

No More Words.

summary: morning light exposes everything unsaid, you’re left to confront the truth: some moments change everything, even when they go unnoticed

content: aftermath, hangover, emotional vulnerability, unrequited love, unspoken feelings, heartbreak, argument, emotional damage, miscommunication, regret, internalized hurt, dissociation, dumb!asshole!Lando, post-hookup angst, bittersweet tension, quiet devastation

word count: 4,2k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

You woke to the smell of sweat and liquor and something heavier—dense and unmistakable—sex, still clinging to the sheets, the air, your skin. It lingered like a ghost, woven into the fabric of the night before, thick and tangible and inescapable.

Your eyes opened slowly, lids heavy and reluctant, vision unfocused in the bleary half-light. The blinds were barely cracked, just enough for slats of morning sun to cut across the hardwood in pale gold streaks, dust suspended midair like smoke. Your head throbbed, not sharply, but in a dull, insistent rhythm that pulsed just behind your eyes. Your mouth tasted stale and dry, the hangover creeping in around the edges, muted by exhaustion.

And your body—god, your body.

Sore in a way that made you ache down to your bones, a dull, spreading tenderness that reminded you of every moment, every breathless gasp and rough drag of skin. There was an ache between your thighs, a soft burn across your hips where his fingers had gripped too tightly, a mark blooming against your neck you could already feel, even before you saw it. Every inch of you buzzed with aftershock.

Lando was still there, still wrapped around you like the night had never ended. Like he never was before.

It had always been one of the rules between you after all, no sleeping together.

Sure, there had been exceptions. Nights when exhaustion after sex stole the fight from you both, when the hotel room was too far or the world outside too cold. Nights when you’d stumbled back into each other’s arms after everything else had fallen away, tangled and breathless.

But those moments were fleeting, fragile, brief intersections before the morning pulled you apart again.

This wasn’t like that.

This was something else.

Closer.

More intimate.

Like he was holding on, not just to your body, but to the space you shared, to the quiet between the breaths and the softness of your skin under his.

And the ache it left behind—raw and new—cut deeper than any rule you’d ever broken.

One arm lay heavy across your waist, pinning you gently in place. The other was trapped beneath your ribs, elbow bent awkwardly but unmoving. His body was flush to yours, heat radiating from his bare chest and legs, the slow rise and fall of his breathing pressed steady into your spine. His face was tucked into the crook of your neck, lips barely brushing the curve of your shoulder, soft, warm, almost reverent.

He didn’t stir.

You didn’t either. Not at first.

You just lay there, still as the room, staring at the wall while the weight of everything slowly, silently flooded in. At first, it was just fragments—his mouth on yours, the sound of his voice when he said don’t stop, the way he had looked at you right before he—

You closed your eyes.

It wasn’t regret, not exactly. But it wasn’t peace either. It was too raw for that. Too soon.

You swallowed hard, throat dry and tight. The air around you was thick with the warmth of bodies, the silence heavy, almost sacred. Your skin still smelled like him. Like both of you. Like something that couldn’t be undone.

Your fingers twitched where they rested on the edge of the pillow, and for a second, you thought about turning over. About facing him. About seeing if his expression in the morning would match the way he’d held you through the night.

But you didn’t move.

Instead, you stared into the light filtering through the blinds, your breath shallow, your body wrapped in his, your mind caught somewhere between the ache of last night and the uncertainty of what came next.

And finally, quietly, inevitably, the truth caught up to you.

All of it.

The club. The bodies pressed too close, the sweat-slicked heat of strangers and strobes of light slicing through darkness. The bass had throbbed through your chest like a second heartbeat. His hands never left you—your hips, your back, your throat. The way you moved together wasn’t dancing so much as orbiting, like gravity had decided it only applied to the two of you.

The ride home was a blur, flashes of city lights streaking past the windows, his breath hot against your ear.

Your skin burned beneath his touch, thighs trembling, nerves frayed and exposed. You could still feel how his name had tumbled from your lips—again and again—a desperate mantra wrapped in gasps and need. The sound of his moans had filled your mouth, your chest, your bones. His hands had been everywhere. There was nowhere he hadn’t touched.

And then— Worse than all of it— After the high, the comedown, the collapse. The room spinning. Your chest rising and falling beneath the weight of everything that had just passed between you.

You’d said it.

I love you.

Just three words, barely spoken. Whispered to him when he lay right there in the crook of your neck, like a secret, like maybe if you buried it deep enough, it wouldn’t count. You hadn’t even known if he was still awake, his breathing had already started to slow, soft and rhythmic. But it didn’t matter. The words were out there now. Hung between you like smoke. Seeped into the pillow beside your cheek.

And now?

Now he was asleep. Dead to the world. Still tangled in the same sheets that smelled like sex and sweat and something you couldn’t name. His breath came slow and steady, his face peaceful, slack with sleep. Like nothing had shifted. Like the Earth hadn’t cracked open beneath you.

Your throat was dry. You didn’t dare move at first. Even your breathing felt too loud, like it might wake him or worse, draw attention to how wide awake you were. The space between your bodies still buzzed, heavy and close, but it didn’t feel safe anymore, it felt suffocating.

You peeled his arm from around your waist, inch by inch. He murmured something—a sound more than a word—and shifted, brow creasing briefly. His fingers grazed your hip in a reflexive echo of last night, then dropped limp to the mattress.

You held your breath.

When he didn’t move again, you sat up.

The world tilted. A wave of nausea rolled through you, sharp and immediate, and you had to squeeze your eyes shut against it. The headache was brutal now, bright and pulsing behind your forehead like a live wire. You brought a hand to your temple, the other braced against the mattress. The sheets beneath your palm were still warm.

The scent was unbearable. Not bad—just too much. Skin and sweat and his cologne and everything you’d given each other, tangled into the air like static. You could taste it in your mouth.

Your bare feet touched the floor and recoiled instantly. Cold. Jarring. A stark reminder that the real world had returned, and it didn’t care what you'd said in the dark.

Only then did you feel just how exposed you were.

Naked, except for the last traces of heat on your skin, your hair a matted snarl at your neck, your thighs sticky, still aching with the echo of him.

Don’t think. You told yourself. Don’t let it take shape.

You scanned the room, blinking through the haze. Your top dangled off the chair like an afterthought. Your panties had vanished somewhere in the wreckage of his jeans and t-shirt, half-buried under your bra.

Lando didn’t move.

Still sprawled out, sheet pushed low, one arm bent above his head, curls a mess against the pillow. His mouth was parted slightly, breath soft, brow still drawn in some dream you weren’t part of.

You stood.

The air kissed your skin with a chill that made you wince, but you didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

You picked up your clothes in silence, piece by piece. No ceremony. No thought. Just escape.

And then you opened the door.

It clicked shut behind you with a soft finality that sounded too much like goodbye.

The hallway felt like a different world—colder, quieter, removed from everything that had just happened. You padded across the apartment in bare feet, numb fingers brushing the walls for balance.

Your bedroom door closed behind you, and you finally let your back rest against it.

The silence was deafening.

Your legs gave out, sliding you to the floor.

What had you done?

Not just the sex. Not just the heat of it, the haze, the way you'd let it happen, wanted it to happen. But the words. The way they had slipped from your lips like a truth you'd buried too long. A truth he didn't ask for. A truth he didn’t even hear.

Or worse—heard and chose to ignore.

The truth you couldn´t even admit to yourself.

The shower was blistering when you stepped in, steam rising in thick clouds before the water even touched your skin. You didn’t flinch. You welcomed the heat, let it scald down your back, let it punish.

You stood there too long, unmoving, until the air turned dense and wet around you, until your skin was flushed pink and your breath caught in the fog. It wasn’t about getting clean. It was about erasing. About burning the night off your body, layer by layer. You scrubbed hard, mechanically, until your fingertips pruned and your shoulders ached. Shampoo stung your eyes, and you didn’t bother blinking it away. Maybe the sting would drown out everything else.

But no matter how hard you scrubbed, it clung.

The memory. The way his mouth had found yours like it belonged there. The way your name had slipped from his lips, rough and reverent, like he was confessing it. The way your body had responded without hesitation—eager, desperate, as if it had been waiting for him and only him.

Your hands found the wall, palms flat against the slick tile. You leaned forward until your forehead rested against the porcelain, cool and unmoving. The contrast of cold tile against hot skin made you shiver, but you didn’t pull away.

You didn’t cry. You weren’t even sure you could. There was no release, no breakdown. Just that quiet, heavy thing growing inside your chest. A numb ache that sat there, settled and unmoving. Something too big to name, too quiet to scream.

The water pounded on, a constant roar. When you finally reached out to turn it off, the silence that followed felt violent.

You stood dripping in the sudden hush, water tracing paths down your spine, over your ribs, between your legs. And still—you felt him. Like a shadow. Like an echo beneath your skin.

You dried off on autopilot, your towel clumsy in your hands. Your fingers trembled. You didn’t bother brushing your hair. You tugged on a pair of underwear, then an oversized shirt from the laundry pile, one you weren’t even sure was yours. No pants. No effort. Just enough to cover the skin he’d touched.

The kitchen was unforgiving in the daylight. Sunlight poured through the windows like a spotlight, all sharp angles and golden exposure. The kind of light that didn’t let you hide. It lit the countertops, the floor, the half-empty coffee mug you'd forgotten you’d poured. Everything was too loud in its stillness.

You perched on the edge of the island stool, knees pulled up to your chest, shirt swallowing your frame. A glass of water sweated beside you, untouched. You stared at it. Watched the condensation bead and slide down the glass like it was trying to escape.

The coffee had gone cold a long time ago.

Time didn’t move so much as it dragged its feet across the floor, slow and unkind. You thought about going back to bed. About pulling the covers over your head and pretending none of it had happened. You thought about going for a walk. About running until your lungs burned. About disappearing entirely—just for the day. Maybe the week. Maybe longer.

But you didn’t move.

You stayed.

Stuck in the in-between, limbs heavy and soul heavier. Waiting for something—anything—to make sense.

It was sometime past noon when the bedroom door creaked open.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just sat there at the kitchen island, knees still pulled up to your chest, eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down the side of your still untouched glass.

Lando stumbled into the doorway like a man dragged back from battle. His hair was smashed flat on one side, wild on the other. His eyes were bloodshot, squinting hard against the daylight like it had personally offended him. He wore only a pair of black boxers and one sock, and scratched absently at his stomach as he shuffled forward.

“Fuck,” he groaned, shielding his face with one hand. “Why is it so bright?”

You didn’t say anything.

He blinked toward the kitchen, still disoriented, eyes barely registering shapes. Then they found yours.

A beat.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough and thick with sleep. “Hey. You’re up.”

You nodded once. A small, tight movement. Then you raised your glass and took a slow sip, more to steady your hands than to actually drink.

He shuffled past you like nothing was amiss. Pulled open the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, didn’t bother with a glass. He tilted it back and drank greedily, the plastic crackling in his grip. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at you again, eyes squinting just slightly.

Something flickered there. A pause. A faint crease in his brow. Like he was trying to read the room. Trying to figure out why your silence felt different.

“How bad was I?” he asked eventually, with a sheepish little laugh. “I don’t even remember getting home.”

That laugh—that casual, careless laugh—hit like a blow to the ribs.

You watched him.

His mouth curved. His eyes creased with the weight of the hangover, not guilt. No recognition. No apology. No memory.

He didn’t know.

You said nothing.

“God,” he muttered, rubbing both hands over his face. “What did I even say last night?”

That was when the last piece slid into place.

He didn’t remember the club. Didn’t remember the car ride. Didn’t remember the way he’d pulled you into his lap and kissed you like he needed it to breathe. Didn’t remember the way your bodies had moved together in your bed, desperate and tangled and real. Didn’t remember what it had meant to you.

Didn’t remember the words you’d said when it was over. The ones that had poured out of you in a moment too raw to stop. The ones you couldn’t take back.

“I love you.”

He didn’t remember any of it.

Your breath caught, but only for a second. You didn’t let it show. You smiled. Just barely.

“You just passed out,” you said, voice soft and steady, like it didn’t cost you anything to say it.

You didn’t look at him again. Didn’t give yourself the chance to see what wasn’t there in his eyes.

And he… just nodded. Took another sip of orange juice like the world hadn’t changed.

Lando leaned against the counter, eyes still a little unfocused. He looked at you, then gave a small, grateful smile.

“Thanks for getting me home last night,” he said quietly. “I honestly don’t remember a thing.”

You nodded, swallowing the knot in your throat. “You were pretty out of it.”

He chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no kidding. I’m sorry if I was a mess.”

“You weren’t,” you said, voice low.

He stepped closer, hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gave you a quick hug—gentle, almost shy. “Really. Thanks. For everything.”

The hug was brief, but it left a strange weight in your chest. When he pulled away, his smile was easy and unaware, like nothing had shifted between you.

“Need anything? Water? Food?”

You shook your head, eyes fixed on the glass in your hands. “I’m okay.”

Lando glanced at you again, sensing something unspoken but choosing not to press. “Alright. I’m gonna try to fix some toast before I collapse again.”

You watched him for a moment, the way his eyes flicked over to you, the slight crease of his brow when he sensed something you weren’t saying. Your mind was racing—thoughts crashing in waves, memories and doubts and hopes all flooding your system at once, overwhelming and relentless.

He sat down heavily at the island, one hand clutching half a piece of toast, which he practically shoved in his mouth before you could get the words out.

“Lando,” you said softly.

He hummed around the toast, a crumb falling from his lips. “Hmm? Yeah?”

You took a deep breath, your voice barely steady. “I think I’m gonna move out.”

His eyes widened, toast halfway in and now half falling from his mouth as he choked a little on the surprise. “What?” he croaked, blinking at you like he hadn’t quite understood.

You swallowed hard and tried again, meeting his gaze directly. “I said, I’m moving out. I think it’s time.”

He set the toast down, wiping crumbs from his lips, confusion knitting his brow deeper. “Time for what?”

Your heart thudded unevenly. You searched his face, the crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw, looking for some sign, anything that would soften what you were about to say next. “It hasn’t been the same for a while now,” you said quietly. “I’ve been staying too long this time.”

He blinked at you like he was still trying to catch up, the words settling slow and unwelcome behind his eyes.

“I don’t get it,” he said, straightening in his chair. “What are you even saying?”

You felt your fingernails dig into the curve of your palm beneath the table. The quiet between you stretched taut, too familiar.

“I just… it’s not home anymore,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not really.”

Lando’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked at you like you’d pulled the ground out from under him.

A beat passed.

And then he tilted his head, something colder flickering in his gaze. “Is this about Charlotte?”

You stiffened.

“No,” you said, too quickly. Too flatly.

His brow twitched, mouth pressing into a thin line as he leaned back in his chair. You could see it hit him—your answer, the finality of it—like it didn’t make sense, like the puzzle had missing pieces.

Frustration flared behind his eyes. He stood abruptly, pushing the chair back with a sharp scrape of wood against tile.

“Then what is it?” he snapped. “Because I don’t get it. You said we’re okay. We were out last night, laughing, drinking—like nothing was wrong. You’re my best friend.” His voice cracked slightly on the last words, as if they didn’t sit right in his mouth. “So tell me. What the fuck is this?”

You couldn’t quite speak.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. The lump in your throat swelled like it might choke you. Your eyes burned, tears starting to blur the edges of your vision. It all pressed in at once—his voice, the room, the weight of everything you hadn’t said.

“Lando…” you whispered, barely audible.

He threw his arms up. “What, huh?” His voice was sharper now, brittle around the edges. “I really don’t get it. Can you not just be happy for me? Isn’t that what we do for each other?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. The hurt was rising in him now, boiling into something meaner.

“Ah, no, I forgot,” he spat, pacing away from you and then back. “I don’t get to say stuff like this. I just have to stay silent, pretend I don’t care, while you go home from the club with fucking Charles.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him, but he didn’t even see you—he was somewhere else now, caught in the spiral of it, jaw clenched and hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I mean—fuck!” he exploded. “I like her, okay? Charlotte. I actually like her. This might be something more and you’re just—” He faltered, words sharp and twisted, chest heaving.

“Fuck, I don’t even…” He looked at you then. Really looked at you. “When did you get so bitter?”

His words didn’t just land—they carved. Not a clean, sudden split, but a slow, ugly break that shattered something you hadn’t realized was still holding on. You sat there, frozen in the middle of the kitchen, while pieces of you slid silently to the floor like glass.

And he just stared back at you.

Jaw clenched. Eyes hard. No flinch. No apology. Just anger.

That—more than anything—set something off in you.

You pushed up from your seat, fury rising hot and fast in your chest as you crossed the room. Your steps were sharp, shoulders squared, every inch of you coiled like a wire about to snap. You stopped just in front of him—close enough to feel his breath, close enough to see the faint pulse jumping at his throat.

You stared at him, eyes burning, your own jaw tight.

And then… it faltered.

Because when you looked, really looked, you saw it. A flicker. Small. Flickering like a candle left too close to an open window. Regret. Realization. The slow, dawning horror of what he’d just said.

But it was too late now.

You’d never seen him like this before.

Not like this.

It didn’t feel like Lando. Not the boy who used to knock on your window at midnight just to bring you shitty gas station ice cream. Not the friend who instinctively moved to stand between you and the world on your worst days. Not the man who knew your favorite coffee order better than his own.

This wasn’t a friend. This wasn’t safety. This wasn’t love.

This felt like a punishment. A cruel, twisted consequence for falling in love with someone who never promised you anything, but still let you hope.

You felt your throat tighten, all your words turning to ash before they could form. You wanted to scream, or cry, or laugh in his face. You wanted to say something that would sting as much as his words had. But none of it came.

Only silence.

You stared at him like a stranger. And maybe that’s all he was now.

And he—he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, the edge of fear ghosting across his expression. Fear of what he’d done. Of what he was watching slip away.

His lips parted like he might say something, but you raised your hand, just slightly, palm open, quiet and final.

He froze.

You shook your head once. Small. Certain.

This wasn’t the man you’d loved. This wasn’t your best friend.

Your hand lingered in the air for a beat too long—steady, trembling slightly—but it said everything you couldn’t. And when you dropped it back to your side, something in Lando’s face seemed to fall with it.

He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t try to speak again. Just stood there, still rooted to the kitchen floor, like if he didn’t move, maybe none of this would be real.

But it was. It was so real.

You turned without another word.

Your feet moved before your mind caught up. You were down the hall, past the photos lining the wall, old ones, bright ones, the kind you used to stop and smile at. You didn’t glance at them now.

Your room was too quiet when you stepped inside.

You didn’t need much.

You grabbed your small overnight bag from the closet and filled it with a few essentials—clothes, your charger, your toothbrush. Mechanical, detached. The weight of your limbs didn’t match the speed of your thoughts. Everything felt underwater.

Your hands shook when you zipped it closed.

And when you turned back toward the door, he was there.

Standing in the frame like he didn’t know how to stand anymore. Like the fight had knocked the structure right out of him. His arms hung loose at his sides, knuckles red from clenching too hard, mouth parted like he still couldn’t believe you were really leaving.

“Are you really gonna just go?” he asked quietly. Not angry anymore. Not cruel. Just lost.

You didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

You brushed past him gently. Not touching. Not lingering. Just… gone.

He called your name once. Just once. Soft and broken. Like it hurt to say.

But you didn’t turn around.

The front door opened with a creak that felt too loud. The late afternoon sun spilled in, golden and heavy across the floorboards. You stepped into it, out of the only home you’d ever really had with him.

The door clicked shut behind you.

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natsaffection · 3 days ago

Text

Redline. Bonus 6 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), Mention of sex, fluff, fluff, fluff

Word count: 8,7k

A/n: First of all, I added Yelena again! Totally forgot her in the last bonus :,) Second, I wish you could see the thoughts/pictures in my head while writing and rereading those scenes. And third? I want a marriage. Immediately.

The sheets were a mess. The pillows were barely holding shape, pushed to opposite ends of the bed like casualties. Somewhere on the floor was your sports bra, one sock, and the remote that Natasha swore she wasn’t going to lose again.

And she was grinning. Natasha shifted slowly, lifting herself from between your legs with the unhurried satisfaction of someone who had definitely proven a point. Her hair was a mess, strands clinging to her cheekbones, and her lips were still a little swollen, glistening just slightly with a kind of shine that wasn’t from the lotion.

And you groaned. A soft, wrecked sound. Not from pain. From everything else.

Your arm fell lazily across your stomach, your chest rising and falling in the afterglow of something that had burned slow and deep, like it always did with her. Natasha was climbing up the bed, moving slow like she had nowhere else to be. She nudged your thigh with her knee as she crawled over you, her smirk lazy and knowing and a little proud, even.

You let out a tiny laugh, breathy, exhausted. Your fingers reached weakly for her, as if even the strength to pull her close had been…extracted.

“Hey.” she whispered, pressing her lips gently against your temple.

You made a noise that could have meant hi, I love you, or please let me die peacefully right here. She smiled again.

“You’re unbelievable..” she murmured, dragging her fingers lazily along your arm. “You know that?”

You barely moved. Maybe nodded. Maybe not. “Fast on the track..”she said softly, her voice almost smug, “but this…this is where you really shine.”

Your body jerked, just slightly, in something like laughter. Or embarrassment. Your lips moved but you didn’t form words. Your lashes fluttered once, twice, then stilled. Natasha kissed your bare shoulder. Let out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.

You didn’t need to say I love you. It was stitched into the air between you. Into every breath. Into the way your legs stayed tangled, the way your nose brushed hers in the dark, the way your body turned toward hers even in sleep.

She kissed your jaw, then your temple. “Sleep.” she whispered, voice like silk now. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

And you did. You melted into her, mouth slack with peace, fingers loose over her ribs. And Natasha held you until morning.

The light broke slow and quiet over the horizon, filtering through pale curtains that hadn’t been drawn fully shut. Outside the window, the paddock was already waking, distant engine testing, someone shouting about a torque wrench. But up here, in bed, the world was still.

Natasha stirred first. Her body shifted against empty sheets, the absence of warmth beside her immediate and noticeable. For a moment, her muscles tensed, not fear, not alarm, just that deep-seated instinct to look, to check.

But then, from behind the half-cracked bathroom door, she heard the soft rush of water.

She exhaled, and relaxed. Her hand slipped beneath the pillow automatically, pulling out her phone. The screen glowed bright in the half-dark.

7:42 am.

Her calendar buzzed softly.

9:00 – Sponsor call (Zoom)

12:30 – Fitting (Race jacket)

15:00 – Strategy meeting with Willow + trackwalk

20:00 – Dinner with Y/n? (optional - ask)

She added a mental note next to that last one: Definitely. She smiled, thumbed the phone off, and turned onto her side to face the bathroom. Moments later, the door creaked open.

And there you were. Hair up in a messy bun, one of Natasha’s old team shirts hanging halfway off your shoulder wrinkled, oversized, clearly slept in too many times. Your legs bare, skin soft with fresh lotion. A toothbrush sticking out the corner of your mouth, and that squinty, just-woke-up look still clinging to your expression.

You stopped when you saw her awake. She didn’t say a word, just smiled, slow and warm, like you were the first sunrise she’d ever seen.

You mumbled something that sounded like “morning.” around your toothbrush, disappearing again into the bathroom.

“Come here.” she called softly when she heard the faucet shut off.

You reappeared, sleepy but obedient, and padded over to the bed. “Still got foam in my mouth..”you muttered.

“Don’t care.” You crawled up onto the bed, and Natasha pulled you in the second you were close enough, an arm around your waist, a hand at the back of your thigh, guiding you into her body like it was muscle memory. You fell against her chest with a sigh, your forehead pressing under her jaw.

“Gonna fall asleep again..” you warned, mumbling into her skin.

“You better.”

She kissed your temple again. Ran her fingers down your spine. You let out a tiny, happy sound. She smiled into your hair, her other hand smoothing lazy circles over your hip. She could feel your breathing begin to slow again, your body going heavy, limp in that exact way it only did when you trusted her completely.

She closed her eyes too, content, but then- The door flew open.

“Well!” came a too-familiar voice, “I leave the country for four months and this place smells like sex and sleep deprivation.”

Natasha groaned. Yelena was standing in the doorway, suitcase still in one hand, eyebrow raised. You flinched violently and tried to sit up.

“No..!” Natasha muttered, dragging you back down with a grumble. “Ignore her. She’s a fever dream.”

“I’m a gift!” Yelena shot back, stepping inside like she lived here. “I came to see if anything changed while I was gone.”

Her eyes swept the room, the messy sheets, the tangled limbs, your shirt (her sister’s shirt), your sleepy face tucked into Natasha’s neck. A grin spread across her face.

“Nope.” she said. “Still filthy.”

Breakfast happened the way it always did the morning, quiet, slow, and mostly carb-based.

You moved around the kitchenette barefoot, still in Natasha’s shirt, flipping pieces of toast one-handed while yawning so wide your jaw cracked. Yelena had made herself at home already, slouched at the table in an old hoodie, tearing through the box of cereal she found in the cabinet with zero shame.

Natasha leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a mug of black coffee cupped between her palms. Her eyes didn’t leave you once.

Not when you burned your finger on the pan and hissed. Not when you leaned over the counter to grab a plate and the hem of her shirt lifted almost too high. Not even when you caught her watching you and rolled your eyes with that dopey, affectionate half-smile she’d come to love.

You moved like you belonged there..Because you did. She watched you set a plate down in front of her and brush your fingers across her shoulder as you passed behind her. Something about the way you touched her in passing, without thought, without fear, made her chest ache in the softest, cruelest way.

You were just there. Always. And lately…she couldn’t picture anything without you in it.

“Eat, Romanoff.” you said over your shoulder, grabbing your own coffee.

It was maybe twenty minutes later when your phone buzzed on the table. You glanced down, read the message, then stood up.

“That’s Willow.” you said, already downing the last of your coffee. “Track run starts early. She wants to warm up before the trainers get there.”

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “It’s Sunday.”

“She’s got a competitive streak.” you said, stretching your arms over your head. “And apparently, so do I.”

Natasha caught your wrist as you passed her. You paused, turned, leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Back by lunch.”

“Wear sunblock.” Natasha murmured.

You gave her a look. “Yes, Mom.”

She smacked your ass lightly as you walked away. Yelena made a dramatic gagging noise. The second the door clicked shut, Yelena spoke, flat, direct, amused.

“You’re planning something.”

Natasha looked up from her coffee. Blinked. “What?”

“You’re planning something.”

“I am drinking coffee and existing.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her face like she was reading engine telemetry. Natasha stared back, blank and unimpressed.

“Natasha.”

“I’m serious.”

“You haven’t blinked since she left.”

Natasha opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down. Yelena tilted her head. “You’re so obvious. You’ve been staring at her like she’s made of diamonds since I walked in.”

“She is made of diamonds.” Natasha muttered.

Yelena’s face broke into a wide, knowing smile. “Oh, my God. You’re in love love.”

“I’ve been in love love.”

“Yeah, but now you’re..wait. Wait. Wait.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Are you proposing?”

Natasha jerked like she’d been slapped. “What?!”

Yelena gasped, fully standing now, pointing like she’d caught her red-handed. “You are!”

Natasha groaned. She stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen door. She locked it. Then turned around slowly. Yelena was watching her like a cat who’d cornered a bird.

And for the first time that morning, Natasha’s shoulders dropped. Just a little.. She leaned against the door, silent for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “…I’m thinking about it.”

Yelena blinked. Then slowly, slowly grinned. “Holy shit.”

“I haven’t told anyone.” Natasha said, voice low. “Not Willow. Not Mom. Not the team.”

Yelena placed a hand on her heart. “I feel so honored.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

A beat passed. Then Natasha said, “I was watching her this morning. She wasn’t even doing anything. Just making toast in my shirt. Talking to you. And I just…I couldn’t stop thinking about how there’s no one else. Ever.”

Yelena softened a little, finally. “You’re sure?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”

“Then do it.”

“I want to.” Natasha said quietly. “I just…want to do it right.” Natasha just smiled, staring off into the middle distance, already planning.

The day burned fast under the late-afternoon sun, laps, drills, strategy sessions, hydration reminders barked over headsets. Heat shimmered off the asphalt like water. The trainers looked ready to drop by hour five.

You didn’t. Neither did Willow, who had started pushing the pace in your second run just to see if you’d flinch. You hadn’t. You’d smirked and gone faster. Somewhere between the second cooldown and the post-run debrief, Natasha had shown up.

Silent at first. Leaning against the fence, sunglasses on, black polo hugging her shoulders like it was designed just for her.

She hadn’t spoken much, just corrected Willow’s hand placement during turn 7 corner drills, nodded once when you passed your time mark, and pointed silently toward the brake zone when you clipped it too late in the simulator review.

Classic Natasha, no fanfare..just presence. By the time the sun dipped behind the last of the temporary paddock structures, the track was empty again. Lights buzzing. Water bottles half-drunk. The air smelled like rubber, sweat, and the wind-down of something intense.

You made your way through the garage and up the stairs to her office, muscles aching, tank top clinging to your back, sun just barely kissing your shoulders.

You didn’t knock. You never knocked anymore. Natasha was at her desk, glasses on, typing something into her laptop with one hand and scrolling through telemetry with the other. The light from the screen painted her in soft gold and navy, the faint shadows under her eyes more from focus than fatigue.

You leaned your shoulder into the doorframe. “Day’s over.”

She didn’t look up, just tapped one last key, then reached forward and shut the laptop in one clean, casual motion.

You blinked. “You don’t even want to save that?”

She shrugged. “Autosaves. And I trust the system.”

“Liar.” you muttered, stepping inside.

She was already watching you now, elbows on the arms of her chair, legs slightly parted, expression unreadable except for the faint, quiet pull at the corner of her mouth.

The kind she saved just for you. You crossed to her without thinking and slid around the desk. And then, like you’d done it a thousand times before, you climbed onto her thighs, knees bracketing her hips, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. Her palms found your waist instantly. Like gravity.

You sat like that for a second. Breathing the same air. Then you dipped your head slightly to meet her eyes. “How was your day?”

Her hands flexed a little against your sides. “Better now.”

You smiled, warm and a little smug. “Sappy.”

“Accurate.” she replied, deadpan.

You leaned in and pressed your forehead to hers. She let out a breath, steady and long, like she’d been holding it all day. Like this was the only part of her routine that really made sense.

Your thumb stroked the edge of her jaw. “You showed up today.” you said softly.

“You noticed?”

“You didn’t say much, but I always know when you’re watching.”

She smiled again. This one softer. “I’m always watching.”

You kissed her. Once, slowly. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t about the thrill. It was just there, true and quiet and deeply, completely familiar. Her hands moved from your waist to your back, then up, then down again, sliding under your shirt, just enough to feel your skin.

You let yourself relax into her body. The office was warm, and the hum of the vending machine down the hall was the only thing filling the silence. Eventually, Natasha murmured, “Come to bed.”

You nodded, curling closer. “Yeah.” you said, yawning into her neck. “Okay.”

She didn’t carry you, but she guided you, hand at the small of your back, thumb idly tracing patterns on your side as you walked side by side down the hall and toward her suite. Neither of you spoke much. There was nothing left to say tonight. At least not yet.. But Natasha’s hand didn’t leave yours for a single step.

The morning came like any other. You were standing in the bathroom, towel-wrapped, holding a toothbrush in your mouth while mumbling something about how if Willow made you run laps before 10 am again, you were going to rearrange her face.

Natasha watched you from the bed. She was already dressed, black slacks, clean white shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, hair down but combed neatly. There was something quietly put-together about her, like she was going somewhere important. But she didn’t say anything yet.

She just sipped her coffee. Watched you move around like you belonged in every inch of her space.

“You look nice today.” you called out, voice muffled by toothpaste. “Business call?”

Natasha didn’t even flinch. “Mm. Something like that.”

You popped your head out of the bathroom with a grin. “Tell the sponsors I’m cute and deserve a raise.”

“I’ll forward them your highlight reel.”

“Make sure it includes the clip where I lapped that Red Bull junior last season.”

“Obviously.”

You disappeared again, humming off-key. Natasha glanced down at her phone, checked the time. 08:19. Her GPS was already loaded, address blurred at the top of the screen. She’d spent an hour the night before staring at it, just…thinking. What if they said no? What if they didn’t trust her? What if she didn’t deserve to be trusted?

She swallowed that down now. No room for it. Not today. You reappeared a moment later in leggings and a cropped team hoodie, sleepy but glowing from your shower, eyes still a little soft at the corners. You leaned down to kiss her before pulling your shoes on.

“Track with Willow.” you said. “Want anything on the way back?”

“Just you.” Natasha said automatically.

You blinked. Then smiled, slow, crooked. “You’re being sweet.”

“I’m always sweet.”

“You’re always rude, and then sweet when you want something.”

She reached out to tug your hoodie down, smoothing a wrinkle over your stomach. “I already have what I want.”

You paused at the door. Then shook your head and grinned again. “You’re gonna make me late.”

Natasha watched you leave with something unspoken in her chest. When the door closed behind you, she finally let out the breath she’d been holding since she woke up.

The drive was quiet. Her playlist on shuffle. City traffic melting into suburban roads. She kept one hand on the steering wheel and one on her thigh, thumb tapping out an anxious rhythm that only got faster the closer she got.

She sat in the car for exactly thirty-five seconds before getting out. Her boots clicked against the stone walkway. The door opened before she could knock.

Your mom stood there in a sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back, eyes widening in pleasant surprise. “Natasha?”

Natasha cleared her throat. “Hi.”

“Oh my God, come in, come in.”

She stepped aside and Natasha entered, carefully wiping her boots on the mat like you always told her to. The house smelled like coffee and old wood and something warm in the oven. Your father appeared a moment later, smile already forming.

“This is a surprise.” he said, offering his hand.

“I hope it’s a good one.”

“It is. It’s just- what brings you?”

Natasha hesitated. She folded her hands in front of her for a moment. Unfolded them. Smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on her sleeve. Then looked at them both.

“I was wondering.. “she said slowly, “if I could talk to you…about something important.”

Your mother exchanged a glance with your father. Then gestured to the living room. “You want coffee?”

Natasha sat on the couch. Hands on her knees. She tried not to fidget. She was good at being composed in high-stakes situations. But this? This wasn’t business. This wasn’t strategy. This was you. And somehow, that made it harder.

So when your parents returned and sat across from her, mugs in hand, Natasha met their eyes and did something she almost never did: She let herself be nervous.

“I love your daughter.” She said. There was no preamble. Just the truth.

“I think you know that. I think maybe you’ve known it longer than I did. But I’m here because I want to do this the right way. She’s strong, and independent, and stubborn as hell, but…she still believes in things like respect. And tradition. And family.”

Your mom’s eyes were glassy already. Your dad didn’t speak, just watched. Natasha kept going. Soft now.

“I want to marry her. And before I ask her…I wanted to ask you.”

Your dad set down his coffee. Exhaled slowly. Looked Natasha in the eye. “She’s always been intense. Impossible to sway once she decides on something.”

“I know.” Natasha said.

“And hard to love, sometimes. But the right person…” He smiled faintly. “Makes it look easy.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. Your mom reached across and put her hand on Natasha’s.

“We’d be honored to have you in the family.”

The breath she let out wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t shaky, it was simply relief. Pure and honest.

“Thank you.” She said, meaning every word.

——

You were halfway through a breakdown of tire compound degradation when you realized Natasha hadn’t said a word in almost three minutes.

“I’m just saying..” you continued, hands flailing as you paced barefoot across the room, hair still damp from your shower, “Pirelli has got to be cooking something illegal because that soft compound today? Willow said it felt like she was skating on frozen yogurt.”

Natasha didn’t respond. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, phone held casually in her palm, thumb flicking upward in slow, deliberate motions.

Totally silent. You slowed a little, narrowing your eyes. “Are you even listening?”

“Hm?” she said without looking up.

You stopped mid-pace, towel still draped over your shoulder. “What are you doing..?”

“Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ never looks that intense on your face.”

She tilted the phone slightly away from view, subtle, smooth, practiced. Which meant guilty.

You squinted. Natasha glanced up at you then, and for a split second, just one, you saw it. That little shine in her eyes. The slight pink at the tops of her cheeks. The way the corners of her mouth were tugging up like she was sitting on a secret the size of a small country.

You narrowed your eyes further. Stepped forward. “You’re way too happy right now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. You’re, like…glowing.”

“I’m just sitting.”

“That’s the problem. You only sit like that when you’ve made a decision.”

She didn’t answer. You sat beside her on the bed, thigh pressed to hers, and leaned in to peer at her screen. She pulled it back slightly, but not too obviously.

Your brows lifted. “Nat…”

“Hm.”

“…What are you doing?”

She looked at you then, really looked at you, and the grin that threatened to take over her face barely made it to the surface before she smothered it like a match under water.

“Nothing important.” she said smoothly. “Just… planning.”

“Planning what?”

You were playful, curious. Almost a little suspicious, but not in a real way. And she didn’t lie. She didn’t say “email” or “strategy notes” or “logistics.” She just smiled, slow, unreadable, dangerous, and leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“I’ll show you when it’s ready. I promise.” she murmured.

You groaned dramatically, throwing yourself backward onto the mattress. “You’re so mysterious..” you complained, one arm flung over your eyes.

Natasha looked down at you. You, in your hoodie and bike shorts, legs still slick with lotion, hair damp, skin warm from the shower, heart beating in the same room as hers. She glanced back at her phone. There it was: the search bar still open, photos scrolled halfway down the page.

Custom rings, understated but personal.

Nothing was quite right yet. She’d seen diamonds, vintage cuts, silver, gold, even motorsport-inspired ones with carbon fiber edges, but none of them looked like you.

She’d know it when she saw it. And when she did, she was going to ask you a question that would change everything…But not yet. For now, she just smiled again, quietly, and set the phone down facedown on the bedside table.

Then she lay beside you. Her arm tucked beneath your neck. Your body curling into hers without hesitation. “Wake me when you’re ready to stop being mysterious..”you mumbled.

“I’ll keep you guessing forever.” she whispered back. And you didn’t see her grin as you fell asleep.

——

The lights above the track glowed red in sequence: one, two, three, four… And then the roar.

The engines launched forward in a deafening scream of velocity, tires burning against asphalt, two cars slicing through the opening straight like they were being pulled by gravity itself. You were already pushing. Willow was behind you, not by much, but enough to make it personal.

Natasha stood on the pit wall, arms crossed over her black headset, mouth set in a tight line of focus. Her eyes flicked between monitors, her voice low but sharp over the comms.

“Y/n, adjust your entry on Turn 6, your angle’s too wide.”

“Willow, settle. Let her take the corner. You’ll lose time fighting it.”

“Copy.” came Willow’s voice, crisp and unbothered.

“Got it.” you said, your voice tight with focus, breathing controlled, jaw locked. You weren’t losing this race to your own teammate.

The pit team scrambled behind her, the buzz of radios and tire updates filling the background. The pace was fast, clean, brutal. Everything was going according to plan. Until Natasha’s phone lit up on the pit desk.

Natasha’s eyes flicked down, barely a glance…and froze. She stared at the number for a second longer than she should’ve. “Yelena.” Natasha said, her voice sharp in her headset’s private channel. “You’re up.”

“Copy.” Yelena answered immediately from the control stand behind her. “Taking lead.”

No confusion. No hesitation. This was protocol. They’d trained for it. Natasha pulled off her headset, handed it off, and stepped back from the pit wall like a ghost disappearing from a battlefield.

You took the chicane tighter than you had all season, DRS humming behind you. Willow was still in your mirrors, but you’d started to gain tenths.

Then your radio clicked. Yelena’s voice came through, “Y/n, brake modulation is drifting into early lockup on sector three. You’ve got one, maybe two pushes before you burn the tires. Stay calm. Adjust on the straight.”

You blinked under your visor. It wasn’t the instruction. It was the voice.

“…Where’s Natasha?”

“Handling something. You’ve got me for now.”

“…She handed off pit command mid-race?”

“Focus, brat. You’re not that special.” That earned a tight smirk from you, but the unease didn’t fade.

Natasha never stepped away during race hours. Not unless someone was bleeding. Not unless something was burning. You kept driving, but your brain wasn’t fully in the cockpit anymore.

Meanwhile Natasha pressed the phone to her ear and turned away from the track noise. “Thank you for calling back.”

“I had a feeling it wasn’t a business visit when your assistant asked for a full day’s access to the main building.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. “I want it empty.” Natasha said. “No press. No drivers. Just a few quiet hours.”

“You’ll have it.”

She closed her eyes..and smiled. It wasn’t just a win. It was a statement.

You and Willow didn’t just take first and second, you owned the circuit. Her defending while you overtook on the inside of Turn 8 made the replay highlight reel within minutes. The crowd had been deafening when you crossed the line with a lead wide enough to start waving to the mechanics.

The champagne was still in your hair when Willow wrapped her arm around your shoulder and yelled, “One–two, baby!” into the camera crew’s mic.

Natasha hadn’t been in the post-race picture. Which… wasn’t that unusual. She hated media. But it still felt strange. You found her twenty minutes later, by the garage office, wiping something off her tablet screen like she hadn’t just watched her team win the day.

She looked up just as you approached, her face calm, but there was something in her eyes..an intensity you couldn’t quite read.

“We did it.” you said breathlessly, your fireproof suit half-peeled down, a medal swinging from your neck. “I mean..we actually did it.”

Her mouth twitched upward. “I know. I watched.”

You stepped closer. Noticing how her tablet screen was off now. Locked. Her headset on the desk.

“Why did Yelena take pit for the last ten laps?” you asked. “You’ve never handed it off before.”

Natasha paused..just a breath. “There was a call I needed to take.”

“Important?”

She met your eyes.

“Yes.”

That one word. Was Honest and final. But vague. You wanted to push, but didn’t. Not when she looked like that. Not when her hand rose to touch your back in the exact spot that always melted you.

“Okay.” you whispered.

And she exhaled like she was relieved you hadn’t asked more.

A Few Days Later

The air in Natasha’s office always smelled like iced coffee and motorsport stress. You were halfway leaned over Willow’s shoulder, both of you reviewing telemetry data from warm-up laps, while Natasha sat at her desk, tapping absentmindedly at her tablet, occasionally nodding along.

Yelena stood in the corner, flipping a pen in her hand, pretending to be uninterested while keeping an actual checklist in her mind of every bolt she’d personally tighten later.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said. “Start warm-ups in fifteen. Willow, check brakes with the new cooling setup. Y/n, monitor throttle feedback- if it jitters again, pull out. Don’t push it.”

Willow saluted sarcastically. “Yes, Coach.”

You threw her a smirk. “Race you to the garage.”

“Always.”

You both left laughing, arguing about who had the better turn-in last race, your voices fading into the hallway.

The door clicked shut, and Natasha waited one more second, then reached into the locked drawer of her desk. She pulled out a small, black velvet box.

Yelena stopped flipping the pen. She watched as Natasha turned it slowly in her hand…then opened it.

The ring caught the light, not flashy, not oversized. Sleek platinum. Matte center. A tiny diamond, pressed low into the band, like it belonged there, not showing off. There was something engraved on the inside. Yelena couldn’t see it from here.

Yelena whispered, “Holy shit.”

“I know.” Natasha said quietly. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up. That I’d pick wrong. But when I saw this one…I just knew.”

Yelena stepped closer, voice soft. “You’ve already rehearsed what you’re going to say, haven’t you?”

Natasha looked away, just slightly. “Sort of.”

“Oh, wow. You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I don’t fidget.”

“You’ve been blinking in threes.”

Natasha let out a low breath through her nose. “Yelena.”

But Yelena just grinned, tilting her head. “I’m serious.” she said. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you nervous and not holding a tablet.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and gently closed the ring box, tucking it back into the drawer with care like it was fragile.

“I’m not nervous.” she repeated, quieter now. “I’m just…ready. And I have to wait.”

Yelena’s teasing faded at the edges. “You okay with that?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Natasha said. “The track isn’t clear until next week. I’d propose tomorrow if I could, but-“

“You’re waiting for the right place.” Yelena finished.

Footsteps. “Hey, I left my-”

You stepped halfway inside before pausing, eyes flicking between them. Yelena froze where she stood, clearly mid-sentence before you’d entered.

And Natasha, without even looking, cut the air with a single word: “Don’t.”

Yelena’s mouth snapped shut instantly, blinking twice like someone had unplugged her. You raised a slow eyebrow, stepping farther into the room. “Should I come back?”

“No.” Natasha said smoothly, already recovering. She turned, leaned one hip against the desk. “We’re done here.”

Yelena’s hands shot up. “All I wanted to-”

Natasha shot her a look, and Yelena’s hands dropped. You eyed them both suspiciously, then pointed a finger in Yelena’s direction.

“You’ve got the worst poker face.”

“Disagree.” Yelena said, already backing toward the door. “I am the epitome of calm under pressure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s going on.”

Natasha only smirked. Then crossed the room and kissed your cheek, cool, easy, perfect Natasha.

“Nothing yet.” she murmured into your skin. And Yelena, thankfully, kept her mouth shut.

The plan was set.

Track was cleared. The manager had sent a confirmation message. Yelena had helped prep the excuse: a “private team meeting off-site.”

The ring was in Natasha’s bag, tucked inside an old glove case, the same gloves you used to wear when working pit crew for scraps and long shifts.

Everything was ready…and Natasha was falling apart.

3 Days left.

She woke up before you. Lay there in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while you slept with your arm flung over her waist, your cheek pressed to her shoulder.

You shifted in your sleep, murmured something about Willow snoring in the simulator lounge. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Her fingers twitched once. She thought about reaching for the ring. Just to hold it.

Instead, she exhaled and slipped out from under you. She made coffee and didn’t drink it. She sat in the kitchen with the lights off.

2 Days left.

You noticed. Not in a loud way. Not with suspicion. Just that slow, quiet sinking feeling when the person you love starts looking at you like they’re thinking too much.

Natasha wasn’t cold. She just wasn’t present. She’d nod at you during meetings, touch your waist when you passed, give you small, soft looks like she was thinking about something, but she wouldn’t say anything.

And that silence started to hurt. That night, as you stood at the sink brushing your teeth, you caught her watching you.

“Did I do something?” you asked, foam in your mouth.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You spit. Turned toward her. “I know when something’s in your head. And I’m not mad. I just..don’t want to feel like I’m losing you in it.”

That.

That almost cracked her. Natasha stepped forward, hands brushing your hips, lips finding your forehead.

“I’m right here.” she whispered. And for a second..you believed her.

1 Day left.

Yelena found her sitting in the simulator bay, lights off, helmet bag beside her. “You look like someone shot your dog.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Yelena stepped forward, leaned her back against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

“She’s starting to wonder.” she said gently.

“I know.”

“Why aren’t you telling her?”

“I want it to be perfect.”

“She doesn’t need perfect.”

Natasha looked up. Her eyes were rimmed red, not from crying, just lack of sleep.

“She deserves it.”

Yelena softened. “You’re making her feel like you’re slipping away.”

Natasha closed her eyes.

“I know.”

Hours later, you curled up beside her in bed. She held you, arms tight, jaw resting on the top of your head.

You whispered: “Just talk to me.”

But she didn’t. And you fell asleep not knowing why your chest hurt. And she stayed awake listening to your heartbeat, counting every second she had left to fix it.

The day started too quietly for Natasha, which was dangerous. Stillness meant thinking, and thinking meant spiraling. So she planned every hour. She laid out the day like a race strategy: nothing left open, nothing unstructured. Not for you, and definitely not for herself.

You woke still curled against her side, warm and half-asleep. Natasha smiled against your temple, kissed your hair, and murmured, “Up. Big day.” You didn’t question it. Just smiled, rolled over, and reached for the nearest shirt like it was any other morning.

Breakfast was at a café she’d remembered you mentioning weeks ago, one you thought she’d forgotten. You lit up when you saw it, all soft surprise and sleepy joy, and she pretended like it wasn’t a big deal, even though your smile was the only thing keeping her breathing evenly. She picked at her toast while you ranted about tire data and Willow’s “cowardly” approach to cornering. She barely said a word, but you didn’t notice, not with jam on your cheek and sunshine on your face.

Midday, she roped you into a “gear review” with Yelena at the supplier garage. You were suspicious for about five seconds before Yelena started arguing passionately about zipper strength, and you gave up, laughing. Natasha just stood back and watched, arms crossed over her chest, every muscle tight with the effort of looking casual. When Yelena slipped and said “big day” Natasha shot her a look so sharp it could’ve stripped paint. But you were too busy trying on windbreakers to notice. Barely.

You noticed, just a little. The way she stared longer than usual. The way her fingers tapped her own arm when she thought you weren’t looking. But you didn’t push.

The day stretched into golden hour. You were brushing your hair out in front of the mirror, debating whether Natasha was planning a surprise dinner. She hadn’t said a word about your evening plans. And then your phone buzzed.

From Natasha:

“Meet me at my car in ten.”

You smiled. The answer was yes: she was planning something. Probably a dinner reservation or a rooftop or something ridiculous and romantic. You grabbed your jacket, a little bounce in your step as you took the elevator down to the private garage.

She was already there, leaning against the black SUV like it was a magazine cover shoot. Jacket clean, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses off. She looked calm. Effortlessly cool. But you knew her. Her shoulders were too stiff. Her jaw too tight. Still, she smiled when she saw you. That rare, quiet, completely yours kind of smile.

“Date night?” you teased as you approached.

She opened the passenger door for you, smooth and confident. “After you.” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re being suspiciously charming..”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, but got in anyway. She shut the door behind you gently. You adjusted your seat, glanced toward the side mirror, and froze for just a second.

Yelena was standing by the car behind you, arms folded, leaning against the hood like she had no business being there. And when your eyes found hers, she grinned.

Then lifted both hands and crossed her fingers slowly. Your stomach did a slow, warm flip, turned toward the driver’s seat.

Natasha slid in beside you. You watched her hands on the steering wheel. She looked at you sideways, almost like she could feel your stare.

“…What?” she asked.

You shook your head, smile creeping up your face. “Nothing.”

But your heart was suddenly beating louder than before. And somehow, you knew, without knowing why- Tonight was going to change everything.

The drive started like any other. You were curled sideways in the seat, one leg tucked under you, gesturing wildly as you told some ridiculous story about Willow and a protein shake exploding in the locker room.

Natasha nodded occasionally, gave soft mhm’s, eyes focused on the road. Her hands on the wheel were steady, knuckles just barely flexing when the streetlights caught them.

You barely noticed. You were too busy rambling, laughing, reliving the way Willow had shouted. You were mid-sentence when something shifted. You frowned, mid-laugh, and glanced out the window.

“Wait.”

Natasha didn’t look at you. You sat up a little straighter.

“Did you just miss the turn?”

“Hmm?”

“To the restaurant. You just passed it.”

Natasha gave a tiny smile. “Did I?”

You blinked. “…Yes?”

“Guess we’re going somewhere else.”

You stared at her for a second, caught between confusion and suspicion. But she didn’t say anything else. Just flicked the indicator and turned onto a quieter road, the city slowly thinning behind you. You watched her out of the corner of your eye. She looked completely relaxed. Too relaxed.

“Nat..” you said slowly, “are you kidnapping me?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst date idea.” she murmured, eyes still forward.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously, where are we going?”

She didn’t answer. You turned back to the window, half to check the road, half to fight the weird flutter in your chest.

Then you saw it. The building. And your breath caught.

“…Wait..” you whispered.

Natasha glanced at you just briefly, a flicker of warmth in her expression. You turned your whole body toward the glass now, heart starting to race for entirely different reasons.

“That’s-”

“Yeah.”

“My old track?”

She pulled into the narrow lot beside it, the tires crunching softly on old gravel. The buildings looked the same, faded, boxy, industrial and somehow still comforting. You could see the rows of open garage doors. The empty tower. The half-painted line where cars used to queue before testing.

You hadn’t been here in years. Not since before Romanoff Racing. Before Natasha. Before everything..

She cut the engine. You turned to her, breath catching just a little.

“…What is this?”

Natasha’s voice was soft. “Come with me.”

She stepped out, walked around the car, and opened your door for you like it was sacred. You blinked up at her, heart thudding, and took her hand without a word.

The moment your feet hit the pavement, the memories came back in waves. Sweaty days in overalls. Oil under your nails. The first time you adjusted a suspension without double-checking the manual. Your first test drive.

You followed Natasha toward the open garage. It was cleaner than you remembered, maybe freshly prepped for her. But the bones were the same. You could almost see your younger self crouched near the back, tightening something with your whole body, muttering under your breath.

“I used to live in here..” you whispered, eyes wide.

Natasha didn’t speak. She just looked at you. Let you take it in. Then gently reached for your hand and gave it a tug.

“Come on.”

You walked behind her toward the platform above the test track, the one overlooking the straight. You hadn’t stepped foot on it in years. She climbed the stairs first, steady and slow, and you followed.

When you reached the top, the breeze hit your face, light and familiar. You gripped the rail instinctively, eyes scanning the stretch of road. And then you turned.

Natasha wasn’t looking at the track. She was looking at you.

“This is where I first saw you.” she said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

She took a step closer. “I came here scouting test drivers. Just one random day. I didn’t know your name. I just remember watching you storm out of the garage, You were in the car. And the second you hit the throttle…” She shook her head, smile soft. “I knew. Right then.”

“Knew what?”

“That I wanted you on my team.”

Your throat went dry. You blinked again. “And then later..” she added, quieter now, “I realized I didn’t just want you on my team.”

Her voice almost broke there. “I wanted you in my life.”

You stared at her. She reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Her hand lingered on your cheek. You leaned into it without meaning to.

The silence wasn’t empty.. It was full. Your chest felt tight. “Natasha..” you whispered. “What are you-“

But she was already stepping back. Her fingers slipped from your face, and moved toward her jacket pocket.

You felt it before it happened.

The way her eyes softened. The way her hand hovered near her jacket, hesitant, shaking just a little, the kind of tremble no one else would ever notice, but you knew her. And in that flicker of silence, that split-second where the air pulled still and the whole world felt like it stopped moving- You knew.

“N-Natasha.” you breathed, barely a whisper.

She didn’t speak, her eyes didn’t leave yours. Her hand slipped into her pocket. Pulled out the small, velvet box. Turned it once in her fingers.

And then.. She dropped to one knee. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t planned for cameras or theatrics. It was real.

You covered your mouth with one hand, your breath catching so hard in your chest it almost hurt. Your knees went weak. Your heart jumped into your throat and refused to come down.

Natasha looked up at you. Her mouth opened, but nothing came for a second. She blinked, swallowed, and let out a tiny, self-conscious laugh, barely audible. Then she breathed, and started to speak.

“You’ve always scared me.”

You blinked, tears already stinging, but you didn’t look away.

“Not because you’re loud.” she went on, voice steadying. “Not because you’re fast. But because the moment I saw you, I knew. And knowing scared the hell out of me.”

She turned the box in her fingers once more-, still closed.

“I watched you work on a car like it was an extension of your body. Like the bolts were part of your pulse. You didn’t care who was watching, or if someone told you no. You did it anyway.”

Her voice went soft.

“And then I met you. And it only got worse.”

You laughed through your hand, trying not to cry.

“You are stubborn. Reckless. Beautiful. Frustrating. Brilliant. And you are the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could stop running.”

She finally opened the box. The ring wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t meant to be. It was yours. Simple, elegant, crafted like a racecar part, clean lines, sharp setting, engraved words just barely visible inside.

You always win.

Natasha’s voice broke, just a little as she looked up at you.

“I don’t want a life without you. Not as your team leader. Not just as your partner in this sport. But as your person.”

She held the ring like it was fragile. Like it might vanish if she moved too fast.

“I want to be the one who sees you first. Every morning. In every win. In every fall. I want to be the hand that never lets go.”

Silence.

You didn’t move. You were crying now, shaking, lips parted but no sound coming out.

And then..Finally- she asked.

“Y/n, will you marry me?”

It felt like the entire world had narrowed down to three things: the sunset bleeding into the edges of the track, the ring in Natasha’s steady hand, and the sound of your own heart thudding in your chest like it didn’t know whether to race or stop completely.

She was on her knees. Natasha Romanoff, your team principal, your partner, your anchor..was on her knees, holding everything she felt in the smallest, simplest gesture. And her eyes..God, her eyes. They didn’t just look at you. They searched you, waited for you, told you every unspoken thing she hadn’t been able to say for weeks.

And you…You were stunned. You turned in place slightly, like you were trying to ground yourself, eyes flicking to the track below, the garage behind, the platform beneath your feet. You remembered this place through grease-stained fingers and long nights. Back when you were just a name no one remembered and she was a rumor you didn’t believe.

Now she was this. Right here. Asking for forever. And all you could do was stare. “I…” you started, but it came out more breath than sound.

Natasha didn’t rush you. Didn’t speak. She just looked at you, still and open, like she’d stay in this moment as long as you needed her to.

You blinked hard, breath catching. Your knees wobbled beneath you and you lowered yourself slowly, instinctively, kneeling in front of her without even realizing you were doing it.

Still no words. Just your hands finding hers. You looked down at the ring, simple, beautiful, exactly right- and then back at her. The woman who terrified you with how deeply she knew you. Who made silence feel like safety. Who made love feel like a fight you wanted to win every day.

“I don’t know how you…” you whispered, your voice tight, almost breaking. “You did all this?”

Her lip twitched. She looked like she was about to smile, but didn’t want to break.

“I didn’t want perfect.” you whispered again, “I just wanted you.”

Natasha breathed in softly, like that one sentence was the only air she needed. You lifted your hand. Pressed your fingertips to her jaw. She closed her eyes for half a second and leaned into the touch like it hurt not to.

You gave a breathless laugh. It wasn’t disbelief anymore. It was joy. A kind of wonder that turned your whole face warm and wet and alive.

“…Yes.” you said.

Her eyes opened. You smiled, shaking, overwhelmed. You let it sit there, thick and true.

“Yes..” you whispered again, barely holding it together now. “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.”

Natasha didn’t move for a second. Like she had to be absolutely sure this wasn’t something her heart made up. Then she reached for you.

Her arms came around your back as you leaned in, the ring still forgotten between you, and your bodies met halfway in a kiss that was slow and fragile and full of trembling, aching relief.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a movie scene. But it was yours.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against hers, and your hands slid up to cup her face. She exhaled through a quiet, shaky laugh. And for once, Natasha Romanoff looked like the most undone woman in the world.

“…I love you.” she said, so softly it almost broke you.

You closed your eyes. And said it back without hesitation, without fear, without air.

“I love you more.”

Forever had never felt so right. You stayed there a long time. Neither of you said a word. Natasha had tucked her arms around your waist, your body folded into her lap, the two of you pressed together on that platform like you’d never need to leave it. Her head rested against your shoulder. Your hands tangled together over your chest. The ring still sat between your fingers, catching the soft orange glow of the setting sun.

Her breathing had finally evened out. Her heartbeat was slower now, steadier, but still there, fluttering against your back like it was trying to believe this was real. She pressed her nose into your neck. Closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was somewhere else entirely.

“The blue car! Who’s behind the wheel?”

“I want to meet her.”

“Are you sure? She doesn’t look like she wants to be found.” Natasha’s gaze hardened. “She’s already been to hell.” she murmured. “She can handle me.”

The present came rushing back in, the warmth of you pressed against her, the faint smell of your shampoo, the tiny little sound you made when you yawned and tried to hide it.

“I was so mean when we met.” you whispered, not even looking at her, just smiling.

“You were terrifying.” Natasha murmured into your shoulder.

“I remember yelling at you...”

“You yelled at me several times.”

You turned just enough to meet her eyes. “Still picked me, though.”

She kissed your temple. “I never looked at anyone else.”

The sun was almost fully down by the time you pulled out of the lot. You were holding her hand on the center console, your body turned slightly toward her in the seat, that dopey, dreamy little grin still plastered on your face. Natasha glanced at you once, then again..and gave the smallest shake of her head.

“You’re staring.” she said.

“I’m admiring.”

“At what?”

You didn’t answer. You just held up your hand, the one wearing the ring, and wiggled your fingers with a soft gasp like it was still the first time seeing it.

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, clearly holding back a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m engaged to you. You made me a fiancée. I am going to be insufferable.”

She squeezed your hand. “Noted.”

“I need to call everyone. I need to call my mum, my dad, oh, my grandparents!!”

You giggled and stared at the ring again, gently pressing your lips to the back of her hand.

“I’m marrying you.”

She glanced over at you. Voice soft, and certain.

“You are.”

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