#concept hotel group

[sir20]

Cubanito Hotel pool, Ibiza by sir20

[cloudtransprncy]

Tease

Chaewon x Male Reader | 8k words Tags: manager x idol, secret relationship, pent up, semi-public, sneaking away, horny as fuck, chaewon is hot as fuck, I wish it was me

Chaewon looks too good in that dress. Three weeks without sex. How long before you snap?

Jus sumn quick for yall.

Chaewon [1:42 AM]: I've been touching myself thinking about you every night this week. It's not enough.

Chaewon [1:43 AM]: Good luck keeping it professional tomorrow when you see what they have me wearing for the HOT trailer shoot 😈

You stare at your phone, heat flooding through your body. Three weeks without her. The longest you've gone since you started dating a year ago.

Fuck, she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

Three weeks without her touch has made every message like this a form of exquisite torture. You can practically hear her voice in your head as you read her texts.

You're dating Kim Chaewon. LE SSERAFIM's leader. And you're one of their managers.

It started on a company retreat last spring—a late-night conversation about music that turned into coffee, then dinner a week later, then her pressed against your apartment door, whispering that she'd wanted this since the moment you'd been assigned to their team.

You'd both agreed it would be just once.

That agreement lasted approximately 8 hours.

No one knows. Not the company. Not the members.

Not even Jiyeon, the other manager who works with you handling the girls' schedules.

And right now, your girlfriend is driving you fucking crazy.

The comeback prep for "HOT" has been exactly that—hot, intense, and keeping you both so busy you can barely catch your breath, let alone sneak away to be alone together.

You've tried everything to deal with the frustration. Late-night FaceTiming while she touches herself in her dorm room, biting her pillow to stay quiet. Watching the videos you've made together—her riding you on your couch, her bent over your bathroom sink, her on her knees looking up at you with those eyes.

None of it is enough. You need her. You need to taste her, feel her skin against yours, be inside her.

The warehouse set is all sleek white surfaces and ribbed glass partitions. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in cold natural light that makes everything look clean, sterile, and expensive. The perfect contrast to the fire they're trying to create with this concept.

Staff members in black hurry around with clipboards and equipment, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. This "BORN FIRE" trailer shoot has to be perfect—it's launching LE SSERAFIM's most ambitious album "HOT" yet.

You check your own clipboard, making sure everything's on schedule while trying not to think about Chaewon and whatever outfit has her texting you at 2 AM.

The irony isn't lost on you. Here you are, supervising the filming of a teaser—literally called "BORN FIRE"—while Chaewon herself is the true teaser. She's igniting something in you that's becoming increasingly difficult to contain. The line between her performance for the video and her performance for you is blurring dangerously.

"Manager-oppa, the director wants to run through the toy car scene again," Eunchae says, bouncing up to you in her feathered white outfit. "Have you seen Chaewon unnie? She's next."

"Still in wardrobe," you answer, keeping your voice steady. Like you're not thinking about how Chaewon moaned your name in that hotel in Jeju last month, her body shaking beneath yours as she came for the third time that night.

Sakura walks past with her stylist, the long white dress trailing behind her. You spot Kazuha already positioned on one of the white block structures that fill the set. The whole group is scattered around the space in various stages of preparation.

"Jiyeon-ssi," you call to your fellow manager, "can you check if hair and makeup are done with Chaewon?"

Jiyeon nods and heads toward the dressing area. You turn your attention back to the monitor, where the director is reviewing footage.

Then it happens.

The quiet murmur of the set shifts. You feel it before you see it.

Chaewon walks onto set, and your entire body goes rigid.

Your throat goes dry instantly. God, you love her in white—the way it makes her skin glow, how it emphasizes every curve you've memorized with your hands, your mouth. You force yourself to breathe normally even as memories flood your mind unbidden. She knows what this does to you. She's counting on it.

The white strapless dress is even shorter than it looked in the concept sketches and fittings you'd seen last week. It hugs her body perfectly, showing off shoulders you've kissed a hundred times.

The black belt cinches her waist—the waist you've held in your hands while she rode you until you both saw stars. But it's the boots that kill you. Thigh-high, black, lace-up boots that make her legs look endless.

You force yourself to look away, back at your clipboard. Professional. You're a professional.

But memories flood your mind anyway:

Chaewon straddling you in the backseat of your car, hand pressed against your mouth to keep you quiet while security guards walked past.

Chaewon pressed against your kitchen counter, panties around one ankle, begging you not to stop as you dropped to your knees.

Chaewon in your bed, hair spread across your pillow, eyes locked with yours as you moved inside her, whispering that she loves you.

You still remember the first time she said those words—three months in, both of you sweaty and breathless, her eyes wide with something like surprise at her own admission. You'd felt it too, that terrifying, exhilarating free-fall into something neither of you had planned for.

"You good?" asks one of the camera assistants, noticing how you've been staring at nothing.

"Fine," you say, the word clipped.

On set, Chaewon takes her position. In one scene, she stands tall on a miniature white car, the contrast of the boots against the white making her look like some kind of goddess. In another setup, she holds a diagram against her bare shoulder, eyes focused directly at the camera.

She's perfect. Professional. The director loves every take.

But then, during a lighting adjustment, when everyone's attention is elsewhere, she looks directly at you.

It's quick—barely a second—but in that moment, her professional mask slips. Her eyes darken. The corner of her mouth quirks up.

It's the same look she gave you the first time you told her to get on her knees.

The director calls for the next setup. Chaewon moves into position with the other members, all of them in white, creating a visual that's both innocent and somehow sinful.

You take a deep breath. You've been so good. So professional.

But when she walks past  you, she whispers, "Bet you want to take this off me so bad," so quietly only you can hear it, you know exactly how this day is going to end.

You are completely, totally fucked.

You're in hell.

Not the burning, fire-and-brimstone kind. The sleek, white, glass-walled kind.

A special kind of hell designed with surgical precision by Kim Chaewon—your weakness, your fucking undoing.

The "BORN FIRE" shoot continues. It's been three hours. You've managed to stay professional for exactly none of them.

"Cut! Five minute break," the director calls.

The set erupts into controlled chaos—stylists rushing to touch up makeup, lighting techs adjusting gear, Kazuha and Eunchae huddled near the white blocks watching practice videos on their phones.

You stare at your clipboard like it contains the secrets of the universe.

Chaewon moves through the space like she owns it, boots clicking against the polished concrete floor. The sound alone makes your pulse kick.

She stands by the glass partition, sunlight catching on her hair, making it glow against all the sterile white. Your eyes follow her despite your brain screaming not to.

"Manager-oppa," she calls, voice sweet and professional. The sound hits you low in your stomach—the same tone she uses right before she begs you to fuck her harder.

"Can you bring me some water?"

She knows exactly what she's doing. Every staff member sees a hardworking idol asking her manager for a simple favor.

You know better.

You grab a bottle and walk it over to her. That's when she strikes.

Her fingers brush yours as she takes the bottle—deliberate, electric—the touch lasting a half-second too long to be accidental.

"Had a dream about you last night," she murmurs, voice pitched for your ears only.

The cap of the water bottle clicks as she twists it open. She drinks slowly, throat working in a way that triggers a vivid flashback—her on her knees three weeks ago, swallowing around you, looking up with those same dark eyes. You'd gripped her hair so tight she'd moaned around you.

Her tongue darts out to catch a drop on her lower lip. Her eyes never leave yours.

You say nothing. Your grip on the clipboard turns your knuckles white.

Jiyeon passes by, checking her watch. "Chaewon-ah, wardrobe wants to check your outfit before the next shot."

Chaewon nods, all professional sweetness. "Coming!"

She brushes past you, close enough that you catch her scent—something floral and expensive that you've tasted on her skin a hundred times before.

The stylist adjusts something on the back of her dress while she stands in front of the monitor. You try to focus on the schedule, on anything but the curve of her shoulder blades, the way the belt cinches her waist.

"Everything good?" the stylist asks.

Chaewon nods, then turns slightly. Her eyes find yours in the reflection of the monitor. "Perfect."

The tech walks away. You're about to do the same when—

"Woke up so wet this morning."

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat that makes you grit your teeth.

She doesn't even look at you. Just keeps checking her reflection, adjusting a strand of hair like she didn't just set you on fire.

You step closer, voice low. "Watch yourself."

She smiles—sweet, sharp, fucking dangerous. "Always do. That's why I look so good."

The director calls everyone back. You retreat to the safety of the production table.

You adjust your clipboard, grateful for its coverage. This is what she reduces you to—a professional with years of industry experience hiding an erection like a teenager. The thought should embarrass you, but instead, there's a twisted pride in how she still affects you this way, even after a year together.

For exactly twelve minutes, you breathe. Focus. Reset.

Then she slides into the chair next to you.

"Can I see the schedule?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear. Professional. Proper.

You hand her your tablet without looking up. Three staff members hover nearby, discussing lighting for the next scene.

Sakura sits across the table, focused on crocheting something delicate and blue, her fingers moving with practiced precision. The click of her crochet hook provides a steady rhythm to the chaos around you.

That's when you feel it—her hand on your thigh under the table. Casual. Like it belongs there.

Your entire body goes rigid.

"Chaewon," you warn, barely a whisper.

"Mmm?" She leans in, pretending to point at something on the screen. Her fingers start to move. Slow strokes up, then down. Teasing.

You inhale sharply, willing your face to stay neutral.

The staff members move away. But Sakura is still there, focused on her project, the hook moving in and out of the yarn.

Chaewon's hand inches higher, bolder than she's ever been. Her pinky grazes dangerously close to where you're already hardening against your will.

"Stop," you hiss.

She leans closer, her breath against your ear. "I'm ovulating, you know."

Your vision blurs. Blood rushes in your ears.

"You'd feel it the moment you were inside me—"

Sakura looks up suddenly, her eyes meeting yours across the table.

Your heart stops.

Chaewon doesn't move her hand. Instead, she laughs at something on the screen, all innocent charm. "Manager-oppa, the schedule looks too tight. Don't you think?"

Sakura tilts her head, then returns to her crocheting, seemingly oblivious to the fact that your girlfriend's hand is still on your thigh, still dangerously high.

You wrap your fingers around her wrist under the table, stopping her hand but not removing it. A dangerous compromise.

Her pupils dilate. That's when you see it—she's not just playing with you. She's affected too. Her cheeks flushed, her breathing just a little too quick.

She's as desperate as you are.

The realization hits you like a kick to the chest.

"Two minutes!" someone calls.

She extracts her hand slowly, deliberately. Stands up, smooths down her dress. The movement pulls the hem even higher on her thigh.

"Think you can last the rest of the day?" she asks, a challenge glinting in her eyes.

Before you can answer, Jiyeon approaches. "Chaewon-ah, they need you for the car shot."

Chaewon nods, all business again. But as she walks away, she glances back—just once. Just enough for you to see the hunger there, mirroring your own.

The next hour is psychological warfare.

Around you, the set buzzes with activity. Makeup artists touch up the members between shots. The director argues with the cinematographer about lighting. A production assistant nearly trips over a cable, sending everyone scrambling.

And through it all, Chaewon wages her private campaign against your sanity.

This is high-stakes chess played under fluorescent lights.

Every staff member represents a potential career-ending leak. The director who's worked with three generations of idol groups and has seen every possible scandal. The company photographer who reports directly to the CEO. The stylists who know every whispered secret in the industry.

One wrong move, one lingering glance held too long, and everything you've both worked for collapses.

She steps onto the miniature white car, boots planted wide, the dress riding up her thighs as she poses. The camera loves her. Every angle is perfection.

You remember the first time you took her for a drive, six months into your secret relationship. She'd climbed into your lap at a deserted scenic point, the gear shift digging into her leg as she rode you, both of you half-clothed, desperate, her breath fogging the windows as she came.

Now, as she stands on that toy car, her eyes find yours between every take.

During the group shot with the white blocks, she trails her fingers along the edge of the structure, the same way she's traced paths across your chest in the dark of your bedroom. Her fingernails scrape lightly against the white surface, and you swear you can feel phantom scratches down your back.

Each pose becomes more provocative. Each glance more daring.

When the stylist adjusts her dress between shots, Chaewon stretches her arms overhead, making the hem ride dangerously high. The movement fills your nostrils with the scent of her perfume—jasmine and something deeper—that clings to your sheets for days after she leaves.

In the solo shot with the diagram pressed against her bare shoulder, she turns just enough that only you can see how her teeth catch her bottom lip—the same way they do when you're deep inside her.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. Your skin feels too tight. Every minute is torture, and the fact that you're surrounded by people—Jiyeon checking the time, Eunchae asking you questions, staff members constantly brushing past—only makes it worse.

This isn't just teasing anymore. This is Chaewon pushing both of you to the edge.

Then comes the final blow.

During the last break, when the set is buzzing with activity, she passes by the narrow space between the equipment cases where you're checking inventory.

No one can see you here. Just a sliver of space hidden from the main floor.

She stops, just for a second. Leans in.

"Just fuck me in the changing room already."

The clipboard nearly snaps in your grip.

She walks away, satisfied smirk playing on her lips.

And something in you—the last thread of your control—finally snaps.

You count to ten. Wait until she's back in position on set.

Then you move through the space with purpose, face composed, steps measured.

Professional.

You reach her just as the director calls for a lighting check.

Your fingers wrap around her wrist—firm, decisive.

She looks up, triumph flashing in her eyes.

"Do you wanna get caught, you stupid bitch?" you whisper, the words harsh but your tone almost loving.

Her lips part. A small gasp that only you can hear.

"Manager-nim, is something wrong?" the director asks.

"Wardrobe issue," you say smoothly. "Won't take long."

You pull her away from the set, past curious eyes, past Jiyeon's raised eyebrow.

The changing room is too exposed. Too many people.

Five years in this industry has taught you one thing: discretion isn't just preferred, it's survival.

You've built your reputation on professionalism, on being the manager who anticipates problems before they happen.

Chaewon is the one variable you can never fully calculate, the one risk you can't mitigate. And God help you, you wouldn't have it any other way.

You spot it—a storage room door, slightly ajar. Dark. Empty.

Perfect.

Her breath catches as you change direction, leading her toward it.

"What are you—"

You push the door open. Pull her inside  The storage room door closes with a soft click.

And finally—fucking finally—you're alone.

One second passes.

Two.

Then Chaewon launches herself at you.

Her hands grab your face with bruising intensity, fingernails digging into your scalp, your jaw, anywhere she can grip. The heat of her palms sears your skin as her mouth finds yours with desperate precision. The kiss is nuclear—all teeth and tongue and hunger. She bites your lower lip, hard enough to make you taste the metallic hint of blood, then soothes it with the velvety warmth of her tongue, exploring your mouth like she's trying to devour you whole.

Her body presses against yours, tits crushed against your chest, her hips grinding with shameless need. She grabs your hands and places them on her ass, demanding your touch without saying a word.

"Fuck, I missed your mouth," she gasps, her breath hot against your lips as she pulls at your clothes, fingers trembling and scrabbling at your belt, nails occasionally scraping against your abdomen. She can't seem to decide where to touch you—her hands moving from your chest to your shoulders to your neck, back to your belt, frantic and greedy. "Missed your hands. Missed your cock."

You slam her against the shelves, the metal rattling with a satisfying clang that echoes her gasp. Your hands are everywhere—her face, flushed and warm beneath your palms; her throat, pulse hammering wildly under your fingertips; the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath; the dramatic curve of her waist that fits perfectly in your grip. Every touch relearns the terrain you've been starved of for three endless weeks.

She reaches behind and grabs your wrists, dragging your hands to her ass, forcing you to squeeze the firm flesh. "Touch me everywhere," she demands, voice thick with need. "I've been dying for it."

"You took too fucking long," she pants against your lips, her voice vibrating through you as her hands finally get your pants open, the sudden coolness of air a sharp contrast to the heat of her touch. Her fingers brush against your cock, a teasing touch that makes your jaw clench.

The storage room closes around you—metal shelves on one wall digging into her back, garment racks crowded with costumes exhaling the scent of fabric softener and makeup, cardboard boxes stacked in the corner threatening to topple with each movement. A single fluorescent light buzzes overhead, casting harsh shadows that carve her features into something almost feral with need, highlighting the sheen of sweat beginning to form at her temples, at the hollow of her throat.

She makes quick work of the black safety shorts beneath her dress, the fabric making a soft whisper as it slides down her legs before she kicks them away. The movement is so fluid, so urgent, that your mouth goes dry with anticipation. She grabs your hand, guiding it between her legs, letting you feel how ready she is. "See what you do to me?" she whispers, eyes locked on yours.

You spin her around, the quick motion making her gasp. For a moment, you just look at her—the elegant column of her neck where a few baby hairs escape her bob cut, curling with perspiration; the delicate slope of her shoulders, pale and perfect under the harsh light; the dramatic curve where her waist meets the swell of her ass, emphasized by the black belt that begs to be gripped. The white dress clings to every inch, revealing the heat she's generating beneath it. Your mouth waters just looking at her, tongue dragging across suddenly parched lips.

Your hand comes down on her ass with a sharp crack, the sound startlingly loud in the confined space. She jerks forward, a surprised gasp escaping her lips. The pale skin instantly flushes pink under your palm.

"Hurry up," she demands, looking back at you over her shoulder, eyes dark and glassy with impatience, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of brown remains. She arches her back, pushing her ass against your hand, silently begging for more.

You grip her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave impressions. "Shut the fuck up."

Her breath catches with an audible hitch. You know she loves it when you talk to her like this—can feel it in the goosebumps that rise under your touch, in the way her thighs tremble slightly.

You run your hands up her sides, feeling the heat radiating through the thin fabric, then down to the hem of her dress, bunching the material as you start to lift it. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound that seems obscenely loud in the small space. Your hands slide up her thighs, skin like silk beneath your calloused palms, finding the lace edge of her panties. Black, of course. The contrast against her pale skin is stark and mouthwatering.

Another smack lands on her ass, harder this time. You watch the flesh jiggle under the impact, the imprint of your hand blooming pink against her porcelain skin. "You like that?" you ask, already knowing the answer as she pushes back against you.

"Yes," she hisses, grinding back against your hand. "Again. Harder."

You comply, landing another sharp slap, watching the way her body jerks forward before pressing back, seeking more. "Look at you," you murmur, "So perfect for the cameras, but in here, you're just a dirty little slut who gets wet from being spanked."

She moans at your words, the sound vibrating through her entire body. "Only for you," she whispers, the admission hanging heavy in the air between you.

Spinning her back around, you claim her mouth again, tasting mint and desperation on her tongue as your hand slips between her legs, pressing the lace against her. The fabric is soaked through, warm and clinging to her folds. Her hands are everywhere—gripping your shoulders, sliding down your chest, grabbing at your ass to pull you closer, like she can't get enough of touching you.

"Goddamn," you mutter against her lips, the words a vibration between your connected mouths. "Your pussy's fucking drenched."

You hook your fingers into the lace and yank it aside, the elastic snapping against her thigh. Your middle finger slides through her folds, gathering her wetness, feeling how swollen and ready she is—hot and slick and perfect against your fingertips.

"Look how fucking wet you are," you murmur, watching her face contort with pleasure as you circle her clit, feeling it harden beneath your touch. "Been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"

She whimpers, a high, needy sound that goes straight to your cock as she grinds against your hand. "I told you I've been wet since I woke up," she pants, her breath coming in short, hot puffs against your face. "Thinking about you. About this. About you bending me over and fucking me until I can't remember my own name."

She tries to reach for you, but you catch her wrist with your free hand, her pulse jumping beneath your grip as you pin it above her head against the shelves. The metal is cold against her skin, making her hiss.

"Not yet," you tell her, voice dropping to a growl. "I want you desperate first."

"I'm already desperate," she hisses, trying to rock against your hand, the movement making her belt buckle clink against itself. Her free hand grabs at your shirt, your arm, anywhere she can reach. "Just fuck me already."

You turn her again, pressing her face-first against the metal shelving. The cold surface makes her gasp, back arching instinctively away from it. She braces herself, legs automatically spreading wider on the concrete floor, the heel of her boots making a sharp click as she repositions.

You grab her belt from behind, leather warm from her body heat, using it to arch her back, positioning her ass higher. The positioning makes the dress ride up further, exposing more of her thighs, making her stance more obscene, more perfect.

Another smack lands on her exposed ass, harder than before, the sound cracking through the small room. She jerks forward, a moan ripping from her throat.

"Fucking perfect," you mutter, kneading the flesh you just struck, watching the pink handprint fade and bloom again under your touch. You land another blow on the opposite cheek, evening her out, making her squirm.

The scent of her arousal hits you fully now—musky, sweet, unmistakable. Your mouth waters at the smell of her, cock throbbing painfully in response.

You reach up, fingers finding her hair, gripping the short strands of her bob at the nape of her neck. Not pulling, just holding, controlling. The sensation makes her moan, her head falling back into your grip.

"Please," she whispers, the word a broken, ragged thing as she tries to push back against you.

You keep her in place with your dual grip on her belt and hair. "Please what?"

"Please fuck me," she begs, all teasing gone from her voice, replaced with raw need. "I need your cock inside me. Now."

You release her hair to lean over her, your chest pressing against her back, trapping her heat between your bodies. Your mouth finds her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive lobe. "After all that teasing? All those filthy little comments with people right fucking there?"

You land another hard slap on her ass, watching the flesh redden under your palm. "This what you wanted? Getting your ass slapped while the whole crew is just outside?"

"Yes," she admits, voice small but sure. "Needed it so bad."

You drag the head of your cock through her slick folds, the sensation making both of you groan—her wetness hot and silky against you, making everything gloriously frictionless. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't make you wait longer."

"Because," she pants, voice vibrating with need, "you want this as bad as I do."

She's right, and you both know it.

You guide yourself to her entrance and thrust in with one brutal stroke, burying yourself to the hilt in her tight, clinging heat.

The sound she makes is primal—half gasp, half moan, pure fucking need. Your hand clamps over her mouth immediately, palm registering the warm wetness of her breath, the softness of her lips.

"Shhh," you warn even as you pull back and drive in again, the slick sound of your joining obscenely loud in the small space. "You want the whole fucking staff to hear how you take cock? How their perfect Kim Chaewon is just a dirty little whore in here?"

She shakes her head, but her pussy clenches around you at the words, a vice-like grip that sends stars exploding behind your eyelids. You know she loves the risk, the filth, the knowledge that just outside this door, she's Kim Chaewon of LE SSERAFIM, but in here, she's just yours to use.

"That's what gets you off, isn't it?" you growl against her ear, punctuating each word with a hard thrust. "Knowing they all think you're so sweet, so professional, when really you're in here letting me fuck you raw in a storage room."

Moving your hand from her mouth to her throat, you feel her swallow against your palm, her pulse racing beneath your fingers. You don't squeeze, just hold, feeling the vibrations of her moans traveling through her slender neck.

"That's right," you growl against her ear, teeth scraping the shell. "Remember who you belong to."

Her response is a full-body shudder, her inner walls clenching around you, making you groan at the sensation.

You fuck her hard, each thrust making her body jolt against the shelves. The metal creaks ominously, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin, the harsh sounds of your combined breathing. Your hand comes down on her ass again, the sting making her gasp, her pussy clenching around you in response.

"You love that, don't you?" you murmur, watching the red handprint bloom on her pale skin. "Love getting your ass slapped while your tight little pussy gets stretched around my cock."

"Yes," she admits, voice breaking around the word. "Love it. Love everything you do to me."

Without pulling out, you grab her left thigh and lift it, the smooth leather of her boot sliding against your palm as you plant her foot against a lower shelf. The new position opens her up, lets you sink even deeper into her molten core.

"Fuck," she whimpers, head falling forward against her braced arm, the tendons in her neck standing out in sharp relief.

"That's it," you growl, watching yourself disappear inside her over and over, mesmerized by the sight of her taking you, by the glistening evidence of her arousal coating you. "Take it deeper."

You grip her belt with one hand, bunching her dress even higher with the other until it's completely out of the way. The sight of her perfect ass jiggling with each impact makes your head swim, blood rushing in your ears. It's already pink from your earlier attention, the skin warm to the touch.

Your hand slides up her spine to grip her hair again, this time with purpose. You gather the short strands in your fist, tugging just enough to make her back arch further, to make her gasp, throat exposed and vulnerable.

"Look at you," you say, voice rough with exertion, the words punched out of you with each thrust. "LE SSERAFIM's perfect leader, taking cock in a storage room, being such a whore. Such a pretty little slut with your ass all red from my hands, your pussy dripping all over my cock."

She pushes back against you, taking you deeper, her body greedily swallowing every inch. "Harder," she demands, voice breaking on the word. "Fuck me harder. Make me feel it tomorrow."

You grip both her hips now, fingers digging into soft flesh, and pick up the pace. The new angle has you hitting that spot inside her that makes her whole body tremble, makes her walls flutter and clench around you. The wet sounds of her pussy taking your cock fill the small space—obscene, filthy, perfect.

"You're so fucking tight," you groan, feeling her walls grip you like a silken vice. "Squeezing my cock like you're trying to milk it dry."

You switch your grip, one hand finding her throat again, feeling her swallow against your palm as you apply the gentlest pressure. Just enough to remind her who's in control, to make her breath catch. Your other hand comes down hard on her ass again, the smack loud enough to make you both freeze for a second, worried it might have been heard outside.

"You've been a fucking menace all day," you growl, your pace relentless, the sound of your bodies coming together a wet percussion. "Strutting around in this dress, whispering that shit in my ear, touching me under the table."

Your grip on her throat tightens fractionally, making her pulse jump against your fingers. Her only response is to push back harder, taking you deeper, her body yielding and demanding all at once.

"You'd let me do anything to you, wouldn't you?" you ask, voice low and rough in her ear. "Slap your ass, pull your hair, fuck you where anyone could walk in and see you—see what a desperate little whore you really are."

"Yes," she admits, the confession barely audible. "Anything. Everything."

The tension builds between you, a tangible thing in the small, overheated room. The air is thick with the scent of sex, with the sounds of pleasure barely contained, with the electric certainty that this is exactly where you both need to be.

You change the angle again, leaning over her back to reach around to her front. The new position grinds your pelvis against her ass with each thrust, your cock hitting new spots inside her. Your fingers find her clit, circling it in tight, firm motions, feeling it swell and harden under your touch.

"Oh fuck," she gasps, her inner walls fluttering around you like wings. "Right there, don't stop."

You don't stop. You keep up the relentless pace, feeling her get wetter around you with each stroke, her arousal making everything slick and hot and perfect. Your fingers on her clit get slicker, the combination of her arousal and your spit making obscene wet sounds that mix with the slap of skin on skin.

"That's right, take it just like that," you encourage, voice strained. "Take it like the cock-hungry little slut you are."

Instead of being offended, she moans louder, her body responding to your words as much as to your touch. You know exactly what she likes to hear, exactly how far to push the fantasy of degradation that excites her so much.

The pleasure is so intense you have to grit your teeth to keep from coming too soon. Three weeks without this—without her tight heat squeezing you, without her desperate little sounds, without the feeling of being buried inside her—has left you balanced on a knife's edge of control.

"You close?" you ask, voice strained, the words feeling like they're being ripped from your chest.

"Yes," she pants, the word almost a sob. "So close."

You reach up with your free hand, tangling your fingers in her hair again, carefully pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her neck, watching the muscles work beneath the skin as she swallows. You bend to press open-mouthed kisses along her shoulder, right where the dress leaves her skin bare, tasting salt and sweetness.

"Think about this tomorrow," you murmur against her skin, lips dragging over the goosebumps your breath creates. "When you're sitting in meetings, when you're in practice, when you're smiling for the cameras—remember how fucked you look right now. Remember how your ass felt getting spanked while my cock was inside you. Remember what a perfect little whore you are for me."

Her breath catches. Her pussy clenches around you. She's right on the edge, her body wound tight as a bowstring.

"Remember you're fucking mine," you growl, punctuating the words with a particularly deep thrust that makes her cry out before she can stop herself, the sound sharp and startling in the quiet room.

You cover her mouth again, palm feeling the heat of her breath, the wetness of her lips, but it's too late—the sound echoed in the small room. Both of you freeze, hearts pounding, listening for any reaction from outside.

Nothing. Just the continued sounds of the busy set.

The moment of fear transforms quickly back into desperate need. Your thrusts become harder, deeper, more deliberate. Her body responds with renewed hunger, pushing back to meet you stroke for stroke, the rhythm between you perfect and instinctive.

Your hand slips from her mouth to her throat, not squeezing, just feeling her pulse race under your palm, feeling the vibrations of her moans travel through your fingertips.

"You gonna come for me?" you ask, feeling your own orgasm building at the base of your spine, heat coiling tight and insistent. "Gonna come all over my cock like the needy little slut you are?"

She nods frantically, beyond words now. Her body tightens around you, clenching with each thrust, the pressure building visibly in the arch of her back, the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers curl against the metal shelf.

You can feel your own release building, the tight grip of her pussy dragging you toward the edge. You've been thinking about this for weeks—dreaming about it, jerking off to memories of it—and now you're finally here, buried inside her, both of you desperate and filthy and perfect.

Her breath hitches. Her pussy flutters around your cock. You know the signs—she's right there, teetering on the precipice.

One more hard slap on her ass, the sting making her gasp, her inner walls clenching around you in response.

You lower her leg from the shelf, repositioning her with both feet on the ground, but spread wide. You grip her belt again with one hand, keeping up the pressure on her clit with the other. The new angle has you grinding against that spot inside her that makes her go crazy, makes her whole body tremble.

"Come on," you urge, your own control slipping, voice rough and broken. "Come on my cock, Chaewon. Let me feel it. Let me feel what a fucking whore you are for me."

Her body responds instantly, like your words were the final trigger she needed. She buries her face against her arm to muffle the sound as her orgasm rips through her, her pussy clamping down on you in rhythmic pulses, a flood of warmth surrounding you. Her legs shake so hard you have to hold her up with the grip on her belt, feeling the tremors travel through her entire body.

The sight of her completely wrecked, the feel of her convulsing around you, the knowledge that you did this to her—it all sends you over the edge. You thrust deep one last time, grinding against her ass as you come, filling her up with pulse after pulse, the pleasure so intense it's almost pain, radiating from your core to the tips of your fingers, the backs of your knees, the top of your skull.

"Fuck, Chaewon, fuck," you chant, forehead pressed between her shoulder blades as you empty yourself inside her, feeling the way she milks every drop from you, her body greedy even in its exhaustion.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of ragged breathing, your heartbeats gradually slowing from their frantic pace, the distant muffled voices of the set filtering back into your awareness.

You're still inside her, softening but reluctant to break the connection. Her body occasionally trembles with aftershocks, her pussy giving your cock little squeezes that make you hiss with oversensitivity, the sensation bordering on too much.

You run your hand gently over her ass, soothing the skin you'd been striking moments ago. It's still warm to the touch, a faint pink that will fade before she has to be back on set. Your touch is gentle now, a stark contrast to the roughness from before.

"You okay?" you murmur against her ear, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck.

"Better than okay," she whispers back, voice wrecked but satisfied.

Eventually, you pull out slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. You watch as a trickle of your come leaks from her, sliding down her inner thigh. The sight sends a possessive thrill through you, primal and satisfying.

She straightens, turning to face you. Her makeup is smeared, her lips swollen and red, her cheeks flushed. Her eyes have that dazed, satisfied look that only comes after she's been thoroughly fucked. A thin sheen of sweat makes her skin glow under the fluorescent light. Her short hair is disheveled where you'd gripped it, sticking up in places that you smooth down with gentle fingers.

You grab tissues from a box on the shelf, gently cleaning between her legs. She watches you, a soft smile playing on her lips—so different from the smirk she's been tormenting you with all day.

"Did I hurt you?" you ask, suddenly aware of how rough you were, eyes searching for marks on her throat, her wrists, her hips, ghosting your fingers over her ass where you'd struck her.

She shakes her head, running her fingers through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. "Babe, It was perfect."

You retrieve her safety shorts from the floor and help her back into them, then smooth down her dress. Your hands linger on her waist, not quite ready to let go, feeling the warmth of her through the fabric.

A smirk forms slowly on her face, eyes glittering with mischief as she leans in close, her breath warm against your ear. "Think they heard?"

You press a final kiss to her shoulder, lingering there, inhaling deeply—tasting salt and perfume and her, that essence that's uniquely Chaewon beneath the expensive fragrance. Your lips trace a path to the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, feeling her pulse still racing beneath your mouth.

"Not if you keep your mouth shut next time," you murmur against her skin, unable to resist giving her one more gentle bite.

She hums, the sound vibrating against your lips. "But where's the fun in that?" she whispers, that familiar playful defiance in her voice.

As she attempts to take a step back, her legs buckle. She grabs your shoulders to steady herself, her usual composure completely absent, the bratty confidence from seconds ago vanishing.

"I can't move," she whispers, voice wrecked, blinking up at you with unfocused eyes. All the sharp edges of her personality momentarily dissolved, leaving her soft and vulnerable in a way no one else ever sees. "My legs won't work."

"Good," you murmur, unable to hide your satisfaction as you press a kiss to her forehead, supporting her weight. You hold her close for a moment, feeling the way she melts against you, completely undone.

After a moment, that familiar glint of mischief gradually returns to her eyes. The transformation is beginning; the desperate, wrecked woman slowly rebuilding herself into the polished idol.

In this moment, with her guard completely down, she looks younger, softer. The harsh fluorescent lighting should be unflattering, but somehow it just makes her look more real—smudged eyeshadow, faint red marks on her throat where your fingers were, her hair disheveled despite her attempts to smooth it. For a few seconds more, she's just yours.

She reaches up, her hand cupping your cheek with surprising tenderness. Her eyes, usually sharp and mischievous, soften as she looks at you. She leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—so different from the desperate ones you shared minutes ago. This one is deliberate, unhurried.

"I love you," she whispers against your mouth, the words barely audible but unmistakable. It's not something she says often—both of you knowing how dangerous those words can be in your situation.

Your hand comes up to cover hers where it rests against your face, holding her there for a moment. "I love you too," you reply quietly, the words filling the small space between you. "Even when you're being a menace."

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "Especially when I'm being a menace," she corrects, and you can't help but smile.

You glare at her playfully, and she giggles—the sound at complete odds with what just happened, with the filthy things you both just did, with the woman who was begging for your cock and calling herself your whore minutes ago. The contrast is jarring and perfect; this duality of hers that only you get to witness.

She leans in and kisses you deeply, but without the desperate edge from before. This kiss is softer, a promise.

When she pulls back, you can see the clock ticking in her head. Reality intruding.

"You go first," you say, checking your watch. "They'll be looking for you. The shoot needs to wrap in twenty minutes."

She nods, takes a deep breath, and you watch in fascination as she transforms back into LE SSERAFIM's leader right before your eyes. Her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts, her expression becomes more controlled. It's like watching an actress step into character—except you know both versions are equally real.

She checks her reflection in her phone, adjusts her belt, smooths her hair with practiced precision. Only you would notice the slight tremble in her fingers, the pink marks on her hips where your hands were, the satisfied glow in her eyes that the camera won't quite catch but you can see clearly.

"How do I look?" she asks, voice steady now, almost back to the professional tone she uses with everyone else.

Like she's just been thoroughly fucked. Like her thighs are still sticky with both of you. Like she's hiding a universe of secrets behind that poised expression. Like she's yours.

"Perfect," you say instead, swallowing the possessive thoughts.

She smiles—not the coy smirk from before, but something genuine that crinkles the corners of her eyes. Then it's gone, replaced by the polished mask she wears for everyone else.

Just as you think she's about to leave, she presses one last kiss to your jaw, her fingers trailing down your chest with deliberate slowness. Her lips move to your ear, breath hot against your skin.

"I'll be thinking about this all night," she whispers, voice dropping to that register that makes your pulse quicken despite your recent release. Then, even lower, just for you: "And touching myself the second I get back to the dorm."

Before you can respond, she's slipped out the door with a final squeeze of your hand, leaving you alone in the storage room with her promise echoing in your mind, the scent of sex still hanging in the air, mingling with her perfume.

You give it two minutes before following, clipboard held strategically in front of you, expression carefully neutral as you adjust your own mask—the efficient manager, all business.

By the time you return, Chaewon is already back on set, taking direction for the next shot, nodding professionally at the photographer's instructions. Her posture is immaculate, her expression perfectly calibrated—looking as composed and professional as if she'd just been touching up her makeup instead of being bent over a shelf with your hand prints on her ass.

No one looks at her twice. No one notices the way she stands slightly differently, favoring one leg. No one sees the slight darkening at the base of her throat where your mouth had been.

You watch from behind the monitor, maintaining a careful distance, occasionally checking your phone or making notes on your clipboard. The perfect picture of professionalism.

She gets into position, poised and beautiful under the lights, following direction flawlessly. The camera loves her—captures her elegance, her poise, but misses completely the woman you know.

Then she glances directly at the camera, and for just a second—

The look she gives—half-lidded eyes, the barest hint of teeth catching her lower lip, a fleeting microexpression of remembered pleasure—that's just for you.

And you know, watching her seamlessly return to her perfect idol persona, that you'll both be counting the minutes until you can be alone again.

...

AN: Yes I'm a certified CHAEWON simp. This is strike 3 chaewon from me with more coming.

[luckyroll3]

Picture Perfect

Summary: After experiencing loads of chemistry with Chan during a magazine photoshoot, your insomnia leads to a chance encounter with him late night at the hotel pool that turns into an intimate one-on-one private photography session.

Chan x Reader (f); Smut; Fluff

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Word Count: 15,451

You arrive at the studio two hours before the scheduled shoot, the weight of your camera bag a familiar comfort against your hip. The space smells of cleaner and expensive equipment, a scent you've come to associate with the peculiar blend of anxiety and control that defines your work. Your footsteps echo across the polished concrete floor as you flick on the industrial lights, transforming the cavernous room from shadow to clinical brightness. Today’s subjects are from Stray Kids; they’re a global sensation, eight impossibly photogenic men. 

This is huge for you and you refuse to be anything less than impeccable.

The studio assistant has already arranged the sets according to your specifications, but you double-check everything anyway. Your reputation for perfectionism precedes you in the industry; it's how you landed this high-profile job in the first place. You adjust a reflector panel by two inches, tweaking the angle until the light bounces exactly right. Not harsh, not flat. Perfect.

You examine the concept boards propped on sleek easels with minimalist black frames housing images of striking contrasts and bold silhouettes. The brief called for "raw authenticity with polish," whatever the hell that means. But you understand the visual language behind the marketing jargon. These men need to look accessible yet untouchable, human yet godlike. The contradiction that sells.

Crouching beside your primary camera, you check the settings for the ninth time. Your fingers dance across the dials with practiced precision, muscle memory taking over as you mentally run through your shot list. Background music flows through hidden speakers; something ambient and unobtrusive, selected to create the illusion of calm in a space that will soon vibrate with heightened energy.

"Checking the histogram?" asks your assistant, materializing with a clipboard and a coffee that's more cream than caffeine.

"Always." You straighten up, rolling your shoulders to release the tension gathering there. "Did the stylist confirm the wardrobe arrived?"

Before she can answer, the atmosphere shifts. The front door swings open, and suddenly the air in the room feels electrified. You hear them before you see them; laughter, rapid-fire Korean interspersed with English, the unmistakable sound of a group that shares years of inside jokes and comfortable chaos.

Stray Kids spill into the studio like paint splashing onto canvas; They are vibrant, impossible to ignore, instantly transforming the space. Your eyes dart from face to face, mentally matching them to the brief profiles you'd studied. The tall one with the intense gaze must be Hyunjin. The one with the angelic features and impossibly deep voice has to be Felix. The one joking loudly and making exaggerated hand gestures is probably Changbin.

While your assistant scurries to greet them formally, you hang back, observing. It's part of your process, watching subjects before they know they're being watched often reveals the most authentic versions of themselves. The group moves like a single organism with eight distinct personalities, a choreography of friendship that speaks of a long-term shared experience.

And then, separated slightly from the playful chaos, your eyes lock with his. Bang Chan. The leader. You'd recognize those dimples anywhere, those intelligent eyes that seem to register everything at once. While the others are still shrugging off jackets and exclaiming over the studio setup, he approaches you directly, purposeful and present.

"Good morning," he says simply, extending his hand. His voice carries a hint of Australia in the vowels, a warmth that seems both professional and personal. "You must be our photographer for today."

His hand meets yours, and the contact sends an unexpected current up your arm. Static electricity, you tell yourself. The dry studio air. Nothing more.

You gave him a calm, practiced smile. "That's me," you respond, impressed by how steady your voice sounds despite the ridiculous flutter in your chest. “And you must be the one they warned me about.”

That earned you a soft chuckle. “Guilty. But I have a feeling they probably warned you about all eight of us.”

"You’re right. ‘Complete and utter chaos’, they said,” you confirm with a smirk. “Welcome to the studio. I've been looking forward to working with you all."

Chan's smile deepens, dimples appearing like punctuation marks on his face. "We've heard great things. Your work with that indie rock band last month, MindSweep, was incredible."

The fact that he's familiar with your portfolio catches you off guard. Most celebrities arrive prepped only with the bare minimum about the shoot itself.

"You've done your research," you say, allowing a small smile.

"Always." His eyes hold yours a beat longer than necessary. "It's important to know who's capturing your image, don't you think?"

Before you can respond, the management team arrives, breaking the moment with schedules and logistics. You slip back into professional mode, addressing the group as a whole, explaining your vision for the shoot, how you'll be working with each of them individually and as a unit.

"We'll start with group shots, then break into individual sessions," you explain, gesturing toward the main set. "The concept is contrast; light against shadow, structured against fluid. I want to capture the duality that defines your group."

As you speak, you notice Chan watching you with an intensity that makes your skin warm. Not a critical stare, but something appreciative; like he's seeing more than just another industry professional running through a routine.

The shoot begins, and you fall into the familiar rhythm of direction and capture. Your voice becomes firm, confident, all business as you position the group, adjust lighting, suggest angles. This is where you shine; behind the lens, control at your fingertips, seeing what others don't.

"Changbin, chin slightly lower. Seungmin, quarter turn to your right. Felix, that's perfect; hold that expression."

Through your viewfinder, eight faces transform under your guidance. You work quickly, efficiently, calling out adjustments and praise in equal measure. But no matter where you point your camera, you keep finding your focus pulled to Chan. The way he positions himself naturally, understanding the composition before you have to explain it. The subtle shift in his expression when the shutter clicks; somehow more present, more aware of the lens than the others.

"Chan, can you move slightly to center? Perfect." Your voice betrays nothing, but when he follows your direction with a knowing half-smile, something unspoken passes between you.

Two hours in, you're reviewing images on your monitor when you sense him behind you, close enough that you can smell the faint notes of his cologne. It’s something woody with subtle hints of vanilla.

"How are we doing?" he asks, voice low near your ear.

You scroll through the images, hyperaware of his presence at your shoulder. "Great. Your group photographs well together."

"Professional harmony," he says with a light laugh. "Over eight years of practice."

"It shows." You stop on a particularly striking image of him, the studio lights catching the angles of his face in a way that emphasizes both strength and vulnerability. "You have a natural instinct for the camera."

"Maybe it's the photographer," he counters, and you refuse to look up, focusing intently on the screen to hide the flush that threatens to rise to your cheeks.

When you move to individual shots, the energy shifts again. Each member brings a different presence to the set: I.N with his fashion-forward confidence; Hyunjin with his intense, almost theatrical expressions; Lee Know with his effortless cool that makes every frame look like an editorial spread.

During Han's session, you catch Chan watching from the sidelines, his gaze moving between you and the set with quiet assessment. When he catches you noticing, he doesn't look away. Instead, he offers that same half-smile that somehow makes you feel both seen and challenged.

"Chan, you're up next," you call after concluding with Seungmin, who thanks you with surprising formality before bouncing back to make fun of Changbin, who promptly pulls the younger member into a headlock.

Chan steps into the light with an ease that speaks of countless photoshoots, but there's something different about his demeanor now; a focused intensity directed at you rather than the camera. As you approach to adjust his position, your hand briefly touches his shoulder, and the contact, though professional, feels charged with meaning.

"Turn slightly toward the light," you instruct, your voice lower than intended. "I want to capture the contrast between shadow and illumination on your face."

He complies, but his eyes remain fixed on yours rather than looking into the lens. "Like this?"

You step closer, reaching up to adjust the angle of his jaw with your fingertips. The touch is clinical, something you've done with countless models, but your pulse quickens embarrassingly.

"Almost. Look past the camera, not at it. I'm trying to capture contemplation."

He holds the pose perfectly, and you retreat behind your camera, grateful for the barrier. Through the viewfinder, you see him differently; fragmented into composition, light, and form. It's easier to maintain professionalism when reducing him to artistic elements.

"Perfect," you murmur, capturing frame after frame. "Now, relax your shoulders,” you say, voice low. “Think less magazine cover, more… album you made for yourself but never released.”

His brow arches with amused curiosity, but he follows your direction. And when he exhales, the wall drops. The image you capture in that instant is breathtaking; it makes your heart skip.

“Now, don’t move but look directly at the lens."

When he does, the intensity in his gaze seems to bypass the camera entirely, connecting with you despite the equipment between you. Your finger hesitates on the shutter for a fraction of a second before continuing.

Throughout his individual session, you maintain the appearance of cool professionalism, but there's an undeniable current running beneath each exchange. His responses to your direction come just a beat slower than necessary, as if he's considering each word. When you show him a particularly striking image on the camera display, his shoulder presses against yours briefly, and neither of you moves away.

Chan hovers near your table as you scroll through the preview reel on your laptop.

“Got a favorite yet?” he asks.

You tilt the screen toward him. One of him leaning against a pillar, looking half-bored, half-thoughtful. 

He laughs. “I look like I just told someone they disappointed me.” 

“It’s honest,” you say. “People like honesty.” 

Your eyes meet again. Something soft flickered there; recognition, maybe. Or curiosity.

"I like how you see things," he says quietly, for your ears alone.

The final group shots are a controlled chaos of eight bodies and distinct personalities coming together under your direction. You navigate around the set, occasionally brushing past Chan as you reposition lights or adjust compositions. Each momentary contact feels deliberate on both sides, though nothing could be proven.

From across the room, you notice Felix whispering something to Seungmin while glancing between you and Chan. Seungmin responds with an eye roll that dissolves into a knowing smile. They've noticed something; perhaps the same electrical current you've been trying to ignore.

"Last set," you announce, positioning the group for the final concept. "I want movement in this one; natural interaction, nothing posed."

They fall into comfortable chaos: Changbin playfully headlocking Seungmin, Hyunjin dramatically posing while Han pretends to faint at his beauty, Lee Know trying to kiss I.N. while the youngest recoils in horror as he laughs, and Felix grinning brightly at all the chaos. Chan maintains his position slightly apart, his eyes finding yours over the top of your camera with unmistakable intent. When Han yells something loudly in Korean, Chan breaks the intense eye contact and dissolves into a fit of giggles.

You capture it all: the friendship, the playfulness, the subtle thread of tension that runs between you and the group's leader. In the viewfinder, they're just images, compositions of light and shadow. But the feeling in the studio, particularly when Chan's gaze meets yours, that's something no camera can fully capture.

When you finally call the shoot complete, the group erupts in relieved laughter and thank-yous. As they gather their personal items and the stylists begin packing up, Chan lingers near the equipment, examining your camera setup with genuine interest.

"This lens," he says, gesturing but not touching, respectful of your equipment. "It's the same one you used for that editorial last spring, isn't it? The one with all the dramatic shadows."

The fact that he remembers such a specific detail about your work catches you off-guard again. "Good eye," you reply, impressed despite yourself. "Most people wouldn't notice the difference."

He shrugs, a casual gesture that somehow manages to highlight the line of his shoulders. "I pay attention to things that interest me."

The statement hangs in the air between you, ambiguous enough to be professional, specific enough to be something more. Before you can respond, his manager calls him over to discuss scheduling, and the moment stretches thin, unresolved.

As the group prepares to leave, Chan turns back, catching your eye across the now-cluttered studio. The smile he offers is different from the ones he's given all day; smaller, more private, like a secret between the two of you. You nod slightly in acknowledgment, already knowing that the photographs you've captured today, technically perfect as they may be, won't fully convey what passed unspoken between photographer and subject.

You're coiling the last of the lighting cables as the clamor of eight voices, stylists' directions, and management's hurried phone calls has dissolved into a humming silence punctuated only by the soft clicks of your equipment being packed away. The overhead lights have dimmed to their evening setting, casting the space in a warm glow that softens the industrial edges of the room. You look up to find Chan standing by the door, one shoulder propped against the frame, watching you with a quiet intensity that makes your hands fumble slightly with the cable. You didn't realize he had stayed behind.

"I thought you left with the others," you say, voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet studio. You loop the cable with methodical precision, focusing on the task to maintain composure.

"The others went ahead to dinner." His voice carries easily across the space between you. "I told them I'd catch up."

You nod, placing the coiled cable in its designated case. The studio feels smaller somehow with just the two of you in it, as though the walls have inched closer. Your movements are deliberate, professional, a contrast to the inexplicable nervousness fluttering beneath your ribs.

"Everything go okay with the shoot?" you ask, though you already know the answer. The images captured today were some of your best work, partly due to the subject matter, though you're reluctant to admit that to him.

Chan pushes away from the doorframe and moves into the room with unhurried confidence. His presence seems amplified in the emptiness, drawing your attention even as you pretend to focus on closing equipment cases and checking memory cards.

"Better than okay," he says, approaching your workstation where the monitor still displays the last image you were reviewing, coincidentally, one of him, eyes direct and challenging the camera. "I've done hundreds of these, you know. But this one felt different."

You glance up, meeting his gaze. "Different how?"

He considers the question, running a hand through his tousled hair in a gesture that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Most photographers see what they want to see. You seemed to be looking for what was actually there."

The compliment catches you off guard. It’s specific, thoughtful, not the generic praise you typically receive. You turn away, suddenly conscious of how close he's standing, his presence radiating a warmth that has nothing to do with the studio lighting.

"That's the job," you respond, closing the laptop with a soft click. "Finding the truth in the performance."

Chan makes a sound that’s half laugh, half acknowledgement. "Is that what you think I was doing? Performing?"

You look up at him again, allowing yourself a moment of professional assessment. "Everyone performs in front of a camera. It's human nature."

"And what about now?" He gestures to the empty studio. "No camera. No audience. Am I still performing?"

The question hangs between you, weighted with implication. His expression is open, curious, with something simmering beneath the surface that quickens your pulse.

"I don't know," you answer honestly. Most of the celebrities you meet are always on, camera or not, audience or not. "Are you?"

His smile appears slowly, creating those dimples that the camera loves so much. In the softened studio light, they appear deeper, more intimate somehow.

He ignores your question. "Thank you," he says suddenly, the phrase landing with unexpected significance.

You tilt your head slightly. "For the shoot? Just doing my job."

"No." He shakes his head, taking another step closer. "For seeing us, seeing me, the way you did. The pictures were..." he searches for the word, "honest."

You find yourself mirroring his movement, drawn forward by some invisible pull until barely two feet separate you. The air feels charged, like the moment before a flash fires.

"Honesty makes for better art," you say, your voice dropping to match the intimate atmosphere that's developed around you both.

"Is that what brought you to photography? The pursuit of honesty?" His questions feel deeper than the typical post-shoot small talk, probing gently at your passion rather than just your process.

You consider how to answer, surprised by your desire to offer something genuine rather than the practiced responses you usually give. "Partly. I like finding the moments between the moments, I guess. The truth that exists when people think no one's watching."

Chan's eyes hold yours, and for a second, you feel as exposed as if you were the one in front of the lens. "Like how you were watching me today when you thought I wouldn't notice?"

Heat rises to your face, and you're grateful for the dim lighting. "I was doing my job," you counter, though the defense sounds weak even to your ears.

"Very thoroughly," he agrees, the teasing lilt in his voice making your stomach flip. "Especially during my individual session. I counted at least twice as many shots as the others got."

"Some subjects require more work," you reply, surprising yourself with the boldness of your response.

He laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet studio. "Ouch. Is that how you talk to all your clients?"

"Only the ones who hang around after hours to critique my process."

"Not critiquing," he corrects, his hand coming to rest casually on the edge of the desk, inches from your own. "Appreciating."

The proximity of his fingers to yours creates a tangible tension, a magnetic field you feel compelled to either break or complete. You remain still, neither of you retreating or advancing.

"You know," Chan continues, his voice lower now, "I requested you specifically for this shoot."

This admission is surprising. "You did?"

He nods, eyes never leaving yours. "Your work has this... rawness to it. Even with all the commercial gloss, there's something uncalculated about your images. It's rare in this industry."

You find yourself momentarily speechless, touched by the specificity of his observation. Most people in his position would hardly give a second thought to who was behind the camera.

"I’m sure the label had several options," you say, recovering. "I assumed they made the final call."

"They did… after I made my preference clear." His fingers drum lightly on the desk, still tantalizingly close to yours. "I can be persuasive when I decide I want something."

There's that unspoken current again, running beneath his words, charging the exchange with meaning that extends beyond professional admiration. You should probably create some distance, maintain the boundary between photographer and subject, but your feet remain rooted to the spot.

"Well, I'm flattered," you say, aiming for nonchalance despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Though you might be overestimating my talent."

"I don't think so." His response is immediate, genuine.

Your phone vibrates on the desk, breaking the moment. You glance down to see your assistant's text asking if everything wrapped up okay and if you need her to come back. The real world intruding on whatever bubble had formed around you and Chan.

"I should finish packing up," you say, though most of the equipment is already secured.

Chan straightens, giving you space, though reluctance is evident in his posture. "Of course. I didn't mean to keep you."

You busy yourself with the remaining equipment, aware of his presence as he moves to the doorway again, one hand coming to rest on the pillar in a casual pose that somehow manages to highlight the lean strength of his body. Even in this unguarded moment, he's naturally photogenic, and your fingers itch for your camera.

"I meant what I said about your work," he says as you shoulder your camera bag. "It's special. You see things others miss."

You allow yourself to meet his gaze again, abandoning the pretense of professional detachment. "And what do you think I see when I look at you, Chan?"

The question is bolder than you intended, stripping away the polite veneer that's characterized your interaction so far. His expression shifts, surprise giving way to something darker, more intense.

"I'm not sure," he answers honestly. "But I'd like to find out." There’s a smirk on his face that you try to ignore as you sling your tote bag around your body and pick up your box of equipment.

You move toward the door where he stands, knowing you need to leave but reluctant to end whatever this is. As you approach, he remains in place, his body creating a partial barrier that will require you to pass close to him.

“Thank you again for today,” he says softly. “You’ve got a really calm energy. Kind of rare in rooms like this.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Thank you for being a great subject,” you respond as you readjust the box to hold your hand out to him. “Hopefully I’ll get to work with your group again.”

He takes your hand in his and squeezes gently. “Hopefully.” He holds onto your hand for a second too long, before releasing.

As you move by him, he remains close enough that your shoulder brushes against his chest, a contact that could be dismissed as accidental but feels entirely deliberate.

At the threshold, you pause and look back at him, standing in the glow of the studio, somehow looking like he belongs there. The day has been a symphony of unspoken communication, charged glances, and professional pretense masking growing attraction. Now, on the cusp of leaving, that attraction crystallizes into something palpable enough to touch.

As you finally turn to leave, his voice follows you one last time.

"And for the record," he says, "I wasn't performing today. Not with you."

You glance back over your shoulder, allowing yourself one last look at his face, memorizing the way the fading light catches his features. "I know," you reply simply. "That's what made it interesting."

His answering smile follows you out the door.

****

You stare at the hotel ceiling, counting the tiny stucco bumps until your eyes cross and uncross. Sleep is playing hard to get tonight, flirting with your consciousness before ghosting you completely. The digital clock on the nightstand flashes 2:17 AM like it's mocking you. Your body also still hums from the shoot. You’re creatively energized and emotionally restless thanks to the residual adrenaline, as your mind replays today's session on an endless loop, specifically the moments when Chan's eyes found yours over the camera lens, the way his voice dropped when speaking only to you. 

You reach for your phone, then think better of it. Your brain won't be silenced by another mindless scroll through social media or the muted sitcom reruns playing on the hotel TV.

"Fuck it," you whisper to the empty room half an hour later. With a frustrated sigh, you kick off the suffocating sheets and pad to your suitcase. If sleep is determined to evade you, you might as well do something about it. You pull out the yellow bikini you packed out of habit and a thin cotton cover-up that's seen better days but feels like an old friend against your skin. Hotels equal pools equal bikinis; simple traveler's math.

The elevator ascends silently as it carries you to the rooftop, the mirrors reflecting a woman caught in the liminal space between exhaustion and alertness. You pad across the marbled hallway and stop at the glass doors. According to the information packet in your room, the pool closes at midnight, but your keycard still grants access. Either someone forgot to update the system, or night swimming is the hotel's unspoken perk for insomniacs. You push through the glass doors into the night.

The rooftop deck appears as a midnight oasis, the pool a rectangle of liquid sapphire, illuminated from below by lights that pulse gently between shades of blue as moonlight dances across the water’s surface. The water glitters under the night sky, empty and peaceful, while silver patterns shift and reform with each gentle ripple. The city sprawls below in a patchwork of lights, but up here exists in a bubble of quiet separate from the urban pulse.

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

You kick off your flip flops and drop the cover-up onto a lounge chair, its fabric forming a crumpled shape. You slip into the pool without ceremony, sighing as the warmth wraps around your skin when you slide beneath the surface. This is exactly what you needed, something real and immediate to wash away the day’s lingering electricity.

You float on your back, eyes open to the vast spill of stars above, letting your thoughts dissolve into the gentle lap of water against the pool’s edge. Your eyes gently close as the water plugs your ears against the world, creating a private universe as the silence holds you.

A splash shatters your tranquil solitude. It’s almost silent, signifying the execution of a clean dive.

You jerk upright, treading water, as a figure cuts through the water just below the surface with practiced grace and professional looking strokes, powerful arms slicing through the blue. When the swimmer surfaces with a satisfied inhale and exhale and pushes hair back from his face, your heart performs a complicated gymnastic routine against your ribs.

Chan.

He freezes and his eyes widen when they meet yours, recognition sparking between you like the underwater lights reflecting on the pool's surface. His surprised expression mirrors your own.

"Oh," he says, his Australian accent coating the syllable in honey as he treads water. "I didn't think anyone else was… I can go if you want privacy."

"No!" The word comes out louder, quicker than you intended. "I mean, it’s fine; it's a big pool. Plenty of room for two insomniacs."

His laugh is low and warm, creating ripples around his shoulders where they break the water's plane. "Is that what we are? Fellow members of the Can't Sleep Club?"

"Charter members," you confirm, treading water at what feels like a respectful distance. "I was halfway through counting those ceiling bumps when I had to bail."

Chan grins, accompanied by those infamous dimples. "I was writing lyrics in my head. Same ones I've been stuck on for three days. Figured maybe they'd flow better in water."

"Does that work? The water thing?"

He makes a so-so gesture with his hand, droplets flying from his fingertips like tiny diamonds. "Sometimes. Water, shower, driving; places where your body's busy but your mind can wander. You know what I mean?"

You do. You tell him about your own creative process, surprised at how the conversation flows easily, the water providing a buffer against the awkwardness of speaking with someone you spent the day assessing and photographing.

“What about you? What’s keeping you up?”

"Same disease, different symptoms." You don't mention that he, specifically, has been the primary thought keeping you awake. "The ceiling in my room was starting to mock me."

Chan laughs, the sound echoing slightly in the open-air space. "Mine was definitely judging my life choices."

He swims closer with lazy, confident strokes, coming to rest a respectful distance away. Water beads across his shoulders and collarbones, catching the moonlight like scattered diamonds.

"So," he begins, "do you crash hotel pools after 2 AM often, or am I witnessing a rare event?"

"Only when particularly photogenic boy band leaders keep me from sleeping," you quip before you can stop yourself.

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a horrifying second, you think you've overstepped. Then his face cracks into a grin. "Oh? And here I thought it was my sparkling personality that made an impression."

"That too," you concede, relaxing into the banter. "Though your dimples did most of the heavy lifting."

He splashes a small wave of water in your direction, the playful gesture breaking any remaining tension. "And here I spent all those years developing my musical talents when I could've just smiled my way to success."

You splash him back without hesitation. "Don't sell yourself short. Your music isn’t that bad,” you add with a smirk, causing him to laugh loudly.

"You’re funny. So do you leave tomorrow?" he asks, gliding even closer, his body a shadow beneath the illuminated water.

"Yeah, I'm covering a music festival in Austin on Saturday for an online magazine. Arts and culture beat."

"We fly out tomorrow too. We have a couple performances in Tokyo before heading back to Seoul." His gaze holds yours a beat longer than necessary, and the water suddenly feels warmer against your skin.

The two of you drift into an easy conversation. You talk about music; not just his, though you do mention a B-side from their last album that you particularly love, watching his face light up with pride. He asks thoughtful questions about your work, listening with his whole body, nodding and responding in ways that make it clear he's not just waiting for his turn to speak.

He’s different in this setting: looser, softer. He's not Bang Chan the performer right now; he's just Chan, a guy with tired eyes and a bright smile that seems to pull from somewhere genuine. And when you laugh together, it doesn’t feel like a first-time thing. It feels familiar.

"That's exactly what I was trying to express in that track," he says, after you describe how a certain chord progression in one of his songs made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something both terrifying and beautiful. "Like you're about to jump, and you don't know if you'll fly or fall, but the not knowing is what makes it worth doing."

The conversation shifts to art, to creativity, to the way certain combinations of notes or words or colors can crack something open inside a person. You're both moving in lazy circles now, sometimes drifting closer, sometimes apart, like binary stars locked in orbit.

"I’m surprised you've actually listened to our music. I thought maybe you just did your homework for the shoot."

"I like to understand what I'm capturing," you admit. "But I was a fan of your production style before I knew about this job. The layering you do with vocal harmonies on your solo tracks is..." You pause, searching for the right word. "It's architectural. I mean, it’s also there in many of the group songs, you singing harmonies in the background, but it’s more pronounced on the songs you record by yourself."

Chan moves closer, genuinely intrigued now. "Most people don't notice that stuff."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agrees, eyes never leaving yours. "You definitely aren't."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the gentle sound of water as you both tread calmly.

"Can I ask you something?" His voice is softer now, more intimate.

"Depends on the question."

"What made you become a photographer? Like, really; not the answer you give in interviews."

The unexpected depth of his question catches you off-guard. You consider deflecting with humor but find yourself wanting to give him honesty instead.

"I was always the observer," you tell him. "The kid on the periphery watching how people interact, capturing moments in my mind before I ever had a camera. Photography just gave me a legitimate reason to keep watching."

Chan nods slowly, absorbing your words. "That makes sense. You have that quality of seeing beyond what people present."

"What about you?" you ask. "Was music always the path?"

"Always," he confirms with absolute certainty. "Even when I was being passed over for groups and debut and my parents were gently suggesting backup plans. Music wasn't just what I wanted to do; it was the only way I made sense to myself."

His hand gestures animatedly as he speaks, sending small ripples across the water's surface. One hand comes to rest briefly on your arm to emphasize a point, and the contact, though fleeting, sends warmth radiating through you despite the cool water.

"I get that," you say. "Some pursuits aren't choices, they're necessities."

He studies your face with unexpected intensity. "Exactly. That's exactly it."

You've drifted closer during the conversation, close enough now that you can see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"You know what's funny?" Chan says, his voice softer now. "I came up here to be alone, but this is the first time today I've felt like I could breathe properly."

"The irony of finding peace with a stranger in a pool at 3 AM isn't lost on me," you reply, and he laughs again, the sound rippling across the water's surface like rain.

"Are we still strangers, though?" he asks, and there's a genuine curiosity there, a head tilt that makes water droplets run from his hair down the curve of his neck.

You consider this. "Maybe not. Maybe we're... temporal friends. Friends for tonight."

"I like that," he says, swimming closer. "Temporal friends with potential."

"Potential for what?" The question hangs between you, heavy with possibility.

Instead of answering, he floats onto his back, staring up at the slice of sky visible above the hotel's glass barriers. You join him, your shoulders occasionally brushing as you drift. The contact sends tiny electric currents through your body each time it happens.

"Some people are just blips," he says eventually. "And some are turning points."

The philosophical tone surprises you. "Which am I?"

His hand finds yours underwater, fingers intertwining like it's the most natural thing in the world. "I don't know yet. That's what makes it interesting."

When you both right yourselves again, you're closer than before, your hands still touching. Close enough to see the water droplets clinging to his eyebrows, the moles scattered across his face and neck that makeup usually conceals. There's a small scar peeking out from the edge of his swim shorts on his hip; it makes you want to trace it with your fingertips.

"Today, during the shoot," he says quietly. "There was something there, wasn't there? I wasn't imagining it?"

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "No. You weren't imagining it."

"And now?" he asks. When you don’t say anything, he continued. "I have a confession," he says, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates pleasantly against your sternum despite the water between you.

"Should I be worried?"

"I couldn’t stop thinking about you from earlier today."

Heat that has nothing to do with the pool temperature rises to your cheeks. "Oh really?"

He nods, one hand reaching out to tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "How you talked about your philosophy for taking pictures, capturing the moments in between.”

His hand lingers near your face, and something shifts in the air between you. The playful banter recedes like a tide, leaving something more raw and honest in its wake.

"Chan…," you start, not entirely sure what you're going to say next.

"I like how you say my name," he interrupts softly. "Not like you're saying the name of someone you've heard of. Like you know me."

His arm brushes against yours as a slight current pulls you both toward the center of the pool. Neither of you moves away. The contact is deliberate now, the press of skin against skin underwater creating a different kind of conversation.

“Funny,” he says, bobbing in front of you. “I didn’t think the most memorable part of today would happen after the shoot.”

You look at him. “Are you trying to be charming?”

He shrugs, grinning. “Am I succeeding?”

Instead of answering, you move closer. So does he. And then the space between your bodies disappears.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks quietly, and the directness of it, the simple honesty, makes your breath catch.

You nod, and he eliminates the remaining distance between you with a smile that's equal parts shy and certain. His lips touch yours with cautious pressure, cool from the water but warming quickly. It's tentative at first. Slow, exploring, questioning. But when your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss quickly deepens into something hungrier. His tongue traces your bottom lip, and you open to him with a small sound that seems to echo across the water's surface.

His hands find your waist underwater, drawing you flush against him and anchoring you to him as your legs tangle together to stay afloat. The sensation of being weightless while he holds you makes every touch feel amplified.

You break apart, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Around you, the water ripples with the movement of your bodies, small waves lapping against the pool's edge like applause.

"That was..." he trails off, searching for words.

"Good potential," you finish for him, and his laugh is breathless against your mouth before he kisses you again, more certain this time, his hands moving from your waist down to your ass.

You can feel every inch where your bodies connect: the firm plane of his chest against yours, the brush of his thighs against your own, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip. The water seems to echo the sound of your combined breaths, magnifying them in the quiet night.

When you pull away again, his eyes are darker, more intense than before. The playful musician has been replaced by something more primal, more focused. It sends a shiver down your spine despite the warm water.

"My room or yours?" he asks, his voice rough at the edges.

You consider for a moment. "Mine's on the twelfth floor."

"Mine's on the fourteenth, but we’re more likely to get interrupted by my bandmates. They’re a bit… mischievous. And nosey."

"Mine it is," you agree, and there's a moment where you both just look at each other, a silent acknowledgment of the threshold you're about to cross.

He kisses you once more, softly, before you both swim to the edge of the pool. You climb out first, water cascading from your body, suddenly aware of how your bikini clings to every curve. Chan follows, and you allow yourself to appreciate the way water runs in rivulets down the contours of his chest and arms, highlighting the definition of muscles that his usual oversized hoodies conceal.

He retrieves your cover-up from the lounge chair, holding it open for you with a gentlemanly flourish that makes you snort with laughter, breaking the tension. He grabs his own t-shirt, using it to roughly dry his hair before pulling it on over his wet skin. It seems neither of you remembered to bring towels for your late night swim.

As you walk toward the elevator, leaving damp footprints across the marble floor, his hand finds yours again. It's such a simple gesture, fingers lacing together, but it carries the weight of intention. This isn't just about physical attraction. There's a connection here that transcends the random chance of two insomniacs finding each other in a hotel pool at 3 AM.

The elevator doors close, and Chan leans against the wall, still holding your hand, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Still temporal friends?" he asks.

"With increasingly clear potential," you answer, and his laugh follows you all the way down to the twelfth floor.

When you and Chan finally make it back to your room, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels inevitable.

You fumble with the key card, your breath hitching when Chan’s hand brushes your hip, casual but deliberate. You open the door and step aside to let him in. The room is dim, painted in soft golds from the city lights bleeding through the windows.

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you with the finality of a decision made. The two of you stand in the dim entryway for a moment, water still dripping from both your bodies, the air between you thick with anticipation. You're suddenly aware of how small the space feels with Chan's presence filling it. His eyes catch the subdued light from the bedside lamp you'd left on earlier, turning them to liquid amber. The wet t-shirt clings to his chest like a second skin, leaving nothing to imagination yet somehow making you hungrier to see what's beneath. A small puddle forms where you both stand, neither of you moving, the moment suspended between hesitation and inevitability.

"So," Chan says, breaking the silence with a nervous laugh that humanizes him instantly. "This is the part where I'd normally make a joke about being all wet, but I'm trying not to be that guy."

"You just made the joke while saying you weren't going to make it," you point out, grateful for the tension breaker.

"Fuck. I did, didn't I?" His dimples deepen as he runs a hand through his damp hair. "Let me try again. Hi, I'm the hot guy from the pool who can't stop looking at your mouth."

Heat blooms between your legs. "Much better," you say, stepping closer. "I'm the girl who's thinking about peeling that shirt off you."

"Thinking about it, or...?" He lets the question hang.

In response you reach for him, bringing your lips to his.

The kiss is different now; deeper, more urgent. You curl your fingers into the hem of his soaked t-shirt, slowly pulling it upward. He raises his arms to help, and the wet fabric makes a soft sucking sound as it releases his skin. You break the kiss to pull it the rest of the way over his head. You drop it to the floor with a soft splat, your eyes tracing the contours of his chest and abdomen.

His hands settle on your ass, thumbs brushing the bare skin just beneath the bikini bottom.

He kisses down your neck slowly, as if savoring each inch of you. You shiver as his teeth graze your collarbone.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper. 

He chuckles against your skin. “Only if you want me to be.”

His palms slide over your ass, up your back, around your front and across your tits until they find the tie of your cover-up, tugging gently. "Fair's fair," he murmurs.

The light fabric falls open, then to the floor, and his breath catches audibly at the sight of your bikini-clad body. His eyes travel a slow path from your collarbone to your hardened nipples probing through the fabric, then down your stomach to your thighs, appreciation evident in the way his pupils dilate.

"You're staring," you whisper.

"Can you blame me?" His voice has a rough edge to it now. "I keep thinking I should pinch myself. The hot photographer from my shoot is standing in my hotel room in a wet bikini."

"Your hotel room is on the fourteenth floor," you remind him with a smirk. "This is my room."

"Details," he dismisses with a wave, stepping close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. "Important detail, though: I really want to kiss you again."

"Then do it."

His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones with a gentleness that contrasts the hunger in his eyes. This kiss is more deliberate, more knowing. His tongue slides against yours, and you taste chlorine and the steak he had for dinner. You press closer, your damp skin meeting his, and he groans into your mouth.

Your fingers dance along his spine, feeling each vertebra, mapping the terrain of his back. His hands move from your face to your shoulders, then lower, skimming the sides of your breasts through the wet bikini top.

"This needs to go," he murmurs against your lips, fingers finding the tie at your back. He pulls to loosen it.

"Yours too," you reply, hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his swim shorts.

There's a moment of clumsy, laughing urgency as you both shed the last of your wet clothes. Chan's swim shorts stick to his thighs, requiring an ungraceful hopping movement that makes you both dissolve into giggles. But the laughter dies in your throat when he stands before you, fully naked and unashamed.

His body is a testament to discipline. It’s all lean muscle under smooth skin, the definition of his abdomen leading your eyes downward to where he's already hard for you.

"Your turn," he says, his voice lower now, serious.

You reach behind your neck to untie the second set of strings of your bikini top, letting it fall away to the ground. Chan’s sharp intake of breath is more gratifying than any practiced compliment. His eyes darken as he takes in your bare breasts, his tongue darting out to wet his lips in an unconscious gesture of want. The bikini bottoms follow, sliding down your legs to join the puddle of wet materials at your feet.

For a moment, you just look at each other, naked in more ways than one.

"You're fucking beautiful," he says, and there's something raw in his voice that makes the words feel like more than a line, more than what you say in these moments.

"So are you," you reply, meaning it.

He closes the distance between you again, and the first touch of his naked skin against yours pulls a gasp from your throat. His erection presses hard against your stomach as his arms encircle you, hands splaying across your back to pull you closer.

The kiss deepens, turns hungrier. You walk backward toward the bed, unwilling to break contact, until your calves hit the mattress. Chan follows you down as you fall back, his body covering yours, hips settling naturally between your spread thighs.

"You've been driving me crazy all day," he admits against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. "Standing behind that camera, completely in control."

Your fingers trail slowly down his back. "And now?"

His smile is wicked, dimples appearing like punctuation marks to his intent. "Now it's my turn to capture you. Tell me what you want," he breathes against your neck, where his lips have been leaving a trail of heat.

"You," you say simply. "But also… talk to me."

He raises his head to meet your eyes, a question in his gaze.

"I want to hear you," you clarify. "Not just the polite, edited version of the idol they train you to be. I want the real you."

A slow smile spreads across his face, something darker and more primal than his stage smile. "Careful what you wish for," he warns, then drags his mouth down your body, pausing to take a nipple between his lips.

You arch into the sensation, a moan escaping as he uses his tongue in wicked circles around the sensitive peak. His hand finds your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth across the nipple in counterpoint to his mouth's rhythm.

"Fuck, you taste good," he murmurs against your skin. "Been thinking about this since I saw you this morning, standing there looking all professional but with this mouth that had me imagining all sorts of unprofessional shit."

His confession sends a thrill through you. "Like what?" you ask, running your fingers through his damp hair as he moves lower, lips tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel.

"Like how you'd sound when you cum," he says, settling between your thighs, his breath hot against your center. When his lips kiss the inside of your right thigh, it quivers. "Like how your body would react to mine. Like whether you'd be loud or quiet." His tongue takes a long, deliberate swipe through your folds as if he was licking a large scoop of ice cream. "Like how wet you'd get for me."

Your hips buck involuntarily at the contact, a whimper escaping your lips.

"That answers one question," he says with a smirk you can feel against your sensitive skin. "You're responsive. I like that."

His tongue finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure to make your thighs tremble. One of his hands slides up your body to palm your breast again, while the other holds your hip, thumb making small circles against your hip bone.

"Chan," you gasp as he sucks gently at your most sensitive point. "That's… fuck…"

"That's the idea," he says, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your arousal. "But not yet. Want to taste you first. Want to make you cum on my tongue before I fuck the shit out of you."

The crude words in his gentle voice send a fresh wave of heat through you. His mouth returns to your center, more insistent now, tongue alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to your clit. He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them to hit the spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.

Your body arches into his hand and mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction. He watches your reactions with the same intensity he brought to your camera lens, learning what makes your breath hitch, what draws out the low moan from the back of your throat.

"Fuck," you breathe as his fingers establish a rhythm that sends heat spiraling through your core. "Right there."

Chan's smile is both tender and triumphant. "I like when you tell me exactly what you want."

So you do. With unfiltered directness that makes his eyes darken and his movements grow more urgent. The professional distance that separated photographer from subject dissolves completely as you hold his head between your legs, as his tongue trades places back and forth with his fingers with devastating precision.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice vibrating against you. "Let me hear you. Tell me how it feels."

"So fucking good," you manage, your hands fisting his hair. "Don't stop, please don't stop…"

He doesn't. His fingers work in tandem with his mouth, building a rhythm that has you climbing higher and higher. The tension coils tight in your core, your breath coming in shorter gasps.

"I'm close," you warn, and his response is to increase the pressure, the speed of his fingers, the suction of his mouth.

When you cum, you breathe out, “Oh Chan!” Your body arches off the bed. He stays with you through it, gentling his touch as the waves of pleasure wash over you, gradually bringing you down until you're boneless and breathing hard.

He kisses his way back up your body, a smug satisfaction in his eyes that you're too blissed out to call him on. When his mouth meets yours, you taste yourself on his lips, and it sends a renewed pulse of desire through you despite your recent orgasm.

"Condom?" he asks against your mouth.

You gesture vaguely toward your bag on the nightstand. "Travel pack. Always prepared."

He laughs, reaching over to open the bag and dig around until he removes the small box. "A woman who comes with emergency condoms. Be still my heart." He opens it and removes a packet.

"Less talking, more fucking," you say, grabbing his wrist to pull him back to you.

His eyebrows shoot up at your directness, but the dimpled grin that follows is approving. "Yes, ma'am."

He tears open the foil packet and rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency. Then he's hovering over you again, his weight supported on his forearms, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Ready?" he asks, his playfulness momentarily set aside for genuine concern.

You answer by wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him forward, guiding him into you. His cock enters you in one slow, delicious slide, deep and intentional like he wants you to feel every second of it. And you do. “Chan…” escapes your lips in a breathless sigh.

"Fuck," he groans this time, forehead dropping to rest against yours.

Your bodies fit together like they’d been crafted with this moment in mind. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that borders on too much but settles into perfect. For a moment, neither of you moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined.

Then he begins to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, and coherent thought fragments into pure sensation. His eyes never leave yours, creating an intimacy that's almost too intense.

"You feel amazing," he whispers, pace quickening. “Better than I imagined.”

"You imagined this?" you ask, wrapping your legs higher around his waist.

His laugh is strained with pleasure. "All. Fucking. Day."

The admission pushes you closer to the edge, and you tighten your legs around his waist. You run your hands down his back, feeling the muscles work as he moves inside you, then up to tangle in his hair.

"Harder," you whisper, and something flashes in his eyes; relief, maybe, at being given permission to let go.

He complies, his hips snapping forward with more force, setting a new rhythm that has the headboard knocking gently against the wall. The new angle hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your hand slips between your bodies, seeking the additional pressure that will send you over. Chan watches with fascination as you touch yourself while he moves inside you, his rhythm faltering briefly at the sight.

"That's the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen," he murmurs, voice rough with desire as he increases the pace of his thrusts.

"There," you gasp. "Right there."

"Got it," he says, voice strained with the effort of control. He maintains the angle, the pace, then slides his own hand down to replace your fingers with his, circling your clit with the same rhythm he uses to fuck you. "Want to feel you cum around my cock, gorgeous."

The combination of his words, his skilled fingers, and the relentless pressure of him inside you pushes you toward the edge again. Your nails dig into his shoulders, causing him to hiss slightly.

"So close," you pant. "Chan, I'm…"

"Me too," he grits out. "Together, yeah?"

You nod, beyond words now. His movements become more erratic, his breathing harsh against your neck where he's buried his face. The tension builds and builds until it shatters, your orgasm washing over you in waves that have you crying out as you shake, clinging to him. He follows moments later, his hips stuttering, his face buried in the crook of your neck, a low, guttural sound torn from his throat as he pulses inside you.

Both of you lay tangled in the sheets, skin to skin. For several heartbeats, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is your combined breathing, gradually slowing, the silence filled with a kind of intimacy neither of you expected.

Eventually, Chan lifts his head, a dazed, satisfied smile on his face.

"Well," he says, "that was worth staying up for."

You laugh, the movement causing him to slip from inside you, which makes you both wince slightly. He deals with the condom, tying it off and reaching over to the bedside table for a tissue to wrap it in, before setting it on top. Then he lies back down beside you and closes his eyes.

Your bodies cool as breathing returns to normal, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on damp skin. He traces abstract patterns on your stomach with light fingertips.

You watch him as he breathes deeply. The bedside lamp casts a golden glow across his features, highlighting the sharp angle of his jawline, the curve of his shoulder, the contrast between light and shadow that defines his face. Something about the image calls to the photographer in you; the desire to preserve a moment of perfect vulnerability.

You sit up suddenly, propping yourself up on one elbow “Don’t move.”

Chan blinks, breath still shallow. “Huh?” He watches you with curious eyes as you reach for your camera bag on the bedside table. “What are you doing?”

"The light on you right now..." You turn back to him, camera in hand. "It's perfect."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flicker of hesitation. "You want to photograph me? Now? Like this?"

“Yeah,” you say softly, a hint of vulnerability in your tone as you sit cross-legged beside him. “You’ve never looked more honest than you do right now. I want to capture you as you are now, the moment between the obvious moments, you know? What no one else gets to see. And I'm not talking about dick pics for the internet. I mean... art. Something real. But only if you’re comfortable with it.”

He considers your words for a few seconds, vulnerability passing across his feature before resolution settles in. “I've been photographed thousands of times, but never like this. Never just as... me.”

His assessment touches something deep inside you. "Are you sure? These kinds of photos have a way of causing trouble if they get out."

"I trust you," he says simply with a sweet smile. "And only if I get to take pictures too."

“Okay,” you agree too quickly as you remove the lens cap.

"How do you want me?" he asks when you look back at him, bringing the camera to your face.

"Just be yourself," you say. "Forget I'm taking pictures. Just exist."

He nods, and you begin, the camera coming alive in your hands, an extension of your vision. Chan relaxes into the sheets, initial self-consciousness melting away under your gentle direction. You capture him in unguarded moments: stretching his arms above his head, the lines of his body creating geometric perfection against the white sheets, his hands covering his face as he tries unsuccessfully to hide from you. Fragments of him are immortalized in the frame:  the curve of his hip disappearing beneath the sheet, the hollow of his throat, the play of light across his collarbones.

You continue to snap more pictures. He laughs at something you say and you capture him with his head thrown back, his whole face transformed by joy.

"Turn toward the window," you instruct softly. He complies, the city lights creating a backdrop of unfocused brilliance behind his silhouette as he looks thoughtfully out the window.

"Beautiful," you murmur, more to yourself than to him, as you capture the image.

Something shifts in the atmosphere as you work. What began as artistic appreciation transforms into another kind of foreplay, each click of the shutter heightening the renewed tension between you.

"Your turn," he says after a while, his voice low and sure. When Chan reaches for the camera, you surrender it without protest even though you’re hesitant.

"I don't usually…"

"You promised," he responds with an adorable pout, that vulnerability back in his voice. "I want to remember you too."

You nod and show him the basic settings. Chan's a quick study, his artistic eye evident in how he frames each shot. He directs you with surprising skill, finding angles that frame your body in light and shadow. The sensation of being on the other side of the lens is foreign, exhilarating. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with your physical nakedness, but his genuine awe at capturing you makes it easier.

"Beautiful," he murmurs as he reviews the images. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

You move closer to see, your bodies aligning naturally. "You're good at this," you observe as he reviews an image on the small display.

"I've picked up a few things," he replies with a modest shrug that contradicts the confidence in his hands.

The photos are raw, honest; There’s one with your head thrown back in laughter; you gazing directly at the camera with an openness that startles you; you with your eyes closed, a small smile playing at your lips.

"We make a good team," you say, taking the camera back to scroll through all the images; his and yours intermingled, a visual conversation between two artists.

"We do," he agrees, and there's something bittersweet in his tone that makes you look up. "Come here," he says, arm outstretched in invitation.

You move into his embrace, your head fitting naturally into the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you to trace lazy patterns on your skin. You capture a couple more photos.  One of you and Chan’s legs intertwined with the sheets and selfies of you both looking into the lens as he kisses your forehead. Then you replace the camera on the side table and snuggle up closer to him.

Outside, the sky is lightening, the first hints of dawn creeping around the edges of the curtains. Reality begins to seep back in; he has a schedule to keep, a public persona to maintain. You have another job, a deadline looming.

"This was..." he starts, then pauses, searching for words.

"A perfect night," you finish for him.

He nods, relief in his eyes at your understanding. Without either of you saying it explicitly, you both know this can't be more than what it is, a beautiful, temporary connection between two ships passing in the night. You listen as his breathing steadies, but not deep enough for sleep.

"I should go," he says softly twenty minutes later, though he makes no move to leave the warmth of the bed, of your body against his.

You know he’s right, but neither of you seems ready to face the intrusion of reality. There’s a fragile peace in the air, an unspoken agreement to stretch this moment as long as possible. You shift slightly, soaking in the comfort of his skin against yours.

"Probably," you agree, equally reluctant.

A long silence settles between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It hangs there with weight and meaning, like an unfinished sentence where both parties know the end but are content not to say it out loud. Your fingers trace lazy circles on his chest and his hand moves slowly on your back, each of you committing this small eternity to memory.

Thirty more minutes have passed.

You lift your head from his chest to look at him. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you could almost believe that the rest of the world doesn't exist. He places his hands at the back of your neck and pulls your lips to his. The kiss is slow, easy, like it has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with connection. But you know better.

You turn your body to straddle him, and he lets out a small, surprised exhale against your mouth. You feel him harden beneath you, his body eager to defy the sense in his words.

"We're never getting out of here," he murmurs, voice a mix of amusement and longing.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. "I can live with that."

His laugh is a quiet rumble in his chest, and he kisses you again, deeper this time, hands finding your hips. You reach blindly for another condom, fumbling with eagerness, and break the kiss when your fingers wrap around it. He doesn’t stop you when you tear the wrapper open and slide the latex onto his already hard and ready cock; instead, he shakes his head like he can’t believe how lucky he is. 

He sits up against the headboard, an appreciative smile on his swollen lips. He lets out a shaky breath as your fingers skim along his length, adjusting the condom into place. Then you lift your body over his dick to lower yourself onto it, feeling every glorious inch of him filling you once again. The sensation is so consuming that you forget to move at first, the both of you going still in awe of the hunger that pulls you together. His lips crash back onto yours, kissing you like he needs it to breathe, his grip tightening at your waist to bring you fully down on him. You start to rock your hips slowly.

Chan’s mouth and tongue are relentless as he kisses you at the same time he pulls you impossibly closer. Your chests are slick with sweat as you lose yourselves in the friction, the heat. You move against him slowly, deliberately, savoring every pulse and gasp, determined to make this last, to stretch this out; this morning, this moment, this everything. His hips buck involuntarily upward in a particularly dizzy thrust, and you slip his name into his mouth like a secret, earning you a low growl of approval in return.

Your legs tremble while you try to maintain the languid pace, the teasing rhythm that has him groaning and biting at your lip in desperation. You know neither of you can hold on much longer, and you’re both okay with that. You arch your back, changing the angle, and Chan gasps your name like a plea, his fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. You clutch at his neck, your own breathing ragged as the two of you press your foreheads together, locking eyes and you let him guide you faster, harder, until there’s nothing left in the world but the two of you, right here, right now.

You and Chan move together in a rhythm that feels more like music than anything else. There is no rush. Just tension building between your bodies, heat cresting, pleasure folding in on itself. And when you finally come apart together, it is a full-body kind of release. You kiss again like you are trying to memorize his mouth, losing yourself in the taste and feel of him, in the beautiful lie that maybe this doesn't have to end.

But of course it does. Time is the only thing you don't have in abundance, and eventually, he draws back, the reluctance unmistakable. "One more for the road?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, and it's clear he's not just talking about another kiss.

"Get out of here before I decide to keep you," you reply, though your actions say otherwise as you lean in to capture his mouth once more.

You finally roll off of him a few minutes later, and with a sigh he gets up. He drops the condom in the wastebasket under the desk and moves to the door. As he gathers his still-damp clothes from the floor, you watch him dress with an artist's appreciation and a lover's nostalgia. He looks younger somehow, more vulnerable as he struggles with the clinging fabric of his swim shorts then the t-shirt, an adorably embarrassed smile on his face.

You wrap yourself in the sheet, following him to the door. There's an awkwardness now that wasn't there before, neither of you quite knowing the protocol for this kind of goodbye.

"This wasn't..." he begins.

"I know," you interrupt gently. "It wasn’t for me either."

The understanding passes between you without need for elaboration. This wasn't casual, wasn't meaningless, but it also wasn't the beginning of something. It was complete in itself, a perfect composition needing no additional frames.

"I'll delete the photos if you want," you offer, giving him an out.

He shakes his head firmly. "Keep them. They're ours."

The possessive pronoun warms you, makes you smile. "Okay."

Chan leans in for one last kiss, soft and lingering. "Thank you," he murmurs against your lips. "For seeing me. Not Bang Chan from Stray Kids. Just me. Chan. Chris."

"Thank you for being worth seeing," you reply, “and for seeing me in return.”

He smiles, dimples appearing one last time, and then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him. You stand there for a moment, the sheet wrapped around you like a toga, feeling the weight of the night settling into your bones, not with regret, but with a bittersweet satisfaction.

The camera sits on the nightstand, holding memories that will never make it to social media or a magazine spread. Just between the two of you, a secret collection of moments when two insomniacs found something real in the middle of the night.

You return to bed, sleep finally finding you as the sun rises, your dreams filled with chlorine-scented kisses and the echo of laughter across water.

****

Almost a year later, your name is finally starting to make the rounds in the art world, and even you have to admit it has a nice ring to it when you're not too busy downplaying your success. It’s been a whirlwind of openings, critiques, and collaborations, but this, your first solo show, is something else entirely. It feels like baring a piece of your soul on a white gallery wall. And nothing says "soul-baring" quite like the portraits from that night with Chan.

They’re intense, raw, somehow both detached and intimate. The more you think about it, the more you realize they belong in this show. They have to be in your show. You also realize you need Chan’s blessing before you drag his naked plump ass into your artistic existential crisis.

So you sit at your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys as if they'll self-destruct upon contact. You know how careful he is about his image, how much he values his privacy. Asking him to let you display these photos feels like asking him to strip down in front of strangers. Something he probably wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, you think with a small smirk.

You stare at the blank email, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the seconds of your courage. The intimate, raw, unflinchingly honest images of Chan are scattered across the floor of your home studio, some framed, some still rolled. You need his permission, not just legally but emotionally, to hang these moments between you on sterile gallery walls for strangers to consume with hungry eyes.

The warm yellow lamp casts dramatic shadows across the portraits. In one, Chan’s face is captured in moments of unguarded vulnerability, his eyes holding the weight of sleepless nights. 

That one you printed just for you, not for public display.

Your fingers tap the desk, dancing with indecision. It's been eleven months since you last saw him. Eleven months since that night when he let you photograph him in the early morning hours, when your images became something more than pixels on a screen. Eleven months since there’s been any type of communication between the two of you.

You bite your lip and type out a message that walks the line between professional courtesy and personal appeal:

Dear Chan, you type, delete, then type again. Too formal.

Hey, you try. Too casual.

Hi Chan; or do you prefer Chris now? Delete delete delete.

Hey! Long time no see 😉 Yeah, no.

Chan, you settle on, simple and direct like the photographs that captured the planes of his face.

Your email takes shape, professional on the surface with undercurrents of something deeper flowing beneath each carefully chosen word:

I hope this email finds you well.

Better. You dive in from there.

My first solo exhibition opens in three weeks at the Harlow Gallery. It would mean a lot to me to be able to include portraits of the photos you and I took that night.

You pause, swallowing the memory of his skin warm against yours, how his fingers traced invisible paths across your back.

I believe these are among my strongest pieces. I wanted to formally request your permission to include them.

The truth clings to your fingertips: these are your strongest pieces because they're the only ones where your lens captured not just a subject, but a feeling; something raw and unfinished between you and him.

The images have been prepared with discretion in mind. Your privacy is my priority. Nothing identifiable will be shown in the pieces chosen for public display; no faces, no awkward explanations required if someone you know or who knows you comes across them. I've employed techniques to obscure any identifying features while preserving the emotional essence of the work.

Of course I’ll understand if you’d rather keep them private and will respect whatever decision you make.

You're lying through your teeth on that one; you will not "understand," you'll just quietly die inside, box up the portraits, place them in the darkest corner of your storage unit, and move on with your life.

The exhibition will proceed either way, with or without them, but these images, your images, represent something valuable in my artistic journey.

You stop typing, fingers trembling slightly. The lie burns in your chest; the exhibition would proceed, yes, but it would feel hollow without these centerpieces, these moments when your art found its truth.

If you could let me know by the end of the week, I would greatly appreciate it.

Too demanding? You bite your lower lip, tasting minty lipgloss and indecision.

At your convenience, of course. I know you’re a busy man.

Better. Respectful of his perpetually packed schedule; the endless rehearsals, the world tours, the 3AM studio sessions he described to you while in the pool, floating inches away from you.

Thank you for considering this request.

You hesitate over the sign-off. Warm regards feels too distant. Love feels too presumptuous. You settle on your name alone, letting it stand naked and honest like his portraits.

The completed email stares back at you. Your mouse hovers over the send button, your heart keeping time with the second hand of the clock above your desk. Your stomach twists with what feels like stage fright, though you're not the performer between the two of you.

With a deep breath, you click send before courage fails you and brace for an eternity of radio silence.

The email whooshes into the digital void, and you exhale. Your chest feels simultaneously lighter and heavier.

Your phone sits face-down next to your laptop; a deliberate choice. You know yourself too well; you'd check it every thirty seconds if you could see the screen. Instead, you slide it into your desk drawer and close it firmly.

You stand, stretching arms above your head, vertebrae cracking like kindling. The room suddenly feels too small, too full of reminders. You need distance from this space where his presence lingers.

Hours later, after a walk that took you nowhere in particular and a dinner you barely tasted, you return to your apartment. The desk drawer calls to you like a siren, but you resist, choosing instead to lose yourself in mindless TV until sleep claims you mid-episode.

Morning arrives with cutting precision, sunlight slicing through blinds you forgot to close. Your first conscious thought is of the email, followed immediately by a rush of adrenaline that propels you from dreams to reality in seconds. You fumble for the desk drawer, fingers clumsy with sleep and anticipation.

Your phone screen illuminates with notifications in the form of social media updates, promotional emails, app reminders, but your eyes search frantically for only one name.

There.

Your thumb hovers over his name. Four letters that contain multitudes. You tap, holding your breath as the message loads.

Yes, you have my permission.

One sentence. Five words. That’s it. No greeting, no sign-off. Just a simple, efficient granting of what you asked for.

You read it again. And again. Turning the words over like stones in a river, searching for hidden meanings in their smooth surfaces. 

You find none.

Your fingers feel numb, but you sense a warmth in your chest, an uncomfortable heat that you recognize as disappointment. The simplicity of the words leaves you reeling more than any objection could have. You expected... what? A question about how you've been? A comment about the images themselves? A catch, like maybe an interrogatory phone call? Some acknowledgment of what passed between you that morning? A cheeky postscript hinting at unfinished business?

But there’s none of that here. Just five words that feel as impersonal as a text alert reminder from your dentist’s office.

You place the phone down carefully, as if it might shatter under the weight of your expectations. The logical part of your brain offers explanations: he's busy, he's professional, he's respecting boundaries. The emotional part whispers less comforting possibilities: he doesn't care, he's forgotten, it meant nothing to him.

"At least I have permission," you say to the empty room, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

You force a smile that no one sees, straightening your shoulders as you stand. The exhibition preparation waits for no one's feelings, not even yours. You have frames to select, lighting to consider, labels to write. Professional obligations that require you to set aside the hollow feeling expanding beneath your ribs.

Your laptop wakes with a tap, calendar app open to a countdown of days until the opening. In twenty days the gallery will be filled with critics, collectors, fellow artists… people whose opinions could shape your career trajectory. This should be occupying every corner of your mind.

Instead, you find yourself opening your digital photo gallery, scrolling to the folder labeled simply "CCB." The photos inside are more honest than you've been with yourself. In every line, every shadow, every careful composition of his features, your feelings are transparent. No wonder you need these pieces in the exhibition; they're the only work where you've been truly vulnerable.

You close the folder and return to your email. You type a reply to Chan; brief, professional, and carefully constructed to match his tone:

Thank you. I appreciate it. I truly hope you’re good.

You send it without rereading, without allowing yourself to overthink, before opening your exhibition checklist. Then you immerse yourself in the practicalities of your upcoming show, burying your disappointment beneath layers of logistics and artistic decisions. 

You have permission. That's all you needed.

The rest? The unspoken words, the space between five clinical words and the volumes you wanted to hear? You'll transform into nervous energy for the exhibition. After all, isn't that what artists do? Turn heartache into something strangers can hang on their walls?

****

When opening night arrives, the gallery buzzes with bodies and champagne chatter. You smile with practiced ease as a woman in architectural glasses gestures toward your most vulnerable piece: Chan's torso in black and white, his face artfully shadowed beyond recognition, but his essence unmistakable to anyone who's ever run fingers along the ridges of his abs.

"The vulnerability here is striking," she says, and you nod, wondering if she can see your own nakedness beneath your carefully selected gallery outfit, your heart beating against your ribs like a trapped bird sensing freedom on the horizon.

"That's precisely what I was exploring," you respond, your voice pitched perfectly between passionate artist and composed professional. "The tension between revelation and concealment."

The Harlow Gallery hums with the particular frequency of successful opening nights: crystal glasses clinking, expensive perfume mingling with the subtle scent of the fresh flowers arranged strategically throughout the space, conversations rising and falling like tide pools of intellectual pretension and genuine appreciation. Track lighting casts dramatic shadows that seem to dance across the sleek white walls as people move between installations.

You've been on display nearly as much as your art tonight, smiling, explaining, accepting compliments with gracious nods while deflecting personal questions with practiced pivots back to technique or inspiration. Your outfit,  black, high waisted jeans and a silk blouse in a shade of gold that your best friend insisted makes your eyes and skin look "illegally good", was chosen specifically to make you feel armored without looking unapproachable.

A gallery assistant appears at your elbow with another flute of champagne, which you accept with a grateful smile even though you've barely touched your first. The cold glass against your palm grounds you as you survey the room, cataloging which pieces draw crowds and which visitors linger longest before particular portraits.

The unnamed portraits, displayed along the west wall in a deliberately subtle progression, have become an unexpected focal point. There are no names, no context; just light, shadow, and raw emotion. The Chan series, as you call them in your head, draw crowds who stand transfixed by their stark intimacy, unaware they're peering into their own fantasies as much as yours.

You watch as a couple stands before the centerpiece: the muscles in Chan's back rendered in exquisite detail, his head turned just enough that his jawline is visible but his identity preserved. The woman leans into her partner and whispers something that makes him nod slowly, appreciatively.

You feel a bizarre pride mingled with possessiveness. These strangers are connecting with intimate moments crystallized in grayscale, moments that belong to you and Chan alone. Yet sharing them was your choice; your art exists to be witnessed.

"The anonymity makes them universal," comments a man in a blazer too structured for the casual confidence he's attempting to project. "Yet they're so specific they feel like portraits of someone the artist knows intimately."

You offer a noncommittal smile. "Art exists in that space between the personal and universal."

"Did you sleep with him?" The question comes from a young woman with brightly colored hair and an MFA attitude, her voice just quiet enough to seem conspiratorial rather than rude.

You don't flinch, though something tightens in your chest. "I find that reducing art to biography limits its potential meanings," you reply, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. You've anticipated this question, prepared for it, though hearing it still feels like a finger pressing into a bruise.

The critic from the local arts weekly approaches, notebook in hand, and you're grateful for the interruption. His questions are predictable but thoughtful, and you settle into the familiar rhythm of discussing inspiration and process without revealing the raw nerve at the center of this exhibition.

Hours pass in this manner; you circulate, champagne warming in your hand, feet beginning to protest against your sensible but still somewhat uncomfortable shoes, and your face aching from smiling too much. The gallery gradually empties as the evening progresses, guests departing in small clusters until only the most dedicated art enthusiasts and your closest friends remain.

Your agent catches your eye from across the room and offers a subtle thumbs-up. Red dots have appeared beside five pieces in the exhibition, each sold before the night is even over. Three from the Chan series. Success by any metric. You should feel elated.

Instead, you feel a curious hollowness. As if you've offered something precious to the world and the world has accepted it without recognizing its true value. Which is absurd; you created these works to be seen, to be sold, to launch this next phase of your career.

Eventually, even your most lingering supporters make their excuses. Your agent promises to call tomorrow with details about the sales and potential commissions. Friends hug you tightly, their proud whispers warming your ear. The gallery owner assures you the night exceeded expectations before instructing the staff to finish closing procedures.

"Take your time," she tells you with a knowing smile. "Artists should have a moment alone with their exhibitions. Lock up when you're ready."

Then they're gone, and the gallery transforms in their absence. The space seems to exhale, to settle into itself. The lighting, dimmed for closing, casts longer shadows that soften the stark whiteness of the walls. Without conversation to fill it, the room feels both vast and intimate.

You slip off your shoes, padding barefoot across the polished concrete floor, enjoying the cool firmness against your tired soles. The silence wraps around you like a familiar blanket. This is the moment you didn't know you were waiting for, communion with your own creation in the absence of external validation or scrutiny.

Your fingertips trail along the cool glass of one of the frames. You move slowly through the space, reacquainting yourself with each piece now that it exists in this public context rather than the private sanctuary of your studio.

When you reach the Chan series, you pause. In the softened light, the portraits seem to breathe with a life of their own. The careful shadowing that preserves his anonymity now looks like an invitation to peer closer, to discover the secret at the heart of each image.

You press your palm flat against the glass, as if you could reach through it and touch the texture of the print.

"They look different than I’d expected."

The voice freezes you in place. Low, accented, and unmistakable even after all these months. You don't turn immediately, irrationally afraid that doing so might dispel what must be an auditory hallucination born of exhaustion and champagne.

But then comes the soft sound of footsteps, and you have no choice but to face the source.

Chan stands at the far end of the gallery, half-illuminated by the ambient lighting. He's dressed simply, yet impeccably; black jeans, a white tank top beneath a black designer, tailored suit jacket, and those beat-up Converse he's always favored. His hair is slightly longer than when you last saw him, wavy strands falling across his forehead perfectly. The silver chain around his neck and the silver rectangles in his ears catch light as he shifts his weight.

Dimples frame his gorgeous smile as he stands there, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he can’t quite tell if he belongs here or not.

"Different from what?" Your voice emerges steadier than you feel, a small miracle.

He moves closer, each step deliberate. "Different from when we took them, I guess. You made me look… human."

“You are human, no?” you say with a small smile.

“Correction. I’m an idol.” He smirks, causing you to stifle a laugh at the memory of him sharing with you that part of the training they all received was that they could never admit they used the bathroom.

He stops before one of the pieces to the left of the centerpiece. In this portrait, one bare shoulder faces the viewer, head turned just enough to reveal the edge of his profile, one earring catching the light.

"You made me anonymous." It's not a question or an accusation, just an observation.

"I promised I would." You move closer, still maintaining a careful distance. "Your privacy was always going to be protected."

"I know." He nods, eyes still fixed on the portrait. "I trust you."

Three simple words that somehow mean more than his brief email permission. You swallow against the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Why are you here, Chan?" The question emerges harder than intended.

He turns to face you fully now, and the full force of his attention hits you like a physical touch. His eyes, those soft brown eyes that can turn so intense, search yours.

"I wanted to see them. See how they looked here, on display." He gestures vaguely at the gallery space. "I didn't want to come during the opening. Too many people. Too much…" He pauses, searching for the word. "Performance."

You understand immediately. His life is an endless series of performances, of being watched and evaluated. This, whatever exists between you and him, happened in a private space, away from scrutiny.

"How did you know I'd still be here?"

A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, one of his dimples appearing. "I guessed. You seem like the type to always stay late. After shows, after shoots. You like the quiet after everyone leaves."

The fact that he deduced this about you from knowing you for a day, this small, insignificant trait, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"Do you want me to show you around?" you offer, gesturing to the exhibition.

"I'd like that."

You move through the gallery together, maintaining a careful distance that nonetheless feels charged with potential energy. You explain certain pieces, the techniques you used, the challenges you faced. He listens attentively, asking questions that reveal he's paying genuine attention, not just being polite.

When you return to the Chan series, a comfortable silence falls between you. You stand side by side, both facing the portraits that capture moments only the two of you remember.

"That morning," he says finally, voice low enough that you have to lean slightly closer to hear him, "after our impromptu photo shoot. When we lay there together..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. You remember perfectly. The camera set aside, his arms holding you tight, your head on his chest, before you straddled him and the two of you fucked slowly, one last time.

"I never forgot," he continues as his eyes settle on the portrait of both of your legs tangled together with the sheets. "Even with everything; the tour, the comeback preparations, the endless meetings and recordings and fittings."

Your heart stutters in your chest. "I never forgot either."

His eyes find yours now, something vulnerable and determined in his gaze. "I know my email was short. Too short. I wrote about twenty versions before I just…" He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it aches. "I didn't know what was appropriate. What you wanted. If things had changed. But I wanted to ensure you had what you needed. So I just hit send."

"Nothing changed for me," you admit in a whisper, the words escaping before you can consider their wisdom.

Your fingers brush as you both shift position, and you feel a spark. Neither of you moves away.

"I'm here for three weeks," he says as he intertwines his fingers with yours, the casual tone of his voice belied by the intensity of his gaze. "Longer than I usually get. Some meetings, some studio time, but... lots of gaps. Actual free time."

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"Would you…" he starts, then reconsiders. "Could I see more of your work? The stuff you haven’t shown anyone yet?"

The invitation is clear; not just to show him your art, but to rebuild the private space you once shared. Where he isn't Bang Chan of Stray Kids, and you aren't a photographer with a sold-out exhibition. Where you're just two people who created something together that exists beyond glossy prints.

"Yes," you answer, simple and direct. "I'd like that."

His smile breaks slowly across his face, dimples appearing like parentheses around joy. In this moment, he looks exactly like the man in your most treasured, private photos, the ones too intimate to ever display.

"Tonight?" he asks, hope threading through the word.

"Tonight," you confirm.

“I made hotel reservations, but…”

“You can stay with me,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’ll call my manager and have him cancel.”

You stand together, face to face, before the images that capture your shared, secret night, the air between you charged with the promise of something more real than art, something waiting to be brought into existence with careful hands and open hearts. Chan’s hand reaches up to cup your cheek, the touch featherlight as though he’s worried you might vanish. He pauses, thumb grazing your skin, searching your eyes for any hesitation. Then he cradles your face with familiar tenderness, leaning in until his lips brush against yours, gentle at first. The kiss deepens, drawing you in. You taste longing and the months between now and your last kiss, an entire year compressed into this one moment. His mouth moves with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring every second he wasn't sure he’d get again. His free arm circles your waist, tugging you closer until there’s no space left between you.

The two of you indulge in the quiet, charged moment. There are no loud declarations, just two people finding each other again. Maybe for real this time.

My Masterlist

[pucksandpower]

Unfinished Business

Ghost!Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: you arrive in Monaco expecting a once-in-a-lifetime vacation and you certainly get one — a fairytale romance with a Monegasque Prince … from the late 19th century

The gentle hum of a luxury sedan fades as you and your three best friends step out onto the sun-drenched streets of Monaco. The air is thick with anticipation and the salty tang of the Mediterranean. Your eyes widen as they trace the elegant facade of the Palais Grimaldi, its pale stone walls gleaming in the afternoon light.

“I still can’t believe we’re actually here,” Mia breathes, her voice tinged with awe. “An all-expenses-paid trip to Monaco? It feels like a dream.”

You nod, unable to tear your gaze from the intricate architecture. “It’s even more beautiful than the pictures,” you murmur.

Zoe hefts her designer luggage. “Well, ladies, shall we see if the inside is as impressive as the outside?”

As your group approaches the grand entrance, a smartly dressed concierge greets you with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Palais Grimaldi. You must be our contest winners. We’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

“That’s us!” Olivia chirps, practically bouncing with excitement. “I’m Olivia, and these are Mia, Zoe, and Y/N.”

The concierge, whose name tag reads ‘Philippe,’ bows slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your suite.”

As you trail behind Philippe through opulent hallways adorned with priceless art and glittering chandeliers, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve stepped into another world — or perhaps another time. The weight of history presses in around you, whispering secrets from centuries past.

“The Palais Grimaldi has quite a storied past,” Philippe explains as he leads you up a sweeping marble staircase. “It’s been home to Monaco’s ruling family for over 700 years.”

“700 years?” You echo, your mind reeling at the concept. “That’s incredible. Has it been a hotel for long?”

Philippe chuckles. “Oh no, mademoiselle. The palace only opened its doors to the public a few years ago. It’s still used for official state functions, but the family decided to share its beauty with the world.”

Mia leans in close, her voice low. “I bet these walls have seen some scandalous things over the centuries.”

“More than you can imagine,” Philippe says with a wink. “If these walls could talk ...”

As you reach the top of the stairs, a long corridor stretches before you, lined with ornate doors. Philippe stops before one and produces an old-fashioned key with a flourish. “Your suite, ladies.”

The door swings open, revealing a space that takes your breath away. Soaring ceilings, silk wallpaper, and antique furnishings create an atmosphere of timeless luxury.

“Holy. Crap.” Zoe’s usual composure cracks as she takes in the opulence. “This is insane.”

Olivia immediately flops onto one of the plush sofas. “I’m never leaving. You’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming when the week is up.”

You wander to one of the tall windows, mesmerized by the view of the sparkling Mediterranean. “I can’t believe we get to stay here for a whole week.”

Philippe clears his throat. “I’ll leave you to settle in. Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything at all.”

As the door closes behind him, your friends erupt into excited chatter.

“Did you see the size of that bathroom?” Mia gushes. “The tub is practically a swimming pool!”

Zoe is already examining the ornate writing desk. “Look at this. It’s probably worth more than my entire apartment.”

You run your hand along the silk-covered walls, feeling a strange thrill as your fingers trace the intricate patterns. “It’s like stepping back in time,” you murmur.

Olivia bounces on the bed, giggling. “Well, I for one plan to enjoy every modern amenity this place has to offer. Who’s up for raiding the mini bar?”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of unpacking, exploring every nook and cranny of your suite, and planning your itinerary for the week ahead.

As evening falls, you find yourself drawn back to the window. The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of pink and gold. The principality below comes alive with twinkling lights, promising endless possibilities.

“Earth to Y/N!” Mia’s voice breaks through your reverie. “We’re thinking of heading down to the hotel restaurant for dinner. You in?”

You turn from the window, smiling at your friends. “Absolutely. Just let me freshen up a bit.”

In the bathroom, you splash some water on your face and reapply your lipstick. As you study your reflection in the ornate mirror, a strange sensation washes over you — almost as if someone is watching. You shake your head, dismissing the feeling as jetlag-induced imagination.

Rejoining your friends, you make your way down to the restaurant. The maître d’ leads you to a table with a stunning view of the moonlit gardens.

“I propose a toast,” Zoe says, raising her glass of champagne. “To friendship, adventure, and a week we’ll never forget!”

You clink glasses, the bubbles tickling your nose as you sip. As your friends chatter excitedly about their plans for tomorrow, your gaze drifts to the gardens below. For a moment, you could swear you see a figure in old-fashioned dress moving among the hedges. You blink, and the apparition vanishes.

“Y/N? Hello? Anyone home?” Olivia waves her hand in front of your face.

You snap back to attention. “Sorry, what?”

“I was asking what you wanted to do first tomorrow. Beach or shopping?”

You consider for a moment. “Actually, I was thinking about taking a tour of the palace. I’d love to learn more about its history.”

Mia grins. “Ooh, good call. Maybe we’ll run into a handsome prince.”

You laugh, but something in your chest flutters at the thought. “I don’t think that’s very likely.”

As the evening wears on and the wine flows freely, you find your thoughts continually drifting back to the palace and its centuries of secrets. By the time you return to your suite, a pleasant exhaustion has settled over you.

You bid your friends goodnight and curl up in your luxurious bed, the Egyptian cotton sheets cool against your skin. As you drift off to sleep, the last thing you see is the moonlight streaming through the window, casting ethereal shadows on the walls.

In your dreams, you wander the halls of the palace. Everything is hazy, like looking through frosted glass. You turn a corner and come face to face with a young man dressed in 19th-century finery. His eyes, a startling shade of green, seem to pierce right through you.

He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no sound comes out. A profound sadness radiates from him, tugging at your heart. You reach out, wanting to comfort him, but your hand passes through him like smoke.

You jolt awake, heart racing. The room is bathed in the soft glow of pre-dawn light. You sit up, running a hand through your tousled hair.

“What was that?” You whisper to the empty room.

As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, you can’t shake the feeling that your dream was more than just a product of your imagination. Something about this place, about that mysterious figure, calls to you in a way you can’t explain.

You slip out of bed and pad to the window, watching as Monaco comes to life below. Whatever secrets the Palais Grimaldi holds, you’re determined to uncover them. Little do you know, this is just the beginning of an adventure that will change your life forever.

***

The Monégasque sun beats down relentlessly as you and your friends lounge by the hotel’s exclusive rooftop pool. The glittering Mediterranean stretches out before you, a canvas of blue punctuated by gleaming white yachts.

“Now this is what I call a vacation,” Mia sighs contentedly, adjusting her oversized sunglasses.

Zoe nods in agreement, not looking up from her book. “I could get used to this kind of luxury.”

You smile and close your eyes, trying to focus on the warmth of the sun and the gentle lapping of the pool water. But there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t shake off.

Olivia notices your furrowed brow. “Y/N, what’s up? You look like you’re solving world hunger over there.”

You hesitate, unsure how to explain the strange occurrences of the past few days. “It’s nothing, really. I just ... have you guys noticed anything weird happening in the palace?”

Mia perks up, always ready for gossip. “Weird how?”

“Well ...” you start, then falter. How can you describe the way your hairbrush moved across the dresser on its own? Or the whispers you heard in the empty library? “It’s going to sound crazy, but I think there might be something ... supernatural going on.”

There’s a moment of silence before Olivia bursts out laughing. “Supernatural? Come on, Y/N. I know you’ve always been into that ghost hunter stuff, but this is a five-star hotel, not a haunted house.”

Zoe looks up from her book, her expression skeptical. “Are you sure you’re not just jet-lagged? Or maybe it’s all that rich food we’ve been eating.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I know how it sounds, but I swear, strange things keep happening. Last night, I saw a man’s reflection in the mirror, but when I turned around, no one was there.”

Mia sits up, suddenly interested. “Ooh, was he hot?”

“Mia!” Zoe admonishes, but there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.

You sigh, realizing how ridiculous you must sound. “Never mind. You’re probably right, it’s just my imagination running wild.”

But as the day wears on, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched. Every shadow seems to hold a secret, every creaking floorboard a whispered message.

That night, as your friends snore softly in their beds, you find yourself wide awake, staring at the ornate ceiling. The moonlight filtering through the curtains casts eerie shadows on the walls, and the silence of the night seems to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

Unable to bear it any longer, you slip out of bed and into a robe. Your bare feet are silent on the plush carpet as you make your way to the door. You pause, hand on the doorknob, heart racing. Are you really going to do this?

Taking a deep breath, you step out into the dimly lit hallway. The palace is different at night, the opulence muted, shadows deepening the corners. You walk aimlessly, letting your instincts guide you through the maze-like corridors.

As you round a corner, a chill runs down your spine. At the end of the hallway, you see a figure. It’s only for a split second before it vanishes around the next bend, but you’re certain it was the same man you saw in the mirror.

“Wait!” You call out, breaking into a run. You turn the corner, but the hallway is empty.

Breathing heavily, you lean against the wall. “I’m losing my mind,” you mutter to yourself.

“I can assure you, mademoiselle, that your mind is quite intact.”

You whirl around, heart leaping into your throat. There, standing before you, is the man from your dreams and glimpses.

He’s of average height, with wavy dark hair and piercing green eyes. His clothes are old-fashioned — a tailored suit that wouldn’t look out of place in the late 19th century. But the most shocking thing is that you can see right through him to the painting on the wall behind.

You open your mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. The ghost — because what else could he be — holds up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm.”

His voice is gentle, with a slight accent you can’t quite place. Despite your terror, you find yourself oddly calmed by his presence.

“Who ... what are you?” You manage to whisper.

The ghost bows slightly. “I am Prince Charles of Monaco, at your service. Or at least, I was Prince Charles. Now, I’m not entirely sure what I am.”

You blink, trying to process this information. “Prince Charles? But that’s impossible. The current Prince of Monaco is Albert.”

Charles smiles sadly. “You are correct. I’m afraid my time as prince was cut rather short. I died in 1894.”

“1894,” you repeat, feeling light-headed. “So you’re ... a ghost?”

“It would appear so, yes.” Charles looks down at his translucent hands. “Though I prefer to think of myself as ... temporarily disembodied.”

Despite the absurdity of the situation, you feel a laugh bubbling up in your chest. “Temporarily disembodied? That’s one way to put it.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle with amusement. “I find a touch of humor helps in most situations, even death.”

You shake your head, still struggling to believe what’s happening. “Why can I see you? Why now?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Charles admits. “I’ve been bound to this palace since my death, unable to move on. Most of the time, I’m invisible to the living. But occasionally, someone comes along who can perceive me. You, mon chérie, seem to be one of those rare individuals.”

You take a step closer, fascinated despite your lingering fear. “So all those strange things that have been happening ...”

“My apologies,” Charles says, looking sheepish. “I’m afraid I got a bit ... overeager when I realized you could sense me. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Well, mission not accomplished,” you say dryly. “I’ve been terrified for days.”

Charles’ expression turns contrite. “I am truly sorry. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to interact with anyone. I forgot how alarming it might be.”

You study him closely. Now that the initial shock has worn off, you’re struck by how young he looks — no older than his mid-twenties. And there’s a sadness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“How did you die?” You ask softly.

Charles’ face clouds over. “That, I’m afraid, is a rather long and complicated story. One that I’m not entirely sure I understand myself.”

You’re about to press further when a noise down the hallway makes you jump. Charles holds a finger to his lips and gestures for you to follow him. He leads you to a hidden door behind a tapestry, revealing a narrow servants’ staircase.

“Quick, in here,” he whispers.

You hesitate for a moment before ducking into the passageway. Charles follows, closing the door behind you. In the dim light filtering through cracks in the wall, you can barely make out his ghostly form.

“Why are we hiding?” You whisper.

“The night guards,” Charles explains. “They wouldn’t take kindly to a guest wandering the halls at this hour. And I’d rather not have to explain why you’re talking to thin air.”

You nod, seeing the logic. “So ... what now?”

Charles gives you a mischievous smile that makes your heart skip a beat. “Well, since you’re already up and about, how would you like a private tour of the palace? I can show you things no living guide knows about.”

The sensible part of your brain is screaming that this is insane. You should go back to your room, crawl into bed, and pretend this was all a vivid dream. But the adventurous part of you, the part that’s always longed for magic and mystery, is practically buzzing with excitement.

“Lead the way, Your Highness,” you say with a grin.

Charles’ smile widens. “Please, call me Charles. I think we’re a bit beyond titles at this point.”

He starts up the narrow staircase, and you follow close behind. As you climb, Charles begins to speak in a low, melodious voice.

“This palace has been the heart of Monaco for centuries. Every stone, every timber holds a piece of history. There are secret passages like this one crisscrossing the entire building — escape routes, trysting spots for illicit lovers, hiding places for treasures.”

You emerge from the staircase into a small, circular room at the top of one of the palace towers. The view of Monaco at night is breathtaking, the city a glittering jewel box beneath a canopy of stars.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, moving to the window.

Charles stands beside you, his presence cool but not unpleasant. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Even after all these years, it still takes my breath away. Well, metaphorically speaking.”

You turn to look at him, struck by the wistfulness in his voice. “It must be hard, watching the world change around you while you stay the same.”

Charles nods slowly. “It is ... challenging. But it has its compensations. I’ve witnessed history unfold, seen my beloved Monaco grow and flourish. And occasionally, I get to meet fascinating people like yourself.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks and are grateful for the darkness. “I’m hardly fascinating compared to a ghost prince.”

“I beg to differ,” Charles says softly. “You saw me when no one else could. You followed me up here without hesitation. That takes a special kind of courage and openness to the extraordinary.”

For a moment, you’re lost in his intense gaze. Then you remember that he’s, well, dead, and clear your throat awkwardly. “So, um, what else can you show me?”

Charles seems to shake himself out of a reverie. “Ah, yes. Follow me. There’s so much to see.”

The rest of the night passes in a blur of hidden rooms, secret passages, and Charles’ stories. He tells you about the palace’s construction, about the triumphs and tragedies of the Grimaldi family, about the small, everyday moments that history books never record.

As the sky begins to lighten with the first hints of dawn, you find yourself back in the hallway near your suite. You’re exhausted but exhilarated, your mind whirling with everything you’ve seen and learned.

“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, a note of reluctance in his voice.

You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. My friends will be wondering where I am if I’m not there when they wake up.”

Charles nods, then hesitates. “I ... I hope this won’t be our last conversation. It’s been so long since I’ve had someone to talk to.”

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at your heart. “Of course not. I still have so many questions. Like how you ended up ... you know.”

“Another time,” Charles promises. “For now, sleep well, Y/N.”

As you watch, his form begins to fade. Just before he disappears completely, you could swear you see him wink.

You slip back into your room, your mind racing. As you crawl into bed, you wonder how on earth you’re going to explain any of this to your friends. But one thing’s for certain — your vacation in Monaco just got a whole lot more interesting.

***

The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink. You stand on the balcony of your suite, outwardly admiring the view, but your mind is elsewhere. Your friends’ voices drift out from the room behind you.

“Y/N? Y/N!” Mia calls. “Are you coming to dinner or what?”

You turn, plastering on a smile. “Actually, I think I’ll skip it tonight. I’m not feeling very hungry.”

Zoe frowns, concern etching her features. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting strange all week.”

“I’m fine,” you assure her quickly. “Just ... taking in all the history of this place, you know?”

Olivia rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Only you would come to Monaco and spend all your time geeking out over old buildings instead of hitting the beach.”

You laugh, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

As your friends file out of the room, Mia lingers behind. “Seriously, Y/N, is everything alright? You know you can talk to us about anything, right?”

For a moment, you’re tempted to spill everything. But how could you possibly explain Charles? “I’m fine, really,” you insist. “Go enjoy dinner. I’ll see you later.”

Once they’re gone, you wait a few minutes to ensure the coast is clear. Then you slip out into the hallway, your heart racing with anticipation.

You make your way to the library, which has become your usual meeting spot. As you enter, you see Charles materializing near the fireplace, a warm smile lighting up his translucent features.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he greets you, his voice as smooth and rich as aged whiskey. “I trust you’re well?”

You can’t help but smile back. “Better now,” you admit, then immediately feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “I mean, you know, because ... history and stuff.”

Charles chuckles, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah yes, the fascinating history and stuff. Shall we delve into more of it tonight?”

You nod eagerly. “What do you have in store for me this time?”

“I thought we might explore the east wing tonight,” Charles says, moving towards one of the bookshelves. “There’s a passage behind this Voltaire that leads to some rather interesting places.”

As he speaks, Charles reaches for the book, his hand passing right through it. A flicker of frustration crosses his face.

“Allow me,” you say softly, stepping forward to pull the book. The shelf swings open, revealing a narrow passageway.

Charles bows slightly. “After you, mademoiselle.”

You enter the passage, Charles’ cool presence right behind you. As you walk, he begins to speak, his voice low and melodious in the confined space.

“This passage was built during the reign of Prince Charles III — my grandfather,” he explains. “It was meant as an escape route in case of invasion. Monaco’s sovereignty was often threatened in those days.”

“But not anymore?” You ask, ducking under a low-hanging beam.

Charles sighs. “Monaco’s position is more secure now, but it wasn’t always so. In my time, we were constantly navigating a delicate balance between France and Italy, trying to maintain our independence.”

You emerge into a small, octagonal room with windows overlooking the sea. Moonlight streams in, casting everything in a silvery glow.

“This was my private study,” Charles says, a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I spent many hours here, dreaming of what Monaco could become.”

You turn to him, curious. “What kind of dreams?”

Charles’ eyes light up with passion. “I wanted to modernize Monaco, to bring it into the new century. We were so dependent on the casino for revenue — I wanted to diversify our economy, improve education, and implement new technologies.”

“That sounds incredibly progressive for the time,” you say, impressed.

Charles nods. “Some thought too progressive. There were those who resisted change, who wanted to cling to the old ways. But I believed — I still believe — that progress is essential for survival.”

As he speaks, you find yourself drawn in by his enthusiasm, his intelligence. This isn’t just some stuffy old royal — this is a man with vision, with dreams that were cut short far too soon.

“What stopped you?” You ask softly.

Charles’ expression clouds over. “Ah, well, dying tends to put a damper on one’s plans.”

You wince. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No, no,” Charles interrupts gently. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago.”

An awkward silence falls. You move to the window, looking out at the moonlit sea. “It must be hard,” you say eventually. “Watching the world change around you, unable to participate.”

You feel Charles move closer, his presence cool at your side. “It has its challenges,” he admits. “But it also has its joys. I’ve seen Monaco grow and flourish in ways I never could have imagined. And now ...” He trails off.

You turn to look at him. “And now?”

Charles’ gaze is intense, making your heart race. “And now I have the pleasure of sharing it all with you.”

You swallow hard, acutely aware of how close he is, ghost or not. “I ... I’m glad,” you manage to say. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Charles.”

He smiles, a touch of sadness in his eyes. “Nor I you, Y/N. In life or in death.”

The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken emotions. Then Charles clears his throat (do ghosts need to clear their throats?) and steps back.

“Come,” he says, his tone lighter. “There’s much more to see.”

The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind of secret rooms and hidden treasures. Charles shows you a concealed vault where the crown jewels were once kept, a forgotten ballroom with faded frescoes on the ceiling, even the old dungeons deep beneath the palace.

Throughout it all, Charles regales you with stories — some historical, some personal. You learn about the political intrigues of 19th century Monaco, about Charles’ childhood pranks, about the hopes and fears he had for his country’s future.

As dawn begins to break, you find yourself back in the library, reluctant for the night to end.

“I suppose I should let you get some rest,” Charles says, echoing his words from your first meeting.

You stifle a yawn. “I suppose so. But I don’t want to go.”

Charles’ expression softens. “Nor do I want you to. But your friends will worry if you’re not there when they wake.”

You sigh, knowing he’s right. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be here,” Charles promises. “I’m not going anywhere, after all.”

As you watch him fade away, you’re struck by a realization that both thrills and terrifies you. You’re falling in love with a ghost.

The next few days pass in a blur. During the day, you go through the motions with your friends, trying to show enthusiasm for the beaches, the shops, the nightlife. But your mind is always elsewhere, counting down the hours until you can see Charles again.

Your friends notice, of course. How could they not?

“Okay, spill,” Mia demands one afternoon as you all lounge by the pool. “Who is he?”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What? Who’s who?”

Olivia rolls her eyes. “The guy you’re obviously sneaking out to meet every night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed you coming back to the room at dawn.”

“I ... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer.

Zoe puts a hand on your arm. “Y/N, we’re your friends. You can tell us anything. We’re just worried about you.”

You look at their concerned faces and feel a pang of guilt. You hate lying to them, but how can you possibly explain the truth?

“It’s not ... it’s not what you think,” you say finally. “I’ve just been exploring the palace at night. It’s quieter then, easier to imagine what it was like in the past.”

Your friends exchange skeptical looks.

“Right,” Mia says slowly. “And this has nothing to do with the ‘supernatural occurrences’ you were going on about earlier?”

You force a laugh. “Of course not. That was just my imagination running wild. I’ve just been ... really into the history of this place, that’s all.”

Olivia shakes her head. “If you say so. But Y/N, this is supposed to be a fun vacation. Don’t spend the whole time with your nose in a history book, okay?”

You nod, grateful they’re not pushing further. “You’re right. I’ll try to be more present.”

But that night, as your friends sleep, you find yourself slipping out once again, drawn to Charles like a moth to a flame.

He’s waiting for you in the library, a book hovering open in front of him. As you enter, he looks up with a smile that makes your heart flutter.

“Ah, Y/N,” he says warmly. “I was just refreshing my memory on some of Monaco’s more obscure laws. Did you know it’s technically illegal to wear stiletto heels in the palace?”

You laugh, some of the tension from earlier melting away. “Seriously? Why?”

Charles grins. “Apparently, they damage the floors. It was enacted in 1898, four years after my ... departure. I always wonder about the story behind laws like that. What outrageous incident prompted such a specific prohibition?”

You settle into a nearby armchair, tucking your legs underneath you. “Maybe a scorned lover stabbed someone with a stiletto?”

Charles’ eyebrows shoot up. “My, what a violent imagination you have. I was thinking more along the lines of a clumsy debutante wreaking havoc on the ballroom floor.”

“Boring,” you tease. “My version is much more exciting.”

Charles chuckles, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. Your mind is a constant source of fascination to me.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Oh? How so?”

Charles moves closer, his form shimmering slightly in the moonlight streaming through the windows. “You see the world in such a unique way. You’re not bound by the conventions and expectations of my time. It’s ... refreshing.”

“I could say the same about you,” you reply softly. “You’re nothing like I would have expected a 19th-century prince to be.”

Charles’ smile turns wry. “Ah, but I’ve had over a century to adapt and learn. Though I must admit, much of modern life still baffles me. Perhaps you could explain to me the appeal of this ‘Instagram’ your friends keep mentioning?”

You laugh, launching into an explanation of social media that leaves Charles looking both intrigued and mildly horrified. The conversation flows easily from there, jumping from topic to topic with the effortless rhythm you’ve come to cherish in your nightly meetings.

As the hours pass, you find yourself moving closer to Charles, drawn in by his warmth (metaphorical, of course — he’s actually quite cool to be near) and charm. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every fleeting expression that crosses his face.

At one point, Charles reaches out as if to touch your hand, then seems to catch himself, pulling back with a flicker of frustration crossing his features.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Sometimes I forget ...”

You swallow hard, your heart aching. “It’s okay. I ... I wish you could too.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with unspoken longing. Charles’ eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the impossibility of your situation crashes over you like a wave.

“Y/N,” Charles begins, his voice rough with emotion. “I-”

But before he can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching the library.

“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Hide behind the curtain.”

You scramble to conceal yourself just as the door opens. Through a gap in the heavy fabric, you see a security guard sweep his flashlight around the room.

Your heart pounds in your chest as the beam of light passes inches from your hiding spot. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.

You wait a few more moments before emerging, your legs shaky with leftover adrenaline.

“That was close,” you breathe.

Charles nods, his form flickering with agitation. “Too close. Y/N, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting you in these situations. If you were caught ...”

You shake your head vehemently. “No, don’t say that. I don’t care about the risk. Being with you, learning about you and your time — it’s worth it.”

Charles’ expression softens, a mix of affection and sorrow in his eyes. “You’re extraordinary, do you know that? But I fear ... I fear I’m being selfish, keeping you to myself like this.”

You take a step closer to him, wishing more than anything that you could take his hand. “You’re not keeping me anywhere I don’t want to be.”

The words hang between you, charged with meaning. Charles opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, conflict clear on his face.

Finally, he says, “It’s nearly dawn. You should go, before your friends wake.”

You nod reluctantly, knowing he’s right but hating to leave. As you reach the door, you turn back to look at him one last time.

“Charles,” you say softly. “I ... I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

He smiles, but there’s a sadness in it that tugs at your heart. “I’ll be here. I’m always here.”

As you make your way back to your room, your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. You’re falling hard and fast for a man who’s been dead for over a century.

It’s impossible, it’s insane, and yet ... you wouldn’t trade these moments with Charles for anything in the world.

But as you slip back into bed, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains, a nagging doubt creeps in. How long can this go on? What happens when your vacation ends? And most troublingly of all — what aren’t you seeing in your infatuation with this charming ghost prince?

***

The musty scent of old books fills your nostrils as you hunch over a stack of historical tomes in the palace library. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. You’ve been here for hours, your friends long since departed for a day of sunbathing and shopping.

“Find anything interesting?” Charles’ voice makes you jump. You look up to see him materializing near the bookshelf, a curious expression on his translucent face.

You sigh, rubbing your tired eyes. “Nothing concrete yet. There’s frustratingly little information about your death in these official histories. It’s always just ‘Prince Charles died tragically young’ with no details.”

Charles moves closer, peering at the book you’re reading. “Ah, Gustave Saige’s ‘Monaco: Ses Origines et Son Histoire’. A rather dry read, if I recall correctly.”

You can’t help but chuckle. “You’re not wrong. But I thought it might have some clues.” You hesitate, then ask, “Charles, why don’t you just tell me what happened? How you ... died?”

A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “I wish I could. But the truth is, my memories of that time are ... fragmented. I remember tensions rising, arguments with the council, and then ... nothing. Just waking up like this, bound to the palace.”

You reach out instinctively to comfort him, your hand passing through his arm with a chill. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how frustrating that must be.”

Charles gives you a sad smile. “It’s been my reality for over a century now. But I must admit, your determination to uncover the truth has given me hope I haven’t felt in a very long time.”

Your heart swells at his words, even as a pang of guilt hits you. Are you really doing this for Charles, or for yourself? The thought of him finding peace and moving on fills you with a complicated mix of emotions you’re not ready to examine too closely.

Pushing those thoughts aside, you turn back to your research. “Well, if these books aren’t giving us answers, maybe we need to look elsewhere. You mentioned arguments with the council. Were there records kept of those meetings?”

Charles’ brow furrows in concentration. “Yes, there would have been. Minutes were always taken. But they would have been considered sensitive documents. Not something you’d find in the public library.”

You lean forward, excitement building. “So where would they be kept?”

“There’s an archive room,” Charles says slowly. “Hidden behind the throne room. It’s where the most confidential state papers were stored.”

You’re already on your feet, shoving books back onto shelves. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

Charles holds up a ghostly hand. “Not so fast, Y/N. That room has been sealed for decades. It’s not somewhere a tourist can just wander into.”

You deflate slightly, but your determination doesn’t waver. “Then we’ll have to find a way in after hours. You can get me there, right?”

Charles looks conflicted. “I could, but Y/N, if you were caught ...”

“I won’t be,” you insist. “Please, Charles. This might be our only chance to find out what really happened to you.”

For a long moment, Charles studies your face. Then he sighs, a sound tinged with both resignation and admiration. “Very well. Meet me here at midnight. I’ll show you the way.”

The hours crawl by as you wait for night to fall. You make a show of going to bed early, claiming a headache to avoid your friends’ plans for a night out. As the clock strikes twelve, you slip out of your room and make your way to the library.

Charles is waiting for you, his form glowing faintly in the moonlight. “Are you sure about this?” He asks one last time.

You nod firmly. “Let’s do it.”

Charles leads you through a maze of corridors and hidden passages. Your heart races with every creak of the floorboards, every shadow that might be a security guard. Finally, you arrive at an ornate door hidden behind a tapestry.

“This is it,” Charles whispers. “The archive room.”

You reach for the handle, but it’s locked. “Damn,” you mutter. “Any ideas?”

Charles frowns, concentrating. “There used to be a spare key ... ah!” He points to a small crevice in the intricate woodwork. “Try there.”

You feel around and, to your amazement, your fingers close around a small key. With trembling hands, you insert it into the lock. It turns with a satisfying click.

The door swings open, revealing a room packed floor to ceiling with shelves of documents. The air is thick with dust and the smell of old paper.

“Where do we even start?” You whisper, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of information.

Charles moves to a section near the back. “The council records from my time should be here. Look for anything dated 1894.”

You begin sifting through stacks of yellowed papers, careful not to damage the fragile documents. Minutes pass in tense silence as you search.

Suddenly, Charles’ voice cuts through the quiet. “Y/N, over here. I think I’ve found something.”

You hurry to his side. He’s pointing at a leather-bound ledger. You carefully open it, coughing slightly at the dust it raises.

As you scan the pages, your eyes widen. “Charles, this ... this is incredible. It’s a record of council meetings leading up to your death. Look at this entry from two weeks before: ‘Prince Charles continues to push for radical reforms. Concerns raised about stability of the principality if plans proceed.’”

Charles leans in, his face a mix of emotions. “I remember that meeting. It was ... heated. Keep reading.”

You flip through more pages, your heart pounding as the story unfolds. “There’s more. ‘Prince’s proposed changes to casino regulations deemed unacceptable. Alternative measures must be considered.’ Charles, this sounds like ...”

“A conspiracy,” Charles finishes, his voice hollow. “They were plotting against me.”

You reach the final entry, dated the day before Charles’ death. Your blood runs cold as you read it aloud. “Situation untenable. Drastic action required to preserve Monaco’s interests. God forgive us.”

A heavy silence falls over the room as the implications sink in. Charles turns away, his form flickering with agitation.

“They killed me,” he says softly. “My own council ... they murdered me to stop my reforms.”

You feel tears pricking at your eyes. “Charles, I’m so sorry. This is ... it’s unthinkable.”

Charles is quiet for a long moment, then turns back to you with a determined expression. “We need to take this ledger. The truth needs to come out, even after all this time.”

You nod, carefully closing the book and tucking it into your bag. As you do, something catches your eye. “Wait, there’s something else here.”

Behind where the ledger was sitting, you spot a small leather pouch. You open it carefully, gasping as several folded papers and a small object fall out.

“What is it?” Charles asks, moving closer.

You unfold one of the papers with trembling hands. “It’s ... it’s a letter. From you.” You begin to read aloud:

“To whoever finds this, I fear my time may be short. I write this in haste, knowing that forces within Monaco seek to silence me. My efforts to modernize our beloved principality and free us from our dependence on gambling have made me enemies in powerful places. If anything should happen to me, know that it was not an accident. The proof of their treachery is contained within these documents and the vial of poison they intend to use. I pray this never sees the light of day, but if it does, may it bring justice and push Monaco towards the future I envisioned.”

You look up at Charles, tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. “You knew. You tried to protect yourself.”

Charles nods slowly, his own eyes shimmering with ghostly tears. “I ... I remember now. I wrote this the night before ... before it happened. I must have hidden it here, hoping someone would find it.”

You carefully gather up the documents and the small vial, adding them to your bag with the ledger. “We have to make this public, Charles. Your murder, the cover-up ... people need to know the truth.”

Charles looks at you with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “You’re right, of course. But Y/N, you must understand what this means. If the truth comes out, if justice is served ...”

“You might be able to move on,” you finish, your voice barely a whisper. The thought sends a dagger through your heart, but you force yourself to continue. “That’s ... that’s a good thing, right? It’s what you’ve been waiting for all this time.”

Charles moves closer, his hand hovering near your cheek as if he could wipe away your tears. “It is. But I find myself reluctant to leave, now that I’ve found something — someone — worth staying for.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “Charles, I ...”

Before you can finish, a noise in the hallway makes you both freeze. Footsteps are approaching.

“Quick,” Charles whispers urgently. “Behind that cabinet.”

You scramble to hide, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure it must be audible. The door to the archive room creaks open, and a beam of light sweeps across the space.

“Hello?” A gruff voice calls out. “Is someone in here?”

You hold your breath, pressing yourself further into the shadows. After what feels like an eternity, the guard seems satisfied and leaves, closing the door behind him.

You wait a few more moments before emerging from your hiding spot, legs shaky with adrenaline.

“That was too close,” Charles says, his form flickering with agitation. “We need to get you out of here.”

You nod, clutching your bag with its precious cargo close to your chest. “How do we get back?”

Charles leads you to a hidden panel in the wall. “This passage will take you directly to the guest wing. Hurry, before the guard comes back.”

As you step into the secret corridor, you turn back to look at Charles. “What happens now?” You ask softly.

Charles’ expression is a complex mix of emotions — hope, fear, sadness, and something that looks a lot like love. “Now, mon chérie, we bring the truth to light. Whatever comes after ... we’ll face it together.”

You nod, your throat tight with unshed tears. As you make your way back to your room, your mind races with the implications of what you’ve discovered. You’ve found the key to setting Charles free, to bringing him the peace he’s been denied for over a century.

But as you clutch the bag containing the proof of his murder, you can’t help but wonder: at what cost? The thought of losing Charles, of never seeing his smile or hearing his laugh again, fills you with a grief so profound it takes your breath away.

As you slip back into your bed, the first rays of dawn peeking through the curtains, you know that the hardest part of your journey is yet to come. You’ve uncovered the truth, but now you face an impossible choice: keep Charles with you in this half-life or set him free and lose him forever.

***

The golden light of a Monaco sunset streams through the windows of your hotel suite, casting long shadows across the room. You stand before the mirror, adjusting the elaborate 19th-century gown you’ve rented for the evening’s ball. Your fingers tremble slightly as you fasten a delicate necklace, your mind a whirlwind of emotions.

“You look absolutely stunning,” Charles’ voice comes from behind you. You turn to see him materializing near the balcony, his eyes wide with admiration.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your heart aching at the sight of him. “I wish you could really be there tonight, dancing with me.”

Charles moves closer, his form shimmering in the fading sunlight. “As do I, ma chérie. But I’ll be with you in spirit, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as tears prick at your eyes. “Always with the jokes, even now.”

“Well, one must maintain one’s sense of humor, even in the face of ... impending departure,” Charles says, his light tone belied by the sadness in his eyes.

The word hangs heavy between you. Departure. In just two days, you’ll be leaving Monaco, returning to your life back home. The thought fills you with a grief so profound it’s almost physical.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” you blurt out, the words escaping before you can stop them. “I could stay. I could find a job here, an apartment. We could-”

“Y/N,” Charles interrupts gently, “we’ve discussed this. You can’t put your life on hold for a ghost.”

You turn away, blinking back tears. “But what if I want to? What if being here, with you, is the life I want?”

Charles is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion. “My dearest Y/N, you cannot imagine how much I wish things could be different. But I am tied to this place, to this half-existence. You have a whole life ahead of you, full of possibilities and adventures. I won’t let you sacrifice that for me.”

You whirl back to face him, frustration bubbling up. “Shouldn’t that be my choice to make?”

“Perhaps,” Charles concedes. “But it is also my choice to refuse to be the anchor that holds you back. You deserve so much more than stolen moments with a specter.”

The truth of his words cuts deep, even as you want to rail against them. You slump onto the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling the weight of your elaborate costume.

“I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper.

Charles moves to sit beside you, the mattress not even dipping under his non-existent weight. “Nor I you. But perhaps ... perhaps this is why we found each other. Not for a lifetime, but for this moment. To bring truth to light, to right an old wrong, and to experience a love that transcends time itself.”

You look up at him, struck by the depth of emotion in his ghostly eyes. “When did you get so wise?”

Charles grins, a hint of his usual mischief returning. “Well, I have had over a century to work on my philosophical musings.”

You can’t help but laugh, even as a tear escapes down your cheek. Charles reaches out, his hand hovering just above your skin in a gesture of comfort.

“Come now,” he says gently. “Let’s not waste our last evening together in sorrow. You have a ball to attend, and I, for one, am eager to see how the modern world interprets the grandeur of my era.”

You nod, standing and giving yourself one last look in the mirror. “You’re right. Let’s make tonight a night to remember.”

As you make your way down to the grand ballroom, you can feel Charles’ presence beside you, a comforting coolness in the warm evening air. The sounds of music and laughter grow louder as you approach.

You pause at the entrance, taking in the transformed space. The ballroom has been decorated to recreate its 19th-century splendor, with crystal chandeliers, elaborate floral arrangements, and guests in period costumes whirling across the dance floor.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.

“Indeed,” Charles agrees, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Though I must say, some of these costumes are rather ... creative interpretations of the fashion of my time.”

You stifle a giggle as you spot a guest in what appears to be a mash-up of Victorian and Edwardian styles. “Well, not everyone can have a ghostly fashion consultant.”

You make your way into the crowd, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. Your friends spot you and wave enthusiastically.

“Y/N! Over here!” Mia calls out. “You look amazing!”

You join them, smiling as you take in their costumes. “You all look great too. Are you enjoying the ball?”

Zoe nods enthusiastically. “It’s like stepping back in time. Can you imagine living in an era like this?”

You feel Charles’ amusement radiating beside you. “Oh, I don’t know,” you say airily. “I think it might have its charms.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourself swept up in the festivities. You dance with several partners, all the while acutely aware of Charles’ presence, watching from the sidelines.

During a lull in the music, you manage to slip away from the crowd, finding a secluded alcove near one of the large windows.

“Having fun?” Charles asks, materializing beside you.

You nod, a bit breathless from dancing. “It’s wonderful. But I wish ...”

“You wish I could truly be here,” Charles finishes for you. He holds out his hand in an old-fashioned gesture. “Well, my lady, may I have this dance?”

You glance around, making sure no one is watching, then place your hand over his incorporeal one. As the music starts up again, a slow, romantic waltz, you begin to move together.

It’s a strange sensation, dancing with a ghost. You can’t feel Charles’ hand on your waist or his fingers intertwined with yours, but somehow, you move in perfect synchronization. For a few precious moments, it’s as if the rest of the world fades away, leaving just the two of you, swaying to the music.

“I love you,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Charles’ eyes widen, then soften with an emotion so deep it takes your breath away. “And I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible.”

As you gaze into each other’s eyes, lost in the moment, a sudden chill sweeps through the room. The lights flicker, and a murmur of confusion ripples through the crowd.

Charles stiffens, his form becoming more translucent. “Something’s wrong,” he mutters, looking around warily.

Before you can ask what he means, a commotion breaks out near the center of the ballroom. Guests are backing away from a spot on the dance floor, pointing and gasping in shock.

You push your way through the crowd, Charles right behind you. As you reach the cleared space, your blood runs cold. Three ghostly figures have appeared, dressed in outdated formal wear, their faces contorted with rage and fear.

“Impossible,” Charles breathes beside you. “It’s them. The council members who ... who murdered me.”

As if hearing his words, the three ghosts turn towards you. Their eyes widen in recognition as they spot Charles.

“You!” One of them snarls, his voice echoing unnaturally in the stunned silence of the ballroom. “How are you here?”

Charles steps forward, his own form becoming more visible to the shocked onlookers. “I could ask you the same question, Lord Beaumont. Or should I say, murderer?”

A collective gasp runs through the crowd. Hotel staff are rushing about, trying to maintain order, but everyone’s attention is fixed on the supernatural drama unfolding before them.

“We did what was necessary,” another ghost, a portly man with a walrus mustache, blusters. “You would have ruined Monaco with your radical ideas!”

“Ruined?” Charles’ voice rises in indignation. “I was trying to save our principality, to secure its future beyond the whims of fortune and gambling!”

The third ghost, a thin man with a pinched face, sneers. “And in doing so, you would have destroyed the very thing that made Monaco unique. We couldn’t allow it.”

You find your voice, anger overcoming your fear. “So you murdered him? Your own prince?”

The ghosts turn their baleful gazes on you. “And who are you to question the affairs of state from a century past?” Lord Beaumont demands.

“She,” Charles says, moving to stand beside you, “is the one who uncovered your treachery. The proof of your crimes has been found.”

A murmur runs through the crowd. You see hotel management huddled in a corner, speaking urgently into phones. In the distance, you can hear police sirens approaching.

“It doesn’t matter now,” the portly ghost says dismissively. “We’re long dead, beyond the reach of earthly justice.”

“Perhaps,” you counter, your voice stronger than you feel. “But the truth will be known. History will remember Prince Charles as the visionary he was, and you as the small-minded murderers who cut his life short.”

As you speak, a strange energy begins to build in the room. The three ghosts start to flicker, their forms becoming less substantial.

“What’s happening?” The thin ghost cries out, panic in his voice.

Charles steps forward, his expression a mix of pity and righteousness. “You’re facing judgment at last, gentlemen. Your unfinished business is complete. The truth is out.”

With a howl of despair, the three ghosts begin to fade away. In moments, they’ve vanished completely, leaving behind a stunned silence.

As the implications of what’s just happened sink in, chaos erupts in the ballroom. People are shouting, phones are out recording, and security is trying desperately to maintain order.

But you only have eyes for Charles. His form is starting to shimmer, becoming more translucent by the second.

“Charles,” you gasp, reaching for him. “What’s happening? Are you ...”

He looks down at his fading hands, then back up at you with a sad smile. “It seems my unfinished business is complete as well. The truth is out, justice, in some form, has been served.”

“No,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “Please, not yet. I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

Charles moves closer, his hand hovering just above your cheek. “My dearest Y/N, meeting you has been the greatest gift. You’ve brought light to my long darkness, and given me peace I never thought I’d find.”

“I don’t want you to go,” you sob, your heart breaking.

“Nor do I wish to leave you,” Charles says softly. “But perhaps this isn’t truly goodbye. I don’t know what lies beyond, but I do know this — a love like ours transcends time and death itself. Somehow, someway, I believe we’ll find each other again.”

You manage a watery smile. “You promise?”

“I swear it,” Charles vows. He leans in, and for the briefest moment, you swear you can feel the ghost of a kiss on your lips. “Until we meet again, mon amour.”

And with that, Charles fades away completely, leaving behind nothing but a lingering chill in the air and the memory of a love that defied all boundaries.

As the commotion swirls around you, police and hotel management trying to make sense of what’s happened, you stand still in the center of it all. Your heart is breaking, but there’s also a sense of peace, of completion.

You touch your lips, still feeling the echo of that impossible kiss, and whisper to the empty air, “Until we meet again, Charles.”

In that moment, surrounded by the trappings of a bygone era and the chaos of the present, you know that your life has been forever changed. Whatever comes next, you’ll face it with the strength and love Charles gave you, carrying his memory in your heart until, somehow, someway, you find each other once more.

***

The Mediterranean sun bathes Monaco in a warm glow as you climb the steps to the Palais Grimaldi. Five years have passed since that fateful summer, but your heart still quickens as you approach the familiar facade. You adjust the strap of your messenger bag, filled with research materials for your graduate thesis on 19th-century Monégasque politics.

As you enter the palace, now partly converted into a museum, you’re struck by how much has changed. Plaques and displays line the halls, detailing the history of the Grimaldi family. But your eyes are drawn to a new addition: a whole wing dedicated to Prince Charles and his progressive vision for Monaco.

You pause before a large portrait of Charles, your breath catching in your throat. The artist has captured his piercing green eyes perfectly, that hint of mischief in his smile that you remember so well.

“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?” A voice beside you says, startling you from your reverie. “How much history these walls have seen.”

You turn, a polite response on your lips, but the words die in your throat. Standing next to you is a young man who could be Charles’ twin. The same wavy dark hair, the same chiseled jawline, and most strikingly, those same intense green eyes.

For a moment, you forget how to breathe. “Charles?” You whisper, hardly daring to believe it.

The young man looks at you curiously, a small smile playing on his lips. “Well, yes, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Have we met before?”

You blink rapidly, reality reasserting itself. Of course this isn’t your Charles. It can’t be. You clear your throat, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “I’m so sorry, you just ... you look remarkably like someone I used to know. I’m Y/N.”

The young man’s smile widens, and he holds out his hand. “Charles Leclerc. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N.”

You shake his hand, trying to ignore the jolt of electricity that runs through you at his touch. “Leclerc? As in the Formula 1 driver?”

Charles nods, looking slightly sheepish. “The very same. Though today I’m just a tourist like anyone else, enjoying a bit of home between races.”

“Home?” You ask, intrigued despite yourself.

“Born and raised in Monaco,” Charles explains. “Though I admit, I haven’t spent as much time in the palace as I perhaps should have. It’s quite fascinating, especially this new exhibit.”

You nod, turning back to the portrait of Prince Charles. “It really is. The prince was quite a remarkable figure. His ideas were so ahead of their time.”

Charles steps closer, studying the portrait. “You seem to know a lot about him. Are you a historian?”

“A graduate student,” you explain. “I’m here on a research grant, studying 19th-century Monégasque politics at the International University of Monaco.”

Charles’ eyes light up with interest. “Really? That sounds fascinating. I’ve always been interested in history, especially the history of Monaco. It’s a small place, but it’s played such an outsized role in European affairs.”

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “It really has. Prince Charles, in particular, had some revolutionary ideas about diversifying Monaco’s economy beyond just gambling. If he hadn’t died so young, who knows how things might have turned out?”

A shadow passes over Charles’ face. “Yes, his death was quite tragic. And mysterious, from what I understand. Wasn’t there some recent discovery about the circumstances?”

You nod, your heart racing as you remember that night five years ago. “Yes, documents were found that suggested he was actually assassinated by members of his own council who opposed his reforms.”

Charles shakes his head, looking troubled. “How terrible. To be betrayed by those closest to you, all for wanting to make positive changes.”

“It was a different time,” you say softly. “Change is always frightening to those in power.”

Charles nods thoughtfully. “True, but it’s also necessary for growth. Monaco has come a long way since then, but I sometimes wonder if we couldn’t be doing more to realize Prince Charles’ vision.”

You look at him in surprise. “That’s ... that’s exactly what I’ve been thinking in my research. The prince had ideas about sustainable development and diversifying the economy that are still relevant today.”

Charles grins, and for a moment, the resemblance to your Charles is so strong it takes your breath away. “Great minds think alike, it seems. You know, I’ve been looking for ways to use my platform as an athlete to promote positive change in Monaco. Perhaps we could compare notes sometime?”

Your heart skips a beat. “I’d like that,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m always happy to discuss history with someone who’s genuinely interested.”

“Excellent,” Charles says, pulling out his phone. “Why don’t we exchange numbers? We could meet for coffee and continue this conversation.”

As you input your number into his phone, you can’t help but notice a small charm dangling from it — a miniature racing helmet. “That’s cute,” you comment.

Charles looks at it and chuckles. “Ah, yes. It was a gift from my mother. She says it’s for luck, but I think she just worries about me on the track.”

The casual mention of his mother sends a pang through your heart. This Charles is very much alive, with a family and a life of his own. You have to remind yourself that he’s not the same person you knew, no matter how similar he might seem.

“Well, it seems to be working,” you say lightly. “You’ve had quite a successful season so far. Won your home race, if I’m not mistaken.”

Charles looks pleased. “You follow Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not really, but it’s hard to miss the news when you’re living in Monaco. The Grand Prix is quite an event.”

“That it is,” Charles agrees. “You know, if you’re interested, I could give you a behind-the-scenes tour of the circuit sometime. It’s quite fascinating from a historical perspective as well. The race has been run on essentially the same streets since 1929.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Are you always this charming with strangers you meet in museums?”

Charles grins, a mischievous glint in his eye that’s achingly familiar. “Only the ones who can discuss 19th-century political reform with such passion.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well, in that case, how can I refuse? A tour sounds lovely.”

As you continue to chat, moving through the exhibit, you’re struck by how easy it is to talk to Charles. He’s knowledgeable and curious, asking insightful questions about your research and offering his own perspectives on Monaco’s history and future.

At one point, you pause before a display showcasing some of Prince Charles’ personal effects. Among them is a small, ornate pocket watch.

“Beautiful craftsmanship,” Charles comments, leaning in for a closer look.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat as you remember your Charles checking a similar watch during your midnight explorations. “It’s a shame it’s not working anymore.”

Charles tilts his head, studying the watch intently. “Actually, I think it is. Look closely at the second hand.”

You peer into the display case, and to your amazement, you see the tiny hand ticking away steadily. “You’re right! How did you notice that?”

Charles shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’ve always had a thing for timepieces. Comes with the racing territory, I suppose. Hundreths of a second are everything on the track.”

You shake your head in wonder. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I try to keep things interesting,” Charles says with a wink. Then his expression turns more serious. “You know, it’s strange. Being here, learning about Prince Charles ... I feel an odd connection to him. Almost as if I knew him somehow.”

Your heart races at his words. Could it be possible? You push the thought away, reminding yourself that such things only happen in fairy tales. “Well, he is your ancestor, in a way. All Monégasques are connected to the Grimaldi family, aren’t they?”

Charles nods slowly. “True, but this feels different. When I look at his portrait, it’s almost like looking in a mirror. And his ideas, his passion for progress ... it resonates with me in a way I can’t quite explain.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “Maybe some things are just meant to be. Some connections transcend time.”

Charles looks at you intently, and for a moment, you swear you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “Perhaps you’re right. It’s a comforting thought, isn’t it? That the past isn’t really gone, just ... waiting to be rediscovered.”

You’re saved from having to respond by the chiming of the palace clock, signaling the approach of closing time.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was so late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “I should probably get going. I have a meeting with my advisor in the morning.”

Charles nods, looking slightly disappointed. “Of course. But we’re still on for that coffee and circuit tour, right?”

You smile, feeling a warmth spreading through your chest. “Absolutely. I’m looking forward to it.”

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, Charles touches your arm lightly. “Y/N, I know this might sound strange, but ... I feel like we were meant to meet today. Like some force in the universe brought us together.”

You look into his eyes, so familiar and yet new, and feel a spark of hope ignite in your heart. “I know exactly what you mean.”

He smiles, and in that moment, you see not just the Charles of the present, but echoes of the Charles you knew and loved. “Until we meet again, then?”

The phrase, so similar to your Charles’ last words, sends a shiver down your spine. “Until then,” you agree softly.

As you walk out of the palace and into the warm Monaco evening, your mind is whirling. You can’t shake the feeling that something extraordinary has happened, that a promise made long ago is somehow being fulfilled.

You pause at the top of the steps, looking back at the palace that has played such a pivotal role in your life. As the setting sun gilds the stone facade, you allow yourself to imagine, just for a moment, that maybe, just maybe, some loves really are strong enough to transcend time and death itself.

With a smile on your face and hope in your heart, you descend the steps, ready to embrace whatever new adventure awaits. After all, in a world where ghosts can fall in love and centuries-old mysteries can be solved, anything seems possible.

And, as the promise of a new beginning beckons, you can’t help but feel that the best chapters of your story are yet to be written.

***

The sun-drenched streets of Monaco buzz with excitement as Sofia, a die-hard Scuderia Ferrari fan, makes her way towards the Palais Grimaldi. Her red Ferrari cap and matching team shirt make her stand out among the tourists, but she doesn’t mind. She’s here on a mission: to soak up every bit of Monaco’s rich racing history.

As Sofia enters the palace-turned-museum, her eyes widen in awe at the opulent surroundings. “Wow,” she breathes, spinning slowly to take it all in. “Talk about living like royalty.”

She wanders through the exhibits, pausing occasionally to read plaques or admire artifacts. But her mind keeps drifting to thoughts of sleek racing cars and the roar of engines. That is, until she rounds a corner and comes face to face with a large portrait that stops her in her tracks.

“No way,” Sofia mutters, stepping closer to the painting. Her brow furrows as she studies the face of the young prince depicted. “That’s ... that’s impossible.”

Just then, a tour group passes by, led by an enthusiastic guide. Sofia catches snippets of the commentary.

“... Prince Charles, one of Monaco’s most progressive rulers ...”

“... tragically died young under mysterious circumstances ...”

“... recent discoveries suggest he may have been assassinated ...”

Sofia’s head is spinning. She pulls out her phone, quickly pulling up a photo of Charles Leclerc, her favorite driver. She holds it up next to the portrait, her jaw dropping at the uncanny resemblance.

“Excuse me,” she says, tapping the tour guide on the shoulder. “This Prince Charles, when exactly did he live?”

The guide smiles, always happy to share historical tidbits. “Prince Charles ruled briefly in the late 19th century. He died in 1894 at the young age of 26.”

Sofia’s mind races. “And has anyone ever noticed how much he looks like Charles Leclerc? The F1 driver?”

The guide’s eyes twinkle with amusement. “Ah, you’re not the first to notice that similarity. It’s become quite a popular topic of discussion lately. Some even joke that Leclerc is the prince reincarnated.”

Sofia laughs nervously. “Right, of course. Just a coincidence, I’m sure.”

As the tour moves on, Sofia remains rooted to the spot, her eyes darting between her phone and the portrait. It’s more than just a passing resemblance. The shape of the eyes, the curve of the jaw, even the hint of a mischievous smile — it’s all pure Leclerc.

Lost in thought, she doesn’t notice someone approaching until a voice beside her says, “Fascinating portrait, isn’t it?”

Sofia jumps, turning to see a young woman standing next to her. The newcomer is dressed casually in a flowing sundress, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

“Oh, um, yes,” Sofia stammers. “It’s quite ... striking.”

The woman smiles knowingly. “Let me guess. You couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to a certain Formula 1 driver?”

Sofia’s eyes widen. “You see it too? I thought I was going crazy!”

The woman laughs, a warm, genuine sound. “Trust me, you’re not crazy. I’m Y/N, by the way. I’m doing some research here for my graduate thesis.”

“Sofia,” she replies, shaking your hand. “So, what’s the deal? Is Leclerc secretly a time-traveling prince or something?”

You chuckle, but there’s a strange look in your eyes that Sofia can’t quite decipher. “I’m afraid the explanation is probably much more mundane. Many Monégasques have some connection to the Grimaldi family. It’s likely just a case of strong genes persisting through the generations.”

Sofia nods, but she’s not entirely convinced. There’s something about the way you’re looking at the portrait, a mix of fondness and melancholy, that piques her curiosity.

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Sofia probes gently. “Are you a big history buff?”

You smile, turning away from the portrait. “You could say that. I’ve been studying Prince Charles and his era for my thesis. It’s a fascinating period in Monaco’s history.”

Sofia’s about to ask more when she notices someone approaching over your shoulder. Her eyes go wide, and she has to stifle a gasp.

You turn to see what’s caught her attention, and your face lights up. “Charles! I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

Sofia’s jaw drops as Charles Leclerc himself joins you, greeting you with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek. He’s dressed casually in jeans and an oversized hoodie, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but there’s no mistaking that face — especially not when it’s right next to the portrait of his doppelganger.

“I had some free time between meetings and thought I’d stop by,” Charles explains. “How’s the research going?”

You launch into an explanation of your latest findings, and Sofia watches in fascination as Charles listens intently, asking insightful questions and offering his own thoughts. It’s clear this is far from the first time they’ve discussed the topic.

Finally, Charles seems to notice Sofia’s presence. “Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Sofia manages to close her mouth, which had been hanging open in shock. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m Sofia. I’m a huge fan, Mr. Leclerc.”

Charles grins, shaking her hand. “Please, call me Charles. Always nice to meet a tifosa.”

Sofia gestures weakly to the portrait. “I was just ... I mean ... has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like ...”

Charles and you exchange a look that Sofia can’t quite interpret. Then Charles turns back to her with a wry smile. “Once or twice, yes. It’s quite the coincidence, isn’t it?”

Sofia nods, still feeling like she’s stepped into some kind of twilight zone. “Coincidence. Right.”

You clear your throat, seemingly eager to change the subject. “So, Sofia, are you here on vacation?”

Grateful for the change of topic, Sofia launches into an enthusiastic description of her plans for the next week. As they chat, she can’t help but notice the way Charles and you interact — the casual touches, the inside jokes, the way your eyes continually find each other. There’s clearly a deep connection there.

At one point, Charles excuses himself to take a phone call. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sofia turns to you with wide eyes. “Okay, you have to tell me. What’s the real story here? How long have you two been together?”

You laugh, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. “Is it that obvious? We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. We met right here, actually, in front of this very portrait.”

Sofia’s romantic heart melts a little at that. “That’s so sweet! But come on, you have to admit, the resemblance is freaky. And the way you two were talking about history ... it’s like he lived it or something.”

You get that strange look in your eyes again, a mix of secrecy and wonder. “Charles has always had a deep connection to Monaco’s past. It’s one of the things that drew us together.”

Sofia’s about to press for more details when Charles returns, slipping his arm around your waist with casual familiarity.

“I hate to cut this short,” he says apologetically, “but I’ve got to run to a sponsor meeting. Y/N, we’re still on for dinner tonight?”

You nod, smiling up at him. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you at eight.”

As Charles says his goodbyes and leaves, Sofia watches him go with a mix of admiration and lingering confusion. She turns back to you, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

“Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy,” Sofia starts, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “but is there any chance ... I mean, has anyone ever considered the possibility that Charles might be, I don’t know, the reincarnation of Prince Charles or something?”

You pause for a long moment, and Sofia holds her breath, half-expecting you to laugh in her face. But instead, you give her a small, enigmatic smile.

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” you say softly. “Sometimes, the past has a way of coming back to us in forms we least expect. Who’s to say what’s possible and what isn’t?”

Sofia’s mind reels at the implications. “So you’re saying ...”

You hold up a hand, your expression turning more serious. “I’m not saying anything definitively. But I will say this: getting to know Charles — the Charles of today — has been like rediscovering a part of history I thought was lost forever. Whether that’s due to reincarnation, cosmic coincidence, or just the magic of human connection, I can’t say for sure. But I do know that it feels like a second chance at something extraordinary.”

Sofia listens, enthralled. It’s like something out of a movie or a romance novel. “That’s ... wow. I don’t even know what to say.”

You laugh, the sound tinged with wonder. “Trust me, I know the feeling. Life has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.”

As you chat a bit more, Sofia can’t help but feel like she’s been let in on some grand secret. The way you talk about Charles, about history, about the strange twists of fate — it’s all so fantastical and yet, standing here in the shadow of that eerily familiar portrait, she can’t quite bring herself to disbelieve it entirely.

Finally, you glance at your watch and sigh. “I should get going. I’ve got to prepare for dinner soon. It was lovely meeting you, Sofia.”

Sofia nods, still feeling slightly dazed. “You too. And ... thanks. For sharing all of that. It’s given me a lot to think about.”

You smile warmly. “Just keep an open mind. You never know what kind of magic you might encounter, especially in a place like Monaco.”

As you leave, Sofia turns back to the portrait of Prince Charles. She studies it intently, trying to reconcile the historical figure with the modern-day race driver she admires so much.

“Second chances,” she murmurs to herself. “Who’d have thought?”

With one last look at the portrait, Sofia continues her tour of the museum. But now, every artifact seems to pulse with new significance. The weight of history feels more present than ever, intertwining with the present in ways she never could have imagined.

As she steps out of the museum and into the bright Monaco sunshine, Sofia finds herself looking at the city with new eyes. The sleek modern buildings and ancient narrow streets no longer seem at odds, but part of a continuous, living history.

She thinks of Charles Leclerc, of the mysterious Y/N, of a long-dead prince whose legacy seems to echo through time. And as she makes her way towards the harbor, where she knows the Monaco circuit snakes through the city streets, Sofia can’t help but feel that she’s stumbled upon a story far greater and more magical than any single victory.

With a smile on her face and a newfound appreciation for the mysteries of the universe, Sofia sets off to explore more of Monaco. After all, in a place where princes can become race drivers and love can transcend time itself, who knows what other wonders she might discover?

[chilling-seavey]

First Title, Second Blessing (gr63)

The Way It Goes Masterlist

↳ A/N Oooh boy, this one was a long time coming. Thank you to this anon who was the one who finally triggered me to go all out and write this...in detail. You wanted breeding kink? Well you came to the right place. I hope you all enjoy 😶‍🌫️

↳ Pairings: Husband!Dad!George Russell x Wife!Mom!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 13.4k

↳ Warnings: 18+, smut, trying for a baby!!, breeding kink!!, hints of patriarchy kink ('my pretty little wife' vibes), George is such a bossy pleasure dom, dirty talk, begging, nipple play, grinding, brief oral sex (f receiving), restraining with hands/trapping her under his weight, spanking, some biting/spitting, choking, finger sucking, use of a vibrator, crying from pleasure, he gets so deep that it hurts and she likes it, pushing down on her belly, multiple orgasms, it gets messyyy and it gets louddd, sloppy seconds, mentions of queefs and body hair and similiar realistic concepts, unprotected sex and creampie(s) (duh).

Late November

George Russell won his first Championship at the same circuit at which, years earlier, he won his first race. He stood on the top step of the podium, a win to solidify the greatest win of all, and held his trophy aloft as tears poured down his flushed cheeks. He could hardly see the crowd cheering his name through the tears and the spray of champagne, the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears and echoing through his head. This was a lifetime accomplishment. His biggest dream, reality. 

You had wiped his tears later that afternoon in his driver’s room, kissing them away as you clung onto him. He was still damp from the podium, champagne and drying sweat plastering his hair over his head after his 1st Place Pirelli cap was knocked to the floor in the rush of your embrace. You were just as in disbelief as he was, just as buzzing, praising him over and over in your momentary privacy between post-race responsibilities. When he lifted you up off the ground just a bit, you squealed gleefully into his neck.

There was no better feeling than watching the one you love achieve their greatest dream. 

The night after the race was a blur; moving between bars and clubs in the ritziest areas of São Paulo with half the grid and most of the Mercedes team in tow. Flashing lights, loud music, sweaty bodies…George didn’t leave your side for the majority of the night, always keeping you within arms reach. You didn’t return to your hotel room until daybreak, donning last-night's clothes and the lingering scent of other people’s sweat and spilled alcohol. 

On the chartered private jet that morning, sharing the cabin with a few of the other drivers who doubled as George’s friends, everyone was uncharacteristically quiet. Lando was curled up against the window, his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes and hoodie nearly swallowing him, groaning outwardly about his mega hangover. Charles, across from him, who at least had the smarts to be drinking water, couldn’t have rolled his eyes farther back if he tried. Oscar and Alex were already fast asleep beside them.

Across the aisle, you and George were curled up together like honeymooners. On the seats across from you, his commemorative bottle of champagne sat in its protective wooden box. Despite the raging hangovers that your friends were facing from the partying the night before, you and George were delightfully calm—albeit exhausted. 

You had been surprised that no one realized both you and he had been avoiding alcohol all night, apart from one celebratory glass of champagne and one group shot of tequila near the beginning. Surprisingly, the night was still just as wonderful sober…perhaps it was the adrenaline still coursing through the both of you that allowed you to feel just as drunk as the rest of your group. It all felt a little scandalous to have been avoiding alcohol in bars all night but you had a plan and you were set on sticking to it. Besides, not being hungover for a twelve-hour flight was a bonus.

You and George slept most of the flight, cuddled up and leaning on each other in as comfortable a position as you could manage on an airplane. With a stopover in Nice to drop off your Monaco-residing friends, the private jet then took the two of you home to London. 

It was mid-morning when you landed in England and after retrieving George’s car from the valet, you headed towards your town. It was a stunning autumn day, surprisingly sunny with sprawling blue skies over multi-coloured trees and harvested fields. The countryside of England always revealed its true beauty under all the dreariness that often took up the landscape. 

It felt good to be home. Normal. Normal amidst the fact that everything was different now; George was the newest World Champion and, soon, his name would be on the trophy and displayed alongside other greats in the hall of fame. Compared to the excitement that burned within you, Cambridgeshire felt so calm. 

You stopped for lunch in town at some family restaurant that you and George always liked. While you ate and shared ramblings and recaps of the race and the season (that both of you were already immensely familiar with) together, a few fans came past your table to politely ask for photos or autographs. George, beaming, happily complied. You played your role of photographer where you could. 

George’s family, of course, wanted to celebrate his big win with him, but they also understood that after a grueling race weekend and a long-haul flight, an immediate visit might not be feasible. You were grateful for their patience—and even more so for the fact that his parents were still looking after your son, just as they had all week while you both were in Brazil. Besides, the little boy would never complain about one more night with his grandparents.

With your toddler away, your house was strangely quiet when you finally stepped over the threshold after nearly twenty-four hours of travel. George let out a relieved sigh as he set his suitcase down against the wall of the foyer as if he had just returned from half a year abroad. 

“Wow,” said George, simply, “Home.”

You turned to face him, taking in the way he stood there, hands on his hips, looking around the familiar space as if seeing it anew. The weight of everything—the season, the victory, the sheer exhaustion of travel—hung between you for a moment. So much had changed in the span of a year or even just a few months. 

You curled your arms around his middle and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth with a sweet, “Welcome home, World Champion.”

His eyes met yours fondly, his shoulders relaxing slightly at the familiar sight of you, and he slid his arms around you as you melted against his chest in a tender embrace. His movements were unhurried, calm, relaxed, finally able to take it slow after a season of fast paced adrenaline, finding refuge in your presence. 

“Thank you, my love.”

He gave you a quick kiss to your lips. The silence of the large farmhouse after the ear-piercing excitement and noise of the last week was a stark comparison; equal parts strange and relaxing.

After a moment to adjust to your arrival home, you led the way upstairs with the large wooden box containing the bottle of champagne in your arms, George trailing after you with your modest suitcases. The silence of the large farmhouse after the ear-piercing excitement and noise of the last week was a stark comparison; equal parts strange and relaxing. 

Once in your shared bedroom, you rested the box on the dresser and George sat the suitcases down on the floor. Just like he always did as soon as he returned home, he knelt down and unzipped his suitcase right away and started to pull out the dirty laundry to put away. 

“I don’t think it’s settled in yet, you know?” he said to you over his shoulder as he gathered his laundry and carried it into the walk-in closet to toss it in the hamper, “It feels so surreal; winning it. Almost like, ‘now what?’.”

In reply came your casual hummed “mhm” of acknowledgement. 

When he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight of you in only your bra and thong and kneeling in the centre of your neatly made king size bed as if waiting patiently had him halting in his tracks in surprise. You nibbled at your bottom lip at his stunned expression, trying to hide the bashful smile that was creeping its way across your face. 

His eyes trailed down your body as if unable to take his eyes off you, wanting to take in every inch, before he mumbled out a breathy, “Jesus, love…”

You giggled softly, “What?”

He continued to stare at you, “You can't just show up on the bed in nothing but a bra and panties…”

“Why not?” you asked cheekily, 

“Because…” George faded out with an exasperated sigh despite the obvious smile on his face and he set his hands on his hips. In reality, he had no excuse, no reason. You had a way of short-circuiting his brain in moments like this and especially when it was a complete surprise and the last thing he expected the moment they got home.

Filling in the momentary silence, you cocked your head to the side in a sweet manner, asking in a voice that was almost a purr, “Wanna come put a baby in me?”

Your simple request had his eyelashes fluttering through his deep inhale, as if letting your words wash over him entirely. 

George knew—very well, thank you—that you had agreed to start trying for another baby after the season ended or when he won the Title, whichever came first. Now, back home in your empty house after his Championship winning race, both of you having forgone alcohol the night before regardless of how hard everyone was partying just for the sake of a successful future conception, there was a very obvious intent in the air. 

You watched as he took a step towards the bed, his eyes never leaving your body, his voice a low, teasing, “Are you really that impatient? Couldn’t even let us unpack first?”

“Mhm,” you answered plainly with a sweethearted smile, “Peak ovulation is tomorrow so we gotta get a move on.”

George, now standing at the side of the bed, placed a knee on the edge of the mattress to draw himself closer to you, his eyes roaming over your body once more, “Naughty little minx.”

You licked your lips as he knelt in front of you in the middle of your shared bed, protesting despite your smile, “It’s not naughty.”

“Ripping all your clothes off and demanding me to put a baby in you is pretty naughty to me,” George countered, his hands falling to your bare waist and gave you a squeeze. 

Your nose brushed against his ever so slightly, taunting him with a gentle, “Well, are you still up for it, Champion?”

George’s chuckle was low, tilting his face just enough to exchange the bump of your noses for a graze of your lips, the simple action shooting a spark of heat through you. He left the faintest kiss to your lips, barely there, taunting, before muttering, “Of course, I definitely think I want to celebrate properly.”

Your face naturally turned towards his as he drew closer, your eyes all over his familiar features and your hands sliding up his chest and to his shoulders. He leaned in to kiss you deeply, lips pressed to yours in a kiss backed with passion and need, as if he had been holding himself back for days. With the Championship on the line, it had been hard to focus on anything else but, now, with that out of the way, everything that once felt secondary came rushing back. 

You couldn’t deny the need that had been growing within you since the middle of that weekend. Perhaps it was the fact that the race weekend aligned all too perfectly with your ovulation, or perhaps it was the fact that seeing your husband finally achieve his childhood dream, standing on the top of the world, dedicating his win to your family, stirred something raw and wanting within you. George was your everything, your little family was everything, and you would give him the world if you could. 

His large hands groped the doughy flesh over your hips a little tighter as if trying to pull you closer, his lips smacking wetly with yours as your kisses grew more desperate. Kneeling in front of each other in the middle of your bed, it almost felt as though you were about to partake in a faceoff, arms wrapping around each other until there was virtually no space left between you. With him still fully dressed and you mostly naked, your perfectly quiet house welcomed the sound of your sloppy kisses. 

“Mm,” George hummed lowly as he broke away from your lips and trailed heated kisses down your neck, “I’ve been thinking about getting you naked all day…and all last night.”

“I’m offering myself up to you now,” you purred. 

“Yeah, you are,” he praised, hands sliding down to grab your ass and pull you impossibly closer, just enough so you could feel the tightness over the front of his slacks, “Such a good girl for me.”

You let out a pretty moan at his tug, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders and fingers curling into the material of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed and teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Neither of you had showered after your lengthy flight or had a proper sleep outside of the luxury private jet seats but nothing of the sort mattered at that moment. Instead, husband and wife, all too comfortable with each other after years of devotion and infatuation, you wanted each other just as strongly as ever. It couldn’t wait.

George’s hands groped your ass and one pulled back to give you a small spank, the sharp sound echoing through your quiet bedroom. You gasped tightly and arched into him as his hands slid up your back and blindly found the clasp of your bra as he kissed and nipped at your neck.

“Give me this, now…” he mumbled against your skin, with that rich addicting lust to his voice that always had your panties soaked. 

His fingers worked nimbly at the clasp of your bra as if he needed it gone as soon as possible. Ever the expert at taking off your bra, he had it unclasped in a second and you moved your arms off his shoulders to help him get it off you entirely. He tossed it to the floor without a second look and slung an arm around your waist as he dipped down to take one of your nipples in his mouth.

Your head dropped back with a pleasured gasp and your fingers tangled in the back of his hair to keep his mouth on your chest. George’s strong arm tugged harder around your waist, keeping you flush against him with your hips against his as he bent down to suck on your breasts. With his tongue swirling around one of your nipples, his free hand tended to the other with purposeful tugs and rolls between thumb and forefinger, getting them nice and hard and already causing your insides to stir with arousal. It was almost embarrassingly easy for you to get turned on when you were ovulating and George always made the most of that fact over the years, using it to his advantage just to see how much you could take until you were nearly sobbing for it. 

George pulled away from your breast to tend to the other, dragging his tongue over your nipple first before taking it in his mouth with a greedy suck, framing it with his large hand around the expanse of your skin. He squeezed and showered you in tongue-led kisses and possessive suckles that left blushing red marks across your chest. Your fingers locked in the roots of his hair and the slight tug had him groaning against your breast and pulling away with a wet pop. 

His lips were back on yours in an instant, swallowing you up in a fierce kiss that ripped the air from your lungs.  Even after your years together, he still knew how to kiss you breathless. You couldn’t help but tug at the back of his shirt over his shoulders as he kissed you, pulling at the fabric until a sliver of his back was exposed to the room. George took the hint and broke away from your kiss just long enough to pull his shirt over his head and toss it to the floor, leaving him in just his slacks that were already tenting across the front. Sparks crackled between you as his hands grabbed your hips and he leaned in to kiss you again, nearly bending you backwards a little with how insistent he was with it. Your arms slung around his now bare shoulders and your tongue pushed against his as if wanting to taste just how much he craved you. 

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” George groaned into your mouth between sloppy kisses, his hands roaming all over your bare body as if mapping the familiar expanse of your skin, “and all mine.”

“All yours,” you echoed dreamily.

His lips ghosted across your cheek, his hot breath against your neck and his voice almost slurred with lust, “All fucking mine.”

George’s hands slid down to the backs of your thighs and he heaved you up off your knees so you fell backwards onto the mattress and decorative throw pillows with a surprised squeal. The two of you shared light laughter as he situated himself over top of you and dipped down to kiss you some more, your hands raising to the side of his face to hold his lips on yours. Your giggles faded into the focus of your passionate kisses, heat pouring through your veins with him positioned over top of you like that, so easily able to take you over. 

Instinctively, your legs had parted to allow him to settle between them and he blindly dropped a hand down to pull one of your legs tight around his waist. You moaned softly into his mouth, body arching underneath him to try and get situated into that perfect angle that would have your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. George’s hand took advantage of your momentary arch, sliding his arm under the small of your back to tug you into place so his thighs were trapping yours outwards, holding you in place. 

Your fingers tangled in the roots of his hair as he rolled his body against yours so you could feel the bulge in the front of his pants pressing right up between your legs, his bare chest aligned with yours, lips locked in a fiery kiss. George licked the soft moan from your mouth and when he pulled away for a moment, his teeth sunk into your bottom lip. 

His eyes found yours in your close proximity—only centimeters apart—both of you already a little breathless, staring into each other’s lust-filled gaze. The gorgeous blue of his irises was almost entirely diluted to black from his pupils from just one look at you and a little taste of your lips. When he looked at you like that, in moments such as those, any possible doubt of his love for you was wiped from your mind. No one had ever looked at you like that before him, and no one would after him. There was only him. 

“George…” you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist and linking your ankles together behind his back while your thumb grazed over his kiss-swollen bottom lip. 

He spoke your name in reply, just as soft and tender before pressing a slow kiss to the pad of your thumb. Framed by his forearms on either side of you, you were pleasantly trapped by him and cradled by the decorative pillows of your marital bed. 

George closed the miniscule distance between you, gently pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. One…and then two, and then a third; slow, soft, gentle, still staring into each other’s eyes under heavy eyelids. You squirmed a little, arms snaking behind his biceps to rest against his shoulders and your legs tightening around his waist to lock him against you as the anticipation was driving you mad. He gave you one more tender kiss before dipping down towards your neck, attaching his lips just under your jaw in a manner that felt a hell of a lot more intense than the kisses he had just sweetened you up with.

Your mouth fell open with a silent gasp, clinging onto his shoulders tighter as your head arched back a little to give him room. George trailed down your neck in wet open-mouthed kisses, teasing your most sensitive spots with his tongue and making you shiver with soft breaths across the damp skin. But it was the sudden roll of his hips against yours that pulled an audible gasp from your chest, your fingers pressing into his muscular back at the same time, taunted by what you wanted most. 

George was already so hard and you could feel him through his slacks, tenting the fabric over his straining erection, proof that he had been wanting this all weekend just as urgently as you. It was growing uncomfortable, how wet you were getting, and you pushed your hips up against his to chase some more of that friction. He moaned against your neck at your needy action, grinding a little harder down against you to keep you pinned underneath him.

“You sure you're ready for this?” he asked huskily against your ear, his body rutting strongly against yours.

“Yeah,” you exhaled as you tightened your ankles around him to pull him impossibly closer, hands splaying over his exposed back, miles of muscle under your possessive palms. He ground against you stronger, more insistently, pulling another whining gasp from your throat, “I need it so bad. Need you to knock me up.”

“You need it, huh?” he taunted, his voice dripping with need before he nipped at your earlobe, his breath hot against your skin, “You want me to put a baby in you, right here and now?”

“Ugh,” you withered, eyelids fluttering at his words and body squirming underneath him, “Please, George.”

George pried your legs away from his waist so he could sit back on his knees and then he gave your thigh a little tap with a soft, “Hang on, let me push down the covers.”

You frowned reluctantly up at him, already comfortable where you were and already falling into that blissed out mindset. The last thing you wanted to do was move.

He smiled at your pout—not even needing to hear your protest to know what you were thinking—and reminded you with a cock of his head to get you to comply, “Come on. We’re not going to want to have to wash the duvet after.”

Of course he was right, so you shifted to help him pull back the covers to the foot of the bed so you were draped out on the fitted sheet and, then, rightfully back in your cozy spot amongst the decorative pillows. 

George didn’t miss a beat as he eased you back into the comfort of his touch by trailing wet kisses down your body, starting from your neck. He kissed over your collarbones and your breasts and sucked on your nipples a little more just to make you writhe and moan under his touch before moving down your stomach. He pushed your thighs towards your chest and dragged his nose between your legs over the damp fabric of your panties. You could hear him inhale, breathing in the scent of your arousal. All because of him. 

Your hand carded through his hair as he settled between your legs and his long eyelashes rested on his flushed cheeks as he pressed a slow open mouthed kiss over your clothed clit. It barely felt like anything but was still just enough that you flinched in anticipation, whining to the ceiling with need for more. You tugged a little at his hair, urging him to leave another slow kiss to the apex of your thighs, right over the spot where the fabric of your thong was hugged by your lips.

“You’re teasing…” you warned in a breath.

George smiled cheekily against you, raising his eyes to yours with his face still hidden between your legs and his arms wrapped around your thighs as he kissed your pussy again. You were so wet that despite your underwear, when he pulled away, a faint string of your arousal connected his lips to you.

George exhaled shakily and slid his fingers down over the fabric of your panties, almost able to see how you throbbed underneath them. He leaned in for another kiss, leading with his tongue for a teasing taste, still taunting you behind the protection of your underwear. When he pulled away again, he pressed the pad of his thumb down over your clothed clit. His voice was a low rumble, “Can’t believe how soaked you are already…Jesus.”

You laughed softly, raking your fingers through his hair as he turned his head to kiss your inner thigh and you answered him softly, “Don’t you love when I’m—”

“Ovulating? Yeah.” he answered for you, words muffled between his kisses along the supple skin of your inner thigh, trailing back towards your cunt. His firm hands kept you legs out of the way as he nuzzled his face closer and inhaled deeply before he let it out with a hungry moan and a muttered, “Fuck, you smell so good, too.”

“God, that’s so fucking hot, baby…” you exhaled, hips naturally trying to push up against his face.

George lifted himself up from between your legs just enough to press his hands into the mattress on either side of your body and he nipped at the soft flesh of your hip before sucking a little hickey into the skin. The perfectly made bed sheets wrinkled under the two of you as George sat back on his knees between your spread legs and he hooked his fingers in the waistband of your thong, tugging on it slowly, “Let’s get these off you.”

You lifted your hips for him as he started to pull your underwear down over your hips. The damp fabric clung to your pussy as he peeled them away and you shivered as the cool air of the air conditioned bedroom grazed over your bare skin. George’s eyes were trained in on your dripping cunt even as he guided your thong down your bent legs and off your ankles with a habitual lick to his lips, dropping the soiled fabric to the bed beside you without a second glance.

He kept his eyes on you as he started to unbutton his slacks, positioned on his knees between your spread legs, taking in your naked body splayed out before him. The need that had been growing within you had your hand reaching down to touch yourself, trying to ease some of the immense ache that was starting to feel rather unbearable. You were so wet that you both could hear it as you slid your fingers between your legs and gathered up some of that delicious wetness to rub over your clit. 

George shifted to get out of his slacks and he dropped them off the end of the bed, leaving him in only his boxers that did a very poor job at concealing his very obvious erection. Otherwise naked apart from the ring on his left hand, George situated himself between your spread legs and his hand joined yours over your pussy, nudging you aside so he could have full reign of you, smearing your growing wetness around a little more himself. Your hands wrapped around his biceps as you stared adoringly up at him as he touched you. 

With your legs parted wide for him, the utmost trust shared between you, you sank your teeth into your bottom lip as you stared up at his face, watching his lust-filled expression as he watched how his careful fingertips caressed your pussy. George pulled his hand back for a second to take the tips of his three middle fingers into his mouth to moisten them up a little more before dropping them back down to continue where he left off. Little, gentle swirls over your clit…down to your leaky pussy…back up. 

Your toes curled at the sensations, how gentle and precise he was being, knowing just how to touch you. You let out a little pleasant hum, squirming a little beneath him. When your grip tightened around his bicep, he tore his eyes away from your cunt to meet your gaze.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” George said lowly, “Dripping all over my hand already and I’ve barely even touched you.”

He tilted his hand to rub the full length of his fingers along your pussy, hearing the slick wet sound of just how wet you were. You whined and squirmed a little, spreading your legs wider to welcome more of his touch. 

“Fuck, look at you,” George exhaled, pulling his fingers back to see how they were still attached to your messy cunt in thick strings of wetness. He rubbed his fingertips together and then brought them to his mouth to lick off, some of it dripping down his forearm in the process. With a quick suck of the tips of his three fingers, he dropped them back down to rub at your clit in firm, precise circles, purring out a low, “My messy girl.”

You reached your hands down to curl your fingers in the waistband of his underwear in an attempt to remove the last article of clothing between you. But, in an instant, George’s fingers were wrapping around your wrists to stop you and he leaned over you to pin them down beside your head.

“Be a good girl and let me do what I want with you,” he spoke firmly with that unmissable lust in his voice. 

With his hands still pinning your wrists down, George shuffled a little closer so your thighs were held back by his, allowing him to push his hips down against yours once more. You stared up into his eyes as he settled, your mouth falling open with a mute gasp at the feeling of his hard cock pushed right up against your naked cunt, only separated by his boxers. He was so fucking hard and your eyes fluttered at the feeling, choking out a small sound as he rolled his hips against yours. 

It felt so insanely good, heat coursing through your veins, every touching feeling like fire thanks to how needy and sensitive you were due to that time of your cycle. Your natural urge to reproduce skyrocketed during ovulation and the fact that you were finally going to be able to lean into that humanistic desire without holding back made it all the more intense and thrilling. 

“Fuck, darling—” you whimpered out, back arching off the bed a little to meet his grinds. 

“Mm, that’s it…” George exhaled heavily. His hands tightened around your wrists and he rutted against you a little harder until the tent at the front of his boxers was fitting between your swollen lips, rocking against you with every few words, “Show me how much you want me…soak me…that’s it.”

Your eyes screwed shut and your head tilted back with a broken whine, hands bunching into fists where he held them down on either side of your head as the overwhelm so quickly took you over. You pulled your legs back by your own free will, desperate to feel more of him, unable to control the pathetic whines that were tumbling from your lips even as your teeth sunk into your bottom one. 

Heaving your head up to look between you at the limited to no space between your chests, you could already feel yourself getting breathless, spurred on by the friction of him rutting against you. You could hardly lay still as the feeling grew and your legs wrapped around his waist to tug him harder down on top of you. George grunted faintly, shifting his hands off your wrists to, instead, intertwine his fingers with yours to hold your hands, still pinning them to the pillows beside your head.

“Kiss me,” you pleaded desperately, “Please, baby, kiss me.”

George didn’t need to be asked twice and he dipped down to capture your lips with his in a steamy kiss. The two of you shared hungry groans into each other’s mouths, made ungraceful by the way he was rutting against you. Your hands clutched onto his tightly, grounding yourself in his touch, while your legs around his waist encouraged you to try and meet his motions, the desperation that coursed through you making you writhe needily against his body and the bed.

But then he was pulling away again; letting go of your hands and sitting back on his knees. Before you had a chance to complain about the loss of contact, you were distracted by the large wet stain smeared over his clothed erection thanks to the way he had been grinding against you and, almost immediately, he was shoving down his briefs. The sight of his impressively hard cock had your mouth watering like it so often did, staring shamelessly at it and the way it bobbed in the air as he shuffled to get his underwear off completely. 

When you reached down to try and touch him, he nudged your hand aside with a simple, “Roll over. Hands and knees.”

You giggled sweetly and the implication of what was coming had your stomach filling with eager butterflies, helping you float yourself from your back onto your stomach. On your knees and flat hands in the centre of your shared bed, you presented yourself to him with a little wiggle of your hips, luring him in. As if he needed any luring. 

George’s hand came down hard against one of your cheeks in a sharp spank, forcing your body to tense in momentary surprise, pulling in a gasp, before relaxing. Another giggle fell from your lips as you glanced back at him over your shoulder, flinging your hair out of the way in the process. Another spank. 

“There you go,” George praised you warmly, shuffling up closer on his knees until he could drag the head of his cock between your lips, “my pretty girl. My pretty wife.”

“Put it in,” you whined, trying to push back on him to do it yourself. 

George’s breath shuddered at your blunt request, only letting the tip of his dick prod at the sopping entrance of your pussy as his hand came across your ass again in an echoing spank. He rubbed his hand over your flesh that had started to blossom in a pretty shade of light pink from his strikes, warning you in soft reprimand, “Is that any way to speak to your husband?”

“Please,” you tried again, “please, George, I need you so fucking bad, darling—”

He held your hip with one hand while his other kept himself steady to slowly sink inside you and, when he was in halfway, he had a two-handed grip on your hips to slowly pull you deeper onto him. Your eyes fluttered shut with a soft, quivering whine at the stretch, fingers curling into the fitted sheet beneath you.

“There ya go,” George purred, slowly starting to thrust into you in lazy motions, “does that feel good, darling? Getting nice and full and stretched out on my cock? That’s what you wanted?”

“Yeah…” you withered. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’re so big,” you spoke dreamily, arching your back a little more to take him deeper, “Feels so fucking good.”

George let out a little pleasant hum of acknowledgement, keeping his large hands on your hips as he found a steady pace. His fingers pressed a little tighter into the flesh of your doughy hips, made fuller after birthing your son and one of George’s most favourite parts of you. So feminine, so maternal, so his. 

“Delicious fucking body,” he moaned under his breath, starting to shove into you a little faster, “Just perfect to bear my children.”

“Yeah…” you whimpered, gasping out at his increase in pace, “wanna have your babies.”

“Oh, I know you do, sweet girl,” George cooed, countering his silky sweet voice with a sharp spank across your ass. 

He took hold of your hips again, almost pulling you into his every thrust by his firm grip as he started to ram into you harder. You squealed as he hit deeper, harder, giving you every single inch until your eyes were rolling shut and your head dropped downwards with overwhelm. 

“Fuck!” you shrieked, just louder than the clap of skin on skin that nearly echoed through the bedroom.

George moaned heartily from behind you, keeping his relentless pace going with his hands grabbing your hips so hard that there was certainly going to be fingerprints left behind. Without faltering, he moved his right hand underneath you and his hand splayed over your stomach, equally holding you together and feeling the way your body bounced in time with his every hard thrust. He panted handsomely behind you, laced in with soft moans that only heightened your senses tenfold. You loved that he could make you feel good, but it was even better knowing that you could make him feel good simultaneously. 

His hand glided a little lower to get his fingertips on your clit and he rubbed messy circles right over that spot while he kept fucking you from behind. You cried out his name at the sudden stimulation, one hand flying forward to slam against the wall above the headboard for support, swearing you were seeing stars. 

“Pull my hair,” you groaned pleadingly as if desperate to feel him absolutely everywhere you could, “Pull my hair and tell me you’ll knock me up.”

With his right hand still messily tending to your clit as he fucked you, George reached up with his other hand to grab a handful of your hair and he yanked it back, forcing your head up. You moaned loudly as the simple action tore electricity through you and you pushed yourself back into his thrusts until the lewd sound of your bodies colliding only filled the room more. 

“You want that?” George taunted from behind you, his hand tightening in your hair, “Want to hear just how much I want to put a fucking baby in you right now?”

“Oh fuck…please!” you groaned. 

“Please, what?” he asked hungrily from behind you, taking his hand from your clit to grab your shoulder as he picked up the pace a little more until the bed was creaking beneath you.

“Ahh!” you shrieked at his change in pace and angle, “Please come in me!”

George had a smirk to his voice—you could hear it despite the pleasure that overtook the both of you, binding you together—with his hands still firmly on your shoulders and almost yanking you back into his rough thrusts as he replied between breaths, “Yeah? You want me…to come in your pussy, baby? Keep this up…all night long?”

“Yeah, fuck, fill me up all night.” you withered, the words just pouring out of your mouth without thought, “Keep coming in me until it just leaks out—”

Just as you were falling into that dizzy cloud of pleasure-drunk euphoria, he stopped completely, fully inside you, letting out a strangled groan and a strained, “Fuck, okay, wait…”

You panted to try and catch your breath, trying to get your senses back with how fucking out of your mind you had been mere milliseconds earlier, “What?”

George exhaled strongly through pursed lips, his breathlessness just as apparent as yours, confessing, “I almost just fucking came…I need a second…”

“So what?” you countered, pushing your ass back on him to lazily and impatiently fuck yourself on his cock, “I want it.”

George took a hand back to give your ass a small smack through slightly slurred words, “Yeah, and I want to give you as much of me as possible, not three fuckin’ strokes.”

You chuckled softly, using that brief moment to catch your breath as he pulled out of you entirely. The sudden emptiness had you letting out a slight wince at the change and you moved yourself to be flat onto your stomach instead, draped diagonally across the bed and wrapping your arms around one of the pillows that were still somehow in place. George leaned over you and pulled open the bedside table drawer to find something, his warm skin pressing tacky against yours.

In your slight impatience, you glanced over at his hand buried in the drawer with a small sigh but you didn’t even have a chance to ask what he was looking for before he emerged with your favourite vibrator. You smiled as he passed it into your hand and pressed a kiss to your temple before he was situating himself behind you again. Adjusting yourself underneath him, now flat on your stomach, you pushed your ass up just enough to help him get his cock angled properly and for you to fit your hand under your body.

“Good?” you asked over your shoulder, feeling the way he dragged the head of his dick through the creamy mess of you. 

“Mhm,” George set one hand down on the bed beside you as he leaned over you a little more and started to press inside you, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you couldn’t keep the smile out of your voice.

Your husband sank into you slowly just so you could savour the feeling of him stretching you out again, not to mention the low handsome moan he let out as he sheathed himself inside you as deep as he could go. You took a deep breath, pushing your hips up a little until you could feel the skin of his pelvis against your ass, eyelids fluttering at the fullness. George leaned down to kiss your shoulder blade before easing back and then pushing into you again. 

“Wow, can’t believe a World Champion is fucking me right now,” you giggled teasingly, voice a little tight from pleasure, “I’m such a lucky lady.”

“Shut up,” George laughed breathily. 

“Mmm,” you let your eyes flutter shut to focus on the feeling of his long deep strokes and, beneath your body, your hand pressed and held the power button on your vibrator until the soft buzzing sound filled the room. The touch of it against your sensitive clit had you gasping slightly, one arm still wrapped around the pillow under your head and your fingers pressed into the fabric a little tighter. 

George moved down onto his forearms on either side of your head so his chest was almost entirely pressed against your back, his hips shoving a little harder against yours, jiggling the flesh of your ass with every thrust. You could feel his hot breath against your ear, even through your mess of hair that tumbled around your head, and when he reached a hand up to brush your hair over your shoulder so he could see your face, you couldn’t help the dreamy smile that came to your lips.

“There we go,” George panted, “Such a good girl for me.”

You adjusted the vibrator between your legs until it reached just the right spot, and, when it did, it rendered you speechless for a moment. The tumble of moans that fell from your lips were nearly fucked out of you from the way George was fucking you so deliciously, sharp precise thrusts that only helped to have your eyes fluttering closed and your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. His strong arms framed your head on either side of you, trapping you underneath him with almost all of his body weight on top of you. Regardless, you still tried to keep your hips lifted up enough to present yourself to him. 

“Fuck, yeah, just like that—” you breathed out shakily

“Gonna make you come first,” George spoke lowly against your temple, “I want you…nice and open and relaxed…to take every last drop.”

“Please,” you gasped out.

The combination of the way he fucked you and the added sensations of the vibrator had you seeing stars, nearly drooling into the pillow beneath your head with the pleasured moans that tumbled from your lips. It was all so intense that your body must have started to flatten out to try and get away from it that George had to slide an arm under your hips to pull them back up just enough to keep you at the perfect position for him to take. You squealed into the pillow, struggling to keep holding your vibrator on your clit with how strong it was feeling, the warmth stirring hot in your belly and stretching through your veins. 

“Come on,” he panted, hips snapping relentlessly against yours, “I’m not going to give you what you want until you come for me.”

You couldn’t help the broken cry that fell from your chest, eyes rolling shut, and you tried to smother your sounds into the pillow with your free hand clutching desperately at it. It ramped up fast, the feeling of your orgasm washing over you strong enough to make your limbs tremble and jerk beneath him. George groaned tightly at the feeling of you squeezing around him like a vice, making it harder to keep fucking you through it, but he kept it going.

“Good girl,” he praised strongly, slowing down just a little to give you a second to catch your breath as you gasped and groaned out of it. 

You heaved your head from the pillow with a blissed out expression and heavy eyelids, lips swollen from biting them so hard with how tightly wound that had got you. You pulled your hand out from underneath you and turned off your vibrator, the silicone shimmering slightly from how wet you were and how you had leaked all over it. The toy was discarded aimlessly across the mattress, giving you both hands free to wrap back around the pillow as George adjusted himself on top of you again. 

He set his forearms down on either side of you, sliding one under your collarbones and the other around your head, caging you in his loving arms. As he started to thrust into you a little harder and a little faster again, he let out a pretty grunt against your ear. With your cheek against the mattress, your mouth fell open with a soft gasp of pleasure, still drunk off the orgasm he had just given you and still feeling the aftershocks making your cunt pulse around his every thrust. 

“Fuck,” George groaned thickly, “Jesus Christ, you’re so wet—”

“All for you,” you purred, all too aware, yourself, to the sounds of your sopping cunt taking his every thrust, harmonized by the creak of the bed beneath his efforts. Your hands moved to grasp his biceps, digging your nails into his muscle, grounding yourself in him, even as you tried to lift your ass up a little to meet his motions.

He was taking it a little harder now, shoving into you in firm thrusts with his entire body on top of you, the headboard starting to hit the wall in a steady rhythm. You swore he was as deep as he could go, feeling like you could feel every fucking inch of him plowing into you in quick succession, blurring the line between pleasure and pain until your nails were digging into his biceps. 

“Fuck, you’re so deep, George—” you withered, eyes rolling shut, “Fuck, it hurts so fucking good. Please don’t stop!”

"Yeah, you like that, huh?" he mumbled against your temple, his tone full of smug satisfaction, "You like it when it hurts a little bit, don’t you?" 

A string of words tumbled nonsensically from your lips, “Yeah, yeah, fuck, please—” 

George’s breath fell hot against your cheek, his voice thick with lust and the exertion, his skin slick with sweat pressed right against yours until you couldn’t quite tell where you ended and he began. The filthy words were spoken right against your ear, felt through every nerve ending in your body, “You’re just my sweet obedient little wife, aren’t you? Just meant to be knocked up…just meant to be held down and fucking filled.”

You took one hand from his bicep to grab the edge of the mattress, feeling your body writhing beneath his weight as he fucked you face down into the bed, his strong arms caging you in. The sounds poured from your lips almost completely involuntarily, feeling entirely taken over by him, filled with this desire for him to just take you how he wanted. It had never felt so intensely primal before—even when you were trying for your son—so raw and real, like you felt like you might have actually died if he didn’t get you pregnant. 

“Please,” you choked out again, eyes brimming with tears, fingers clawing at the sheets and his bicep, “Please, I need it…need you to come inside me…please—”

“Oh, my girl, you want my babies that badly?” he purred against your ear, breath hot, “How many y'gonna give me? Two? Three? A whole squad, yeah?”

“Whatever you want…however many you want…please, sir, please—” you sobbed over the sound of the headboard hitting the wall. 

“Fuck, listen to you beg…so fucking pretty,” George groaned through his teeth.

He moved a hand to wrap his slender fingers around your throat, pulling your head out of the pillow so you were gaping towards the wall with the dumbest expression of pleasure on your flushed face. It felt like a nearly out of body experience it was so good, your entire body tingling with need and still immensely sensitive from your orgasm, making his every hard thrust feel like perfection. You barely acknowledged his two fingers pressing their way into your mouth, accepting them without complaint with your lips wrapping around them with a pleasured whine. 

George’s breath was panted hot against your skin, laced in with the odd moan, parted and swollen lips grazing your cheek. He ploughed into you at that same relentless pace but as the seconds passed, it started to get a little sloppier, a little more desperate. 

“Shit, I’m gonna come—” he grunted, voice thick.

You could hardly mutter another pathetic “please” around his fingers, trying to lift your hips up to invite him deeper, even if he had you entirely pinned under his weight and was as deep as he could go. In only a few more seconds, his body shuddered on top of you, head dropping forward onto your shoulder, and he gave you one more sharp thrust as deep as he possibly could. With a handsome gasping moan from your husband, you could feel the thick warmth spurting inside you as he ground into you in small pleasured spasms. 

“Ooh, my God…” you withered, toes curling at the sensation and fingers tightening around the fitted sheet and pillows beneath you. You swore you were literally salivating, a blissed out smile coming to your lips as he gave you what you wanted. 

“Can you feel that?” George panted from on top of you, his pelvis pressed tightly against your ass, giving you every inch to feel the way his cock twitched dully inside you, throbbing against your tight muscles and spilling more right at your cervix, “It’s still coming.”

“Yeah, keep it in there,” you breathed, reaching a hand back to grab his thigh to keep him from pulling out.

“I know, baby,” George’s hand stroked over your frazzled hair, his voice warm and thick, “That’s all for you.”

When he finally finished coming, the two of you stayed where you were for a moment longer, catching your breaths. George leaned down to trail some kisses along your neck, loosening his arms from around you to give you a bit of space. 

“Jesus…” he whispered, his voice ragged and rough as his senses started to come back to him, “That was...that was intense.”

You giggled blissfully and, with him still inside you and now motionless, you ground your ass back on him a little to make sure you got every last drop. 

“Ugh, honey,” George groaned tightly, leaning back from you a little more to press a hand on the small of your back to hold you still, “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” you bit back a coy smile. 

“Because it’s too much,” he exhaled, his body still trembling from the aftershocks and even though you could feel him softening a little inside you, his cock still twitched ever so faintly. “I’m too sensitive right now.”

George slowly pulled out and you cautiously rolled over so you were on your back, sprawled out on your bed, and propped up on your elbows with your legs spread lazily. Beneath you, your fitted sheet now had an impressive wet splotch on it and George grasped your ankles in one hand to guide your legs towards your chest, letting his other press against the soiled fabric.  

“I think you actually soaked it through to the mattress,” George chuckled lightly. 

“That wasn’t entirely my fault,” you protested playfully, blinking dreamily up at him. 

As if interrupting your moment, your body let out a little squeak of air, made almost bubbly from how filled by him you were. Both caught by surprise, you met each other’s gaze and then burst into soft laughter together. George let go of your ankles and, instead, set his hands on the backs of your thighs to keep your legs back, staring down at your sopping pussy and what a mess you were right down to the trimmed hair that was matted with various fluids. Your body forced out another queef. 

“God, you’re a fucking goddess,” George exhaled. He dropped a hand down to gently prod at your pussy with the pad of his thumb and almost right away, a thick glob of white dripped out of you and down between your cheeks and onto the ruined sheets below. 

You hummed at the feeling, splayed out in front of him and still propped up on your elbows, watching him watch you, and after just a second, George leaned in towards you and you shared a few sloppy kisses. You moved one hand to grasp the back of his neck as you took what you wanted from his lips, your heart racing in your chest and your kisses made a little ungraceful from your shared smiles. After only a few seconds, George broke away from your lips and looked back down between your spread legs, moving his hand to grasp the shaft of his cock and then slide the tip along your slick pussy just as more of his cum leaked out of you. He gathered it back up that way and pressed it back inside you as if not wanting to waste a single drop.

With only the tip inside you, he asked in a voice slightly, “Can you take more?”

“Uh huh,” you nodded, staring up at him with blown wide eyes, your hand still at the back of his neck giving him a little tug to try and get his lips back onto yours. 

“Yeah, of course you can,” he chuckled—as if he should have already suspected the answer—just before he pressed his lips to yours and then sunk farther inside you. 

With your hand on the back of his neck, you pulled him down after you as you laid flat on your back on the bed, making sure he wouldn’t stop kissing you even as you shifted. He followed after you expertly, resting on his flat hands on either side of you and bent down just enough to continue your sloppy kisses as his hips pushed themselves flush against yours. Despite having been absolutely railed by him only seconds earlier, your body still stretched around him to accommodate his every inch once more, allowing that warm tingling pressure to spread between your legs and over your hips and deep inside you. Your fingers tangled in the roots of his hair and you groaned into his mouth at the feeling.

“Mmm, stretchin’ me out so good.” you mumbled against his lips.

“You’re so tight and perfect for me, my love,” he murmured, breaking your kiss just far enough to stare down into your eyes, his expression dark with desire, “You were made just for me, weren’t you?”

“Yeah…” you breathed in reply. 

You didn’t put up an argument as he guided your legs up so your calves were resting on his shoulders as he knelt before you and he slowly started to move in languid, delicious motions, back and forth, thrusting into you in a dizzying rhythm. Your eyes fluttered as you stared up at him, your bottom lip trapped between your teeth and your hands absentmindedly grasping onto the fitted sheet beneath you. All you could think about as you stared up at him like that, his handsome face bathed in a light flush that carried down his chest and his caramel skin glistening in a thin sheen of sweat, was watching him on the top step of the podium that weekend, fresh out of the car, the newest World Champion. Your champion. Fuck. 

The reminder had you writhing, trying to push your hips up to encourage him on, fisting the fitted sheet. George hushed you as he set one large hand on your lower abdomen, keeping you down on the bed as he continued to roll his hips into yours nice and deep. He pressed his palm down nice and firmly, adding a bit of a squeeze to where he was nestled inside you and undoubtedly feeling every thrust of his cock. That very same spot where he rested his hand was where you had carried your son and where, you would hope, you would have the privilege to carry another little blessing. Almost out of instinct, you dropped a hand down to rest over his on your abdomen.

“Want to make a baby in you…right here—” he whispered lowly as he stared down into your eyes, hand still pressing firmly in place.

“Please,” you withered, feeling his words ignite your every nerve ending through your body. 

“Ugh, fuck, darling,” George grunted sweetly, “when you clench like that it makes me wanna fuck you deeper.”

“Do it. Do it, please—” you begged pitchily and moved your hand from his to grab his wrist, almost willing to do anything for him to give you more. 

George leaned farther down over top of you so his hands were on either side of your head and your legs were trapped over his shoulders, nearly having you bent in half. He could get incredibly deep that way, giving you every fucking inch, and almost right away he was picking up the pace at the same time. You shrieked at the change, fingers pressing into his biceps.

“There you go,” he purred, wrapping one hand around your throat in a firm squeeze, just how you liked it, “that’s it.”

You were rendered speechless for a moment, gaping up at him as he pounded into you harder and held you down by his hand around your throat. The bed was creaking faintly underneath you again and, as if he liked it loud, George shifted his position just a little so that every purposeful thrust also had the headboard starting to hit the wall. You cried out to the ceiling, head arching back against the mattress, hands splaying over the sheets to fist them in your white-knuckled grip. 

“You’re gonna look so fucking gorgeous pregnant…carrying our baby…” he panted thickly, “My perfect wife making me a whole little brood.”

“Yeah, please, come in me,” you stumbled out, trying to force your eyes to stay open and locked on his. 

“You want more, hm?” he taunted, “Already came so much that it’s leaking out of you and you want to be filled more? It’s gonna be dipping out of you for days.” 

You could feel your eyes rolling shut at his words and his gorgeous threat and how they sounded behind the very obvious squelch of his cock plowing into your sloppy cunt over and over and over. He could move so easily with how soaked you were, streaking his cum over your thighs and ass and his pelvis and the length of his dick, making everything so ridiculously messy. All you could think about was how good it felt as he had you lingering on that precipice between pain and pleasure again, his hand tight around your throat and his thick cock so deep inside you that it was nearly kissing your cervix with every thrust. 

With one hand still fisting the sheets, your other habitually dropped between your bodies to rub furiously at your clit, fingers slipping over it easily with how soaked everything was. You choked over your breath at the startling sensations, sobbing out a broken, “Fuck! I’m gonna come!”

“Yeah, baby?” George taunted, his voice thick with need, “You gonna come on my cock? Gonna make a mess all over me?”

All you could reply with was a pitchy and uncontrollable chant of, “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”, in time with the creak of the bed and the dizzying clap of wet skin on skin.

George groaned, his body responding to every sound you made, the chorus of sights and sounds and smells taking him over as it did you. This voice was tight as he kept his hand firmly around your throat, squeezing the sides just under your jaw, encouraging you with a low, “That’s it, baby. Come for me.”

Your legs were nearly vibrating over his shoulders as your impending orgasm built and built inside you, filling your veins with intense warmth and coiling tightly in the pit of your stomach. You knew you were making noise—and a lot of it—but details were so hazy as the intensity overtook you and left you almost feeling like you were in some dream-like experience. The moment you came around him, your muscles clenching up tight around him, his name fell from your lips with a wet sob and you writhed against the bed, struggling under the way he held you down by your throat. 

“Fuck! Good girl!” George praised loudly, still thrusting insistently into you even as you tensed right up around him.

“Oh my God!” you gasped out of it, hands flying to grab onto any part of him you could, “Yes! Shit!”

George moved with ease as he grabbed your arms and immediately pinned your wrists down to the mattress on either side of your head without missing a beat. He rammed into you harder, rougher, faster, taking you as he wanted until your oversensitive body was nearly vibrating and the room was a myriad of lewd sounds and surely filling the whole house. You were so fucking soaked by then that it was almost impressive how loud his skin clapped against yours with every thrust, just adding to the intensity of the moment. 

“Please, George, please!” you shrieked, pleasured tears burning your eyes even as they screwed shut with overwhelm, “Come inside me! Put a baby in me! Fuck, I need it so bad, darling, please. Please…please, I wanna make you a daddy again.”

“Yeah, you will, my sweet girl,” George groaned through his sloppy thrusts, “Gonna be such a good little wife…and carry another perfect little angel for me, aren't you?”

“Yeah, gimme it, please!” you let the words tumble from your lips without thought, “Every drop…inside me…please…please…”

You could already feel him throbbing inside you despite the intensity with which he fucked you, taking you right into the mattress like he owned you, your legs still secure over his shoulders. The two of you were for sure quite the erotic sight; bodies entangled in such an intense position as he held you down and prepared to come inside you for the second consecutive time, your panted breaths mingling and pleasured sounds harmonizing with the slam of the headboard against the wall. 

“Gonna come so fucking deep inside your perfect little cunt…” George said through his teeth, his voice thick with pleasure, “right at your cervix…make sure it takes…make sure you’re properly knocked up…”

You didn’t even have a chance to voice any more begging before his face was screwing up in over-sensitive pleasure and he gave you one particularly deep thrust. At the feeling of the first spurt, your hands tore from his and flew down to grab at his ass and his waist, nails digging into his flesh and holding him inside you as deep as he could go as you stared up into his eyes and watched the orgasm tear through his expression. You withered at the sight and the feel of it, not to mention the way your cunt fluttered around him at the feeling of him throbbing inside you as if to pull everything out of him. 

“Fuck, George…” you breathed dreamily.

“Mmph…” he moaned tightly, grinding his hips against yours a little more before easing down onto forearms on either side of your head and your legs dropped from his shoulders, “Jesus Christ…”

Your hands slid up his sides and took his face in your palms to guide his lips to yours, both of you breathless and spent and barely able to kiss with how you heaved for air. Your husband’s pretty eyes could hardly stay open as he tried to catch his bearings and he settled right down on top of you and tucked his face in the crook of your neck, his body trembling a little from the remanence of the aftershocks. He was utterly spent and boneless, and almost looked like he didn’t want to or more rather couldn’t move ever again.

You laughed ever so softly at his sudden exhaustion after all that excitement and you ran your hands up and down his toned back, sharing in his moment to just breathe. His weight on top of you was comforting and familiar and helped to calm you down, your eyes falling shut to bask in the moment as you stayed entangled as one for a little longer. 

“I love you,” you breathed as your finger trailed down the vertebrae of his spine. 

“Mm, I love you,” George echoed, planting a kiss to the apex of your neck and your shoulder. He then took a deep, shaky breath and lifted his head up to meet your gaze, “That was…something.”

You giggled softly and rubbed his broad shoulders, “I think we’re done.”

He chuckled breathily and rested his forehead against yours, “Yeah, we’re definitely done. I don't think I can move ever again.”

“You put in work all weekend…and still managed to perform the grand finale tonight,” you played along.

George lifted his head back to look you in the eye again with a playful, “I can’t tell if I’m offended that you think this outshone my championship or if I’m in agreement.”

The two of you shared breathy laughter and a few tender kisses before he was slowly pulling out of you and laying beside you on the bed. Despite the damp fitted sheet beneath you, neither of you minded in that moment, too focused on each other and coming down from those intense blissful highs you shared. George’s arm wrapped around you as you snuggled into his side, tangled up against the pillows that were half falling off the bed, nothing but the laboured sound of your breathing filling the once noisy room. 

George’s cheek rested against your head as you laid on his chest, feeling the rapid thudding of his heartbeat under your palm and the smoothness of his toned pecs. He turned his face towards yours to leave a kiss to your forehead and then he let out a tired exhale, draping his free arm above his head. You looked up at him from your spot, taking a second to admire the angles of his jaw and the messiness of his hair and the flush that still lingered down his neck and over his collarbones. 

“I’m so proud of you.”

You hadn’t meant to say it, at least not out loud, but it was the truth. George glanced at you in return, a calm smile on his face, and his hand gave your shoulder a squeeze, his lips pressing to your temple. 

“Thank you, my love,” he breathed, “Couldn’t have done it without you though.”

“Don’t say that,” you tutted, “You’ve been working for this far longer than you’ve known me.”

“And yet it didn’t happen until I knew you…until you were my wife…the mother of my child…”

You smiled as you stared back into his eyes, correcting him with a soft, “Children.”

George shared in your smile, his expression melting, “Yes, hopefully.”

You both leaned in for a kiss or two or three until you were interrupted by a squeak of air being pushed from your cunt. George broke away from your lips with a breathy chuckle and he dropped his hand down your body to help himself between your thighs, fingertips gliding over your pussy to collect the creamy globs of cum that had leaked out of you and he pushed it back in with two fingers. 

“I tried to clench,” you laughed lightly. 

“You did great,” George smiled against your temple. 

He left another kiss there before he was rolling away to grab a tissue from the box on the bedside table to come back to your side and start to clean you up. Propped up on his arm beside you, he wiped up the mess between your legs with the tissue and you took that moment to just stare at him some more and how he took care of you. Oh, you were so in love with him. 

“Wanna push any more out?” he asked. 

“It’s okay,” you said, “I’ll just go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

George gave you one more wipe and folded the soiled tissue in a clean one as you cautiously moved to sit up. More little queefs slipped out as you moved positions and started to stand up and with a proud fucking smirk, he reached to take your arm to make sure you were stable on your feet. Once you were steady on your still-slightly-trembling legs, you took the tissue from him to take to the bathroom with you to dispose of. 

You took your time in the ensuite to use the toilet and clean yourself up at the sink with a damp cloth, having to hold yourself steady on the side of the vanity. When you emerged back into the bedroom, George was remaking the bed with fresh sheets, the soiled ones in a heap by the door in desperate need to be washed. He was in a fresh pair of boxers but otherwise naked, hair still sticking up in ridiculous directions and his body looking absolutely gorgeous in the fading light of the late afternoon. There was a clean pair of underwear and a pyjama set folded for you on the dresser.

“You take such good care of me,” you gushed sweetly as you started to pull on the clothes to keep yourself from catching a chill. 

George glanced over at you as he pulled the duvet back on the bed, “Of course, it’s the least I can do for my wonderful wife.”

Once the bed was made, you climbed into your side despite it being barely evening, and you collapsed back against the pillows and headboard with a content sigh.

“Feeling alright?” George asked as he finished fluffing his pillows. 

You lolled your head to the side to look at him with an adoring smile, “Yeah. Just fucking tired out.”

“Me too, not to mention that horribly long flight we had,” he set a knee on the mattress to lean towards you and gave your lips a brief kiss as his hand gave your abdomen a little caress over the duvet around your hips. The implication of his action was not lost on you. He stood up again, “Should we order something special for dinner and then get some sleep, you reckon? We’ll have to be up in good time tomorrow to pick up the little guy.” 

“That sounds great, love,” you replied softly, and then, before he could ask what you wanted for dinner, you said, “Whatever my World Champion wants to eat sounds good to me.”

Mid-December

The season ended around three weeks later, allowing Formula 1’s newest World Champion to travel home to you for winter break. As much as you enjoyed seeing George race during the year, watching him doing what he loved, there was something about winter break that made your unconventional relationship feel comfortingly normal. 

You and your son picked him up from the airport, the toddler donning a ‘Welcome Home’ balloon tied loosely around his wrist, and it went flying in all directions as he ran across the linoleum floor of the ‘Arrivals’ gate once George emerged from within. Beaming, George dropped his backpack and crouched down to welcome his son into his arms and as soon as the little boy was in his grasp, he stood up and lifted up high into the air to send the toddler giggling. Then, snuggling him close to his chest, George peppered his chubby cheeks in kisses. 

The toddler pointed to the balloon floating above them, “B’oon, Daddy,”

“Yes, I see the balloon!” George said with a smile, “Is that for me?”

The little boy nodded with a grin, earning him another proud kiss from his father and a pet of his hair. You joined the little reunion and received a kiss of your own from George and you shared a whispered greeting between smiles. 

The drive home was calm through the English countryside and your son chatted away happily from his carseat in the back of George’s Mercedes, little sticky fingers pressing against the window and light-up sneakers kicking against the seat in front of him. But the two of you in the front seat were unbothered by your son’s restlessness; with George’s hand on your thigh as he drove your little family safely home. It felt like peace had been restored once George was home and knowing he was all yours for a few weeks made it even better. Despite this, you fiddled with his hand on your lap, absentmindedly spinning his wedding ring around his finger. 

He glanced over at you, “You okay, love?”

You looked at him in return with a small smile, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

In reality, in the five days that George had been away, you had started feeling a little unlike yourself; mainly incredibly fatigued to the point that you actually had started napping when your son napped and going to bed at his bedtime too. You knew the last time you had experienced such intense fatigue was when you were pregnant with him and that reminder had your mind swirling. It had only been three weeks of actively trying to conceive and you had partially convinced yourself that it wasn’t going to be as easy as it had been with your son; perhaps that was just beginner’s luck. But, here you were, nearly falling asleep in the passenger seat of George’s car at barely noon. 

Once home, it was about time for your son’s nap but he was far too zazzed to even think about sleeping. George ended up carrying him up and down the second floor hallway, rubbing his back, letting him talk himself to sleep in the long-awaited comfort of his father’s arms. It always seemed to do the trick. The toddler was then tucked into bed and George quietly closed his bedroom door behind him. 

George had assumed you would be bringing his suitcase upstairs while he took care of the kid but when he stepped into your shared bedroom, there was no sign of you or the suitcase. It wasn’t until he walked back downstairs that he found you, sitting on the bottom step, draped over the top of his suitcase, and fast asleep. With a fond smile, George descended the rest of the staircase and joined you on the bottom step, gently moving you to lean against him instead. You stirred a little.

“Alright there, sleeping beauty?” he teased against your temple. 

You lifted your head up to flutter your eyes open to meet his gaze, “M’okay.”

“Do you want to go for a nap too?” he tucked some of your hair behind your ear. 

You spoke an unrelated reply in a voice barely over a breath, “I took a pregnancy test on Thursday.”

George’s eyebrows raised and you could feel his arm around you tighten, “And?”

“Couldn’t tell what it was,” you confessed, “It’s upstairs…you can look at it…thought I’d wait a few more days and try again and then maybe you could be with me.”

“Yeah, of course,” George smiled, his voice so light and warm, and although he was trying to be caring, you could hear the hint of impatience in his words, “Are you up to that right now?”

“Based on how fucking exhausted I’ve been feeling and how tender my boobs are, I’m, like, 99% sure I know the answer but…I want to know for sure.” you said definitively. 

So you and George ended up in your ensuite bathroom, you on the toilet with a fresh pregnancy test between your legs and him at the vanity squinting at the one you took four days earlier. If you really looked, you could see a faint second line but you also had started to tell yourself that maybe you were just imagining what you wanted to see. 

“I dunno, I definitely think there are two lines, love,” George stated, turning the pregnancy test into the light a little more.

“Really?” you replied before holding out the newest one to him to take. 

He turned to take it from you and he capped it and set it on the counter while you finished up on the toilet and flushed. You washed your hands beside him at the vanity, watching how he set a three minute timer on his phone and then went back to staring at the old test. 

“Yeah, seems so,” he set it down on the counter alongside the new one as you began your three-minute wait for the results.

“I was just thinking that it feels a little crazy to get pregnant so quickly,” you explained, snaking your arms around his middle and he pulled you into him, “Like, it was fast with our first but…having that happen again? Doesn’t it take most people a few months of trying?”

George shrugged, “Maybe we’re just extra fertile.”

You snorted lightly.

“And we’ve been trying pretty consistently,” he reminded you, keeping your gaze through the mirror, “After Brazil and then almost every second day since…”

“Maybe you just have speedy sperm too,” you played along.

George dropped his head back with a small groaning laugh, his arm around you instinctively pulling you closer. You rested your head against his and stared at your reflection in the mirror, how the two of you looked together, how the warmth of his body felt against yours. He was familiar, he was home. 

Between your exhaustion and George’s tiredness after his flight, neither of you spoke much as you waited there in the bathroom for the timer to go off. You appreciated the comfort of each other’s presence in the face of this slightly nerve-wracking moment. Of course you hoped for a positive but you knew that if it were negative, you had only just started trying anyway. There was always going to be time. 

When George’s phone alarm went off, he shut it off and then gave you a squeeze, “Ready?”

“Think so,” you smiled at him through the mirror.

“You’re trembling,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your cheek. 

“I’m nervous,” you giggled softly and reached with a shaky hand to pick up the new test. 

It was still face down and you lingered there for a moment. George glanced at you as if wanting to tell you to hurry up but he didn’t push you, letting you take a breath before, finally, turning it over in your hand. You both leaned in to see the result. 

Compared to the one taken four days earlier, this second line was unmistakable, staring back at you in a fierce shade of dark pink.

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[bloodywankers]

tw; yandere, implied dub-con, unwanted pregnancy, forced relationship, ooc, unedited

yandere reo | very ooc | 1.5k words | bluelock masterlist

“You’ll never have to work a day.” He said, eyes pouring straight into your own and a self assured tone just about anyone would falter to. If he was a stranger you might have hesitated to believe his words, assumed him to be a scammer of some sort but you knew him well enough to know his offer could very well be possible. Especially when his family amassed enough wealth to make even the concept of money virtually worthless.

As you looked around trying to calm your nerves you noticed how much more shabby your clothes looked, compared to his suit that fit well enough to have been sewn straight onto his body. Your skin was much more rough looking compared to his and your eyes adorned in dark circles as a result of sleepless nights.

“All you have to do is say yes.” He continued, a small smile on his face as he slid an envelope towards you. You had done everything in your power to avoid him, you weren’t friends or even acquaintances of any sort anymore. If anything you were waiting for him to break out laughing at the slightest sign of your acceptance, revealing this all to be a sick joke or the result of a lost bet. But for him, this was the day he had counted every second to reach.

/

While Reo Mikage focused on enjoying himself throughout his university years, with employment practically secured at his family's company the moment he graduates, you were famous for the opposite. [name] the straight A student who wouldn’t miss a lecture even if disaster struck, the one that barely spoke and rarely if ever attended any social events.

At first, it was curiosity, you were brought up in a conversation and Reo couldn’t help but want to know more. Then it became a habit, to locate you in the lecture hall unconsciously, to anticipate your voice when the professor took attendance or to ask in advance if you were going to attend any extracurricular. He couldn’t help but notice your little habits and become further enamored each passing day.

It was still an innocent love but it was all tainted in filth that one night, a club activity that got extended into a group dinner with alcohol flowing as in any gathering of students, Reo felt tipsy but it was nothing compared to you who was flushed red even though you refused most drinks. Maybe it was the drunk courage that led him to corner you outside where nobody could see. His lips landed on yours and before he could process what he was doing, he felt a rush surge through him as he was sure now, sure that the emotions rushing through him were much more than a passing fascination.

Mikage Reo was the type of man that just passed life by, he was just an empty shell with nothing inside. Things like money or sex didn’t mean much to him but right now a mere kiss had him salivating for more like an animal in heat. That night he did something he knew he shouldn’t have and dragged you to a hotel room. He knew you would barely remember any of it and like a coward he took advantage of it. It would be a rough start but he could handle it, he would get you to accept him once morning came. But as the premature rays of sun peeked through the curtains, he felt the empty space beside him where he was sure you laid.

/

“Why don’t you look at what’s inside that envelope first, I’m sure that’ll answer all your questions.” He said, gesturing towards the inconspicuous brown envelope, the sly smile on his face growing ever-wider.

Reo found himself crawling back to you like a crippling addict even after that night. Still searching for you in every room he entered and uninterested in anything unless it pertained to you. If only you hadn’t disappeared soon after that night, leading to his obsession growing exponentially beyond anything that could be controlled.

“This…” the tone in your voice had changed, it was no longer hesitation stemming in confusion but rather a mix of fear and disgust. And yet, he wanted more. Reo could see the revulsion in your gaze as you looked up towards him with your brows knitted and lips formed in a thin frown. All the effort he went through to track you down felt worth it. “I hope you’ll seriously consider my offer, if not for your own sake then for our child’s.” The paternity test in your hands wrinkled as you shook uncontrollably.

/

Your mind had gone blank when you woke up with a splitting headache and a discomfort between your legs, almost jumping in surprise to find the dreaded man lying next to you still fast asleep. You knew well that nothing good would come from someone like you associating with him so you left before he could wake up, ran back home and locked yourself in there until your friends came knocking a few days later. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell them so you pretended it never happened and buried yourself in work instead.

When he approached you afterwards with a confession full of confidence, as if you accepting would be the most natural thing on Earth you could do nothing but stare at him with disgust. Screaming profanities one after another. You hated his kind, the careless rich kids that thought they could get anything they desired. “I’m not an object you can obtain by throwing money at me!” Those were your last parting words to him, the ones that rang in his head even today. His wide eyed expression brought at least some satisfaction to you that day. You couldn’t report him for your own sake so even this small victory was welcomed.

However, as if the universe were laughing at your misfortune, you were presented with the positive pregnancy test in your hands weeks later. Maybe the test was faulty—that’s what you comforted yourself with as you sat in the doctor's office. But not only were you pregnant, you would have no choice but to carry the pregnancy to term as it was far too late to get an abortion. That’s when the reality of your situation truly sunk in and you broke down for the first time. With nobody to rely on and unable to continue your studies due to your deteriorating health, you ran away from it all. You told yourself it would be temporary, just until the baby was born and then you would return to your studies but you couldn’t give your baby daughter away to someone else. Even when she was the spitting image of her father your heart broke thinking of what she would have to go through in an orphanage so you kept her, slowly finding new happiness in your daughter's smile.

Reo could barely compose himself once you rejected him. Following a monotonous routine as his sanity and reason hung by a thread. All he could think about was how he would make you pay until you begged to be his. But his parents put a stop to it, sending him abroad where they hoped he would change but his every thought was still consumed by only you. Finding out you had a child upon his return was enough to make him rebound into his obsession even worse than before, especially when she resembled him so much.

/

“The paternity test was just a formality, you can tell with just one look that she’s my daughter. Anyways just pack any essentials and get ready, we’re leaving this dump.” It was almost as if he was talking to himself with how he didn’t even bother to get a reply from you.

“I’m not leaving and neither is my daughter.” You had grown protective over your baby, a bastard like him didn’t deserve her.

“Let’s not make this any worse than it has to be, [name]. We both know you can’t afford to take care of a child on your own. What will you do when she grows up and asks why she doesn’t have a father, hmm? What about when she asks why she can’t have the things other kids have? Or when she wants to do extracurricular like kids her age, or when she wants to travel or go out with friends. Or what about when she—.”

“I get it, you can stop now!” You interrupted as tears streamed down your face, you had once again regressed into an inconsolable mess and in front of the man you despised the most to boot. You knew well you couldn’t give her the life she deserved.

/

Your daughter liked her father, almost as if she had known him from birth. It stung a little when her first words were ‘papa’ and when she would run to him before even looking at you but you could make peace with that, she’s just a child after all. What you couldn’t stand was your now husband, Reo. He had only gotten worse as now he seemed to think he had free reign to do as he pleased with you. He had made such a big show of only doing this for ‘his’ daughter but, to your detriment, he seemed much more interested in making up for lost time with you.

[joyswonderland1108]

Jikook aren't just dating, they're in their honeymoon phase for the 10th year in a row and i've HAD ENOUGH

No because you do not understand. I made the mistake, no, the lifestyle choice, of rewatching everything Jikook from the very beginning and now i'm spiraling at the speed of light and my heart is doing parkour. Ain't no way in the multiverse someone watches Jikook and goes "Yep, just bros being bros". What do you MEAN "Just friends"??? Like ??? Be so serious right now. Be biblical-level serious. Look me dead in the eyes and tell me Jikook is just platonic when :

They have almost kissed multiple times, in 4K, in front of live audiences, and cameras. You don't accidentally almost kiss someone that many times unless you're in a K-drama. Or in Love. Like are we supposed to believe they were just practicing for a drama they weren't even in?

JK out here showing up with a whole hickey and them casually telling us "Yeah, we were drinking (alone) and he picked me up spun me like we just said 'I do' he wouldn't put me down so i bit his neck" Like.. Sir?? That's no friendship, that's foreplay. Also, let's not pretend that was a one-time thing. We've seen random hickeys, the mystery marks, Sherlock who? We been solved that mystery.

The inside jokes, whole conversations happening telepathically while the rest of the group looks at them like "Here they go again" Like, sorry, but when you start a sentence and your man finishes it, that's not friendship. That's spousal telepathy. "I am you you are me" you know..

The ear bite. THE EAR BITE. And the glistening saliva trail. Broadcasted to the world like we weren't sitting there eating cereal. Do you know how intimate that is? They weren't even trying to be subtle. At this point, i feel like they want to get caught. I had to pause, breathe, reevaluate life, and then hit replay 10 more times like a masochist.

The GCF in Tokyo. A soft, romantic video edited by Jungkook, starring only Jimin, set to a love song. Boy didn't make a vlog, ihe made a wedding montage. If my boyfriend made that for me, i would cry and then marry him immediately. Oh wait.

Their solo eras? JK's lives were practically sponsored by "Jiminie-hyung" , the "Can you handle it?" Sir, this is a Wendy's. Who gave you the right? Reading each other's comments during their lives like a giddy crush. The flirtation, the teasing, the INTENSE GAZES. That wasn't fanservice, that was a whole relationship slipping through the cracks of BigHit's NDA.

Matching clothes, matching earrings, matching bracelets, matching rings, matching tattoos, matching souls. I'm not saying they're soulmates but i am saying if they lived in ancient Greece there would already be statues of them carved out of marble with captions like "Eros incarnate". No one matches this much unless they're married or playing twins on Disney Channel.

And remember, they made a whole show about the two of them going on a trip. Swimming together, cooking for each other, bickering like an old married couple, sharing hotel rooms (read: one bed), and giggling like they're the only people alive on Earth. JK said "let me film my husband being adorable for several days straight". WHAT IS THIS? "Married Life: The Prequel". Honestly? Cinematic masterpiece.

The stares that last 10 seconds too long. The little touches. The way they gravitate toward each other in every group setting like magnets with one thought that says "stand next to Jimin" (Standing next to Jimin *Ba Dum Tss*)

That one time when JK sniffed Jimin like he was inhaling the very concept of Jimin, like a man trying to bottle the essence of love..

Them showing up on each other's lives (Physically or via comments). Jimin lurking in the comments like a clingy husband. JK not even trying to hide his grin when Jimin's name shows up. "Oh, is Jimin watching?" Giggle. Okay.

And let's talk about the Jungkook Reaction Lives, this man really sat down multiple times, on his own accord, just to watch Jimin. Reacting to "Vibe". Reacting to "Set me Free pt2" like a proud husband watching his husband dominate the stage. Watching "Like Crazy" and smiling like he choreographed it himself. Then he really said "Let me react to Jimin content", pulled up Jimin's episode on Suchwita, and pulled up a whole compilation of their moments together during "Best of Me" and just sat there giggling, vibing, and whispering "cute" like we weren't watching him fall deeper in love in 1080p. He's not subtle. He's never been subtle. He's a Jimin fan account with privileges.

Let's not even get started on JK's long-term, unsupervised obsession with Jimin's ass. The playful slaps turned into casual grabs, and we all remember when he straight up squeezed Jimin's butt cheek on stage during PTD in Vegas like it was his birthright. Jikook pt3 : The ass chronicles.

And THEN they enlisted together. Not like "Oh what a coincidence" or "Same week, same day, how sweet", no. These two signed up for the BUDDY PROGRAM. Like, the official military bestie package where you apply as a pair and get placed together. That's not "we happened to align schedules". That's "we legally want to be stuck with each other for the next 18 months or we're not going". Besties don't do that. Husbands do that. They're out here planning government service like it's a honeymoon lol

And let's not ignore the energy lately. The way "certain things" keep popping up that scream "married and living together".

So no, i don't care what anyone says. Jikook aren't "Just friends". They're not even just dating. They've been cosmically handfasted since 2015 and i'm just a civilian living in their universe. The only thing missing is the wedding livestream.

[bl3upi3]

Between the Lines

A/N: Not proofread. Thank you all for your support! I might even consider writing some smut to thank you.

Word count: 2870

Summary: You’ve been Hollis’s stylist and close friend for five years, building a bond with him and his friends, including Roman. During a trip to Japan, a live stream sparks intense flirtation and hidden desires between you, Hollis, and Roman. The playful teasing turns into something deeper, leading to a charged atmosphere that blurs the lines between friendship and attraction.

You’ve been friends with Hollis for about five years now. Actually, you’ve been his stylist that entire time. He’s always loved your fashion sense and your creative eye, and he liked having you around even when it wasn’t for work. Over time, you met his friends and naturally became part of the group’s daily life. Everyone came to rely on you to coordinate outfits for tours, press interviews, and any public appearance.

The funny thing is, you never actually studied fashion, nor had you styled anyone before. You met Hollis at a party your parents were hosting. The two of you were the same age and also the only young people there so you spent the night talking. He complimented your style, and you showed him your Instagram, where you posted your daily outfits. That’s when he told you, “You should style me one day.” By “one day,” he meant the following week for a photoshoot.

People loved the looks you put together for him. Even his agent told you that you should stick around.

And you did. From that day on, you never really left his side. You grew close to Roman, too, he and Hollis were polar opposites, but in a way that somehow worked. You started styling Roman occasionally, along with Nate and Conceal, though your style always aligned more naturally with Hollis and Roman.

Over the years, it all started to feel second nature. Fittings in hotel rooms, last-minute thrift runs in unfamiliar cities, late nights spent hunched over mood boards and half-drunk iced coffees. You learned on the job, no formal training, no textbook rules, just instinct and vibe. And somehow, that was enough.

Sometimes you wondered why Hollis never hired a “real” stylist. But then he’d look at himself in the mirror, twist at the hem of a shirt you’d altered by hand, and say something like, “Only you get it.” That was enough, too.

The bond between the two of you was quiet but constant. You weren’t just someone he worked with, you were someone he trusted. There were nights when he’d come over just to sit on your couch, the low hum of music playing while you sketched or scrolled through runway archives. Other times, he’d call you from some venue’s green room just to double-check which shoes went better with his look even though you’d already packed the outfit yourself.

Roman became a familiar presence too, always teasing, always lounging somewhere with a smug grin and a sarcastic comment. But he looked out for you, in his own way. He noticed when you were tired, when you hadn’t eaten, when you were carrying more weight than usual literally or emotionally.

Nate and Conceal took a bit longer to warm up, but once they saw that you weren’t just passing through, they let you in. Late-night diner stops after shows, inside jokes that only made sense on tour, birthday parties in cramped hotel rooms it all became part of your normal.

One day, Hollis had a show in Japan for his world tour, and naturally, the team decided to stretch the trip into a short vacation. It wasn’t often you all got time off, let alone in a place like Tokyo, so when the schedule opened up for a few free days, everyone jumped at the chance.

You visited Japan like a pack of chaotic tourists. Roman insisted on trying every convenience store snack, rating them dramatically like it was a YouTube concept. Nate somehow got lost in Shibuya Crossing for fifteen minutes and swore the crowd “swallowed” him. Conceal refused to leave Harajuku without buying three pairs of sunglasses and a pair of platform boots “for the bit.”

You took pictures of everything. Hollis made fun of you at first “Do you really need ten photos of the same vending machine?” but then you caught him taking candid shots of you trying on jackets in a vintage store. He didn’t say anything about it, but you noticed he set one of them as his lock screen later. The boys even vlogged your trip.

The night after the show, everyone stumbled back into the hotel exhausted, sweaty, starving, and ready to pass out wherever they landed. You, on the other hand, were wide awake.

Your body was still buzzing from the adrenaline of the concert, the travel, the energy of Tokyo itself. On top of that, you’d forgotten your sleeping pills, which meant you were stuck scrolling through your phone in the dim glow of your hotel room, the city lights bleeding through the curtains.

You posted a photo to your story of Hollis mid-performance in the outfit you had pieced together over three frantic days and two time zones. The response was instant. DMs, fire emojis, reposts, and a dozen messages begging you to go live and talk about the look.

At first, you hesitated. It felt weird, being the one in front of the camera instead of behind the scenes. But then again, you’d styled one of the biggest artists in the world. People were curious. And part of you… liked that.

So you went live. Just for a few minutes, you told yourself.

You propped your phone on the nightstand, the hotel lamp casting a soft glow over your face. You didn’t bother with a full setup, no ring light, no makeup, just you in an oversized tee and a messy bun, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

Within a minute, your live had around a hundred viewers. A mix of your own followers and some of Hollis’s fans flooded the comments with excited messages.

“FINALLY we’ve been waiting for this!!”

“Y/N YOU ATE WITH THAT FIT.”

“How did you come up with the idea for the pants???”

You smiled, a little shy but warming up quickly.

“So, the outfit,” you started, glancing at the chat. “I wanted something that honored the location but still felt very Hollis. So I pulled inspiration from Japanese silhouettes, specifically old school kimono shapes but made it street. Kind of a balance between soft drape and sharp structure…”

You went on, talking through the layering, the textiles, even the stitching on the jacket you’d customized at 2 a.m. the night before the flight. You were mid-sentence explaining the intentional color clash when a comment caught your eye.

@rommulas: She’s lying. I made the outfit.

You blinked, trying not to laugh. “Okay, no you didn’t,” you said directly into the camera. “Roman couldn’t style a sock drawer.”

More laughing emojis flooded in.

Then another message popped up:

@2Hollis: She stole the idea from a napkin sketch I made in a ramen shop.

You groaned and covered your face with one hand. “I should’ve known you two were awake.”

@rommulas: Stylists these days smh.

@2Hollis: Gatekeeping my vision is crazy.

@rommulas: She’s literally plagiarizing.

“Y’all are so unserious,” you muttered, laughing now as the chat lit up with people losing their minds over Hollis and Roman showing up.

“They’re lying. Neither of them even knew what I was doing until ten minutes before the show when I forced them to change shirts.”

@2Hollis: Bold of you to assume I was ever wearing a shirt.

@rommulas: Don’t expose us like that on live.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “Anyway, back to the actual fashion part…”

You cleared your throat, trying to push aside the feeling of being flustered. "Alright, alright, let’s get back to it,” you muttered, wiping the grin off your face as you read the comments scrolling faster than you could keep up.

“Y/N, show us your closet!”

“Do you live in Tokyo now?”

“Are you and Hollis a thing??”

You rolled your eyes. “You guys really don’t stop, do you?” Just as you started to turn back to the camera, there was a knock at the door.

A quick glance at the screen still blowing up with comments. You stood up, phone still propped on the nightstand. “Hold on a second,” you said before heading to the door.

“Y/N, open the door,” Roman’s voice called through the wood, muffled but amused.

You stared at the live, eyes widening. “No way.”

The chat exploded instantly.

“OMG THEY’RE COMING UP”

“Y/N RUN”

“She’s about to get bullied live”

You opened the door.

Roman walked in first, hoodie up, hair a mess, grinning like a troublemaker. Hollis followed behind, tall enough that he had to duck a little under the doorframe. His silver hair was damp from a shower, sticking up in uneven strands, and he wore black sweats and a loose tee. He looked every bit the kind of man who knew he was trouble.

“Are you live right now?” Roman asked, already flopping onto the edge of your bed like he owned it.

You pointed at him, glaring. “Do not—”

Too late. He leaned into the camera, eyes wide and dramatic. “Chat! She’s been LYING to you.”

Hollis lingered by the wall at first, arms crossed, watching you with that lazy amusement he always carried. Then, without asking, he walked over and grabbed one of your pillows, tossing it behind his head as he sat on the other side of your bed.

The comments were going feral.

“WE’RE WITNESSING HISTORY”

“HOLLIS IN HER ROOM??!?”

“ROMAN’S TAKING OVER THE LIVE HELP”

“Okay, everyone calm down,” you said, trying to control the chaos. “I was explaining how I came up with tonight’s outfit before these two decided to break in.”

“Break in?” Roman scoffed. “This is a group project. We came to supervise.”

Hollis finally leaned toward the camera, his deep voice sliding into the live like velvet. “Don’t believe her. She’s acting shy now but she’s been bullying me for five years.”

“I have not!” you laughed, swatting at him, but he only grinned wider.

Chat lost its mind.

“SHE TOUCHED HIM”

“WHY IS HE LOOKING AT HER LIKE THAT”

“Y/N AND HOLLIS FLIRTING IN 4K”

Roman peeked over your shoulder at the comments and started reading them out loud. “’Why is Hollis sitting on her bed like that’… great question, chat. Why are you sitting like that, bro?”

Hollis smirked and leaned back on his hands, stretching his long frame like he owned the space. His gaze slid to you. “Comfortable spot. Don’t mind sharing, do you?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus on the phone. “Ignore them, chat. They’re children.”

“You love us,” Roman said, leaning on your shoulder dramatically.

“You tolerate us,” Hollis corrected smoothly, his eyes lingering on you a moment too long, and the live noticed.

The comments were unreadable now, hearts and ship names flooding the screen.

You exhaled, feigning annoyance, but couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto your lips. “This was supposed to be a professional live. I was giving fashion tips.”

Roman laughed, reaching for your phone. “It’s better now. Chat, rate her stylist skills 1 to 10.”

Hollis tilted his head, that familiar teasing edge in his voice. “I give her a nine.”

You arched a brow. “Nine?”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping for your ears only and his hand on your knee where no one could see.

“Yeah,” Hollis murmured, his voice low, as he leaned in just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. His fingers brushed against your knee, a casual touch that sent a jolt up your spine. “But I think I could be convinced to give her a ten… under the right circumstances.”

Roman, who had been busy reading the chat aloud, suddenly stopped. “Alright, we need to wrap this up before Y/N gets herself into more trouble,” he said with a grin, his voice heavy with sarcasm, though his eyes lingered on you a little too long.

The live chat was spiraling out of control. Comments were flooding in faster than you could read them, all centered around the same topic.

“Y/N AND HOLLIS ARE OFFICIALLY A THING!!!”

“Roman, are you cool with this or what??”

“Y/N LOOKING LIKE SHE’S ABOUT TO KISS HOLLIS”

You felt your face heat up, and you quickly shot a glance at the screen. The chat was full of hearts, fire emojis, and ship names. This was getting out of hand.

“Alright, alright,” you said, trying to keep your composure, but you could feel the tension in the air, thick and almost suffocating. You glanced at Hollis, his smirk so close to a grin that you were certain it was purposeful. And then there was Roman, practically sitting on your lap, his head tilted in that annoying but somehow endearing way he had when he was watching you unravel.

You cleared your throat and spoke directly into the camera, trying to focus. “That’s enough of the teasing for one night. I’m ending this live before we start trending for all the wrong reasons.”

Roman gave a dramatic groan. “Aww, come on, Y/N! You’re killing the vibe.”

“You’re the one who started it,” you shot back, feeling the heat in your chest rise.

Hollis stretched his arm behind you, leaning back with a lazy, almost predatory smile. “Can’t blame her for wanting to cut it short,” he teased, his eyes flicking to yours, a playful glint there. “She knows the chemistry is too much for the internet to handle.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but your heart was beating a little too fast for it to be entirely out of annoyance. The three of you had a way of being close that felt a little too… intimate sometimes. You weren't sure if it was the playful banter, the unspoken flirtation, or the fact that being around them both made everything feel sharper, more electric.

“I’m ending the live,” you said again, this time with more finality in your voice, before reaching over to grab your phone.

Roman pouted, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re no fun.”

Before you could click off, Hollis leaned forward, his face just inches from yours. “You don’t have to end it just because we’re here, Y/N,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “If you want to keep the show going, we can make it interesting.”

Your pulse quickened, and you knew you had to end this—before the tension between the three of you turned into something else entirely. You quickly pressed the “end live” button, not daring to look at either of them, feeling a mixture of relief and a strange, undeniable desire.

The moment the stream cut, the room went eerily quiet.

Roman, now leaning back casually, finally broke the silence. “Well, that was fun,” he said, glancing at you. “But I think you owe us a little more than just a quick ‘thanks for watching.’”

Hollis, still not looking away from you, added, “Yeah, I think we deserve a reward for being such good company.”

You looked between the two of them, feeling the space between you close in. The playful teasing was now tinged with something else, something hotter, more charged than before.

“Y’all are impossible,” you said, your voice betraying the unease you felt, but it wasn’t just frustration. It was anticipation.

Roman grinned like a cat who’d just found a mouse to play with, and Hollis, with his usual cocky grin, made it clear that he wasn’t going to let you off that easily.

“Maybe we’ll be more ‘manageable’ if you give us a little… attention,” Roman teased, his voice thick with meaning.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just the three of you in the room. It was the weight of everything unsaid, every glance, every touch, every flirtation over the years that had built up to this one, charged moment.

You couldn’t help but wonder just how much longer you’d be able to deny what was slowly unraveling in the quiet space between you, Hollis, and Roman. The sexual tension that had been simmering was about to boil over, and you weren’t sure who, if anyone, would be the first to break.

But in that moment, all you could think was: You needed to get out of this room.

“I need a drink,” you muttered, standing up quickly and heading for the door.

Roman’s voice followed you. “We’ll join you,” he called. “Can’t have you drinking alone.”

But Hollis didn’t move, his eyes locking onto yours with a look that was much too intense, a look that made your heart beat a little too fast.

“You can’t run away from this, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You froze at the door, but before you could say anything, Roman walked past you, almost casually brushing against your side. “Come on, let's go get a drink before she explodes from all the tension.”

Hollis stayed behind, still watching you like he was waiting for something. You swallowed hard and turned, facing the two of them.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But no more flirting. You both owe me for this disaster.”

Roman chuckled, “Too bad, Y/N. It’s kind of our thing.”

With that, you all made your way out of the room, the air between the three of you thicker than before, and the night suddenly feeling like it could go in any direction.

[sehunniepotwrites]

with a little pixie dust | mk.l

It’s just a little faith and trust, and with a little pixie dust, your wildest dreams will be yours.

SYNOPSIS. There are so many ways your friend group could have chosen to celebrate your graduation from university but they chose the one way that fit their childlike antics most of all–going to Disneyland. With all the screams of joy and laughter filing the atmosphere, you see why people call it The Happiest Place on Earth. It’s where magic comes alive, hearts soar to the skies, and where dreams come true. With your dream job already lined up for you once you get back from this vacation, you wonder if your last and wildest fantasy–the one that carries Mark Lee endearingly close to your heart–will take flight. (But don’t worry; your best friends, with a little help of pixie dust, are determined to make it come alive by the end of night.)

GENRE. Fluff, Comedy, Best friends-to-lovers!AU, Theme Park!AU, Disneyland!AU, meddling/matchmaking friend group, all the romantic tropes that come with a theme park setting

WORD COUNT. 11.9k

WARNINGS. a lot of Disney references (movies, songs, parks, etc.), profanity, food/drink consumption, theme park rides, nothing too crazy tbh

PLAYLIST. 200 - Mark | Popcorn - D.O. | Dreams Come True - NCT 127 | Angel Eyes - NCT 127 | Fireflies - NCT Dream | Amusement Park - Baekhyun | Candy - Baekhyun | Sh-Boom - The Chords

PARK ANNOUNCEMENTS. I understand that not everyone has been to Disneyland. Because I want to paint the perfect picture in your head as you read through the fic, each scene will be titled with the land/area they are in and a picture of the land/area will be hyperlinked with a visual. It's unnecessary to click them but it would be a lil helpful! <3 DISCLAIMER. This is work of fiction. I do not own the people/characters and concepts I have written about. You cannot translate or copy my work.

Your graduation commencement came and went. The spectacle flew by so slowly but so quickly at the same time. You can’t exactly describe how you’re feeling now that you’ve graduated–relief is mixed in with panic, happiness mixed with dread. It’s a jumble of emotions you can’t quite comprehend but alas, that is the wonder of adulthood.

The happiest takeaway from your college experience is not the expensive degree you earned but the special friends you made. Karina was the first friend you made in college because she was your roommate. She introduced you to her high school friend, Jeno, who then dragged you two to the ginormous welcome event. It was there you met Donghyuck and last but definitely not least, Mark Lee. 

The other two boys were attractive, yes, but there was something about Mark that drew you to him. Donghyuck talked as much as him, sure, and Jeno’s attractiveness was on another level than Mark’s but that boy immediately caught your attention. Maybe it was the way he spoke and never completed a thought or the way he’d laugh so unabashedly, losing all control of his body that got to you. He was so incredibly endearing that your heart just claimed him.  Years later, when the friendship is stronger than ever, that beating muscle in your chest refuses to let Mark go. 

One morning the summer after graduation, you wake up in a hotel room with an alarm blaring at 6:00am. You roll over and groan, blindly reaching to stop the device. Karina is rustling inside the sheets next to you, hoping the noise will go away. Jeno and Donghyuck are on the other bed snoring up a storm. Mark, on the other hand, rolls uncomfortably on the pull-out couch. 

On normal days, the alarm set for six in the morning would be a sin but today is not a regular day. It is the day your group saved up for. 

The five of you, with your similar interests in movies and theme parks, wanted to go to Disneyland together for years. After graduation, you finally had the money and freedom for it. 

Your hypothetical plan finally made it out of the group chat—that is your driving force to get up. While doing so, you hit Karina’s side and she grumbles in response. The two of you agreed you’d wake up earlier since it would take you longer to get ready. The guys, however, could sleep in. 

As you quietly pass by the couch, Mark asks, “Is it time to get up already?” He must’ve heard the shuffling. There's darkness under his eyes. You can tell he didn’t sleep well last night. On top of his eyes struggling to open up, his voice sounds incredibly hoarse and filled with fatigue.

“No,” you answer, patting his messy head of brown hair. His body reacts positively to your touch, eyes closed and neck stretching to meet your touch. He releases a relaxed sigh as your fingers card through his thick strands. 

Lowering yourself to his level, you continue to play with his hair. “Sleep well last night?”

“Nah, not really, like dude, this shit really isn’t comfortable,” he complains with a deep exhale, “but I volunteered to take the couch so…”

“Move to mine,” you tell him, gesturing to the unmade bed. You hear the water running and figure that Karina jumped into the shower to help wake herself up. “Try to get a little more sleep, I’ll wake you up in a bit.”

Too tired to fight back, Mark languidly moves towards the bed. Once close enough, his body drops onto the mattress and he wiggles his way under the covers. You watch him until his breathing evens out. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep; after all, he did most of the driving on your road trip down to Southern California. Satisfied, you move to start your morning hotel routine. 

The fresh smell of coffee hits you as you do your skin care, apply your makeup, and brush your teeth. Karina’s done in the bathroom shortly after and you claim it to change into your outfit of the day. When the final touches of your look are finished, forty minutes have passed and it’s time to wake up the rest. 

You wake Jeno first because he’s the easiest and whisper that there’s fresh coffee waiting for him. Donghyuck throws a bit of a fit when you shake him awake, stuffing his face in his pillow. He gets up after a few threats from Karina, whining over how mean she is to him. 

Part of you wants to let Mark rest for a little bit longer, especially after knowing how exhausted he is. There’s the option of letting the other three go first while you wait for Mark to wake up naturally. The other half of you, however, thinks about two things: how much money you all spent getting these tickets and how you promised each other to be at Disneyland from open to close to make your splurge worth it. Being Mark’s best friend, you know how disappointed the guy would be if you stayed behind with him. So with no choice left, you wake him up.

You do so gently, your hand immediately going back to his unruly hair. You comb back his bangs and hold them in place. “Mark, it’s your turn now, everyone else is almost ready.”

As soon as he hears your voice, he stirs. Mark blinks the sleep away, and suddenly, you are the first thing he sees. With you sitting on the bed next to him and your hand still in his hair, Mark thinks he’s still dreaming. “Hmmm?”

“It’s your turn, Spidey,” you say, taking a sip of coffee. “We’re all ready.”

He buries his head in your lap for just a second, wanting to keep this little moment with him a little longer. 

“Okay,” he finally says a minute later, before slipping out of bed. 

Karina claims her rightful place next to you on your shared bed, still warm from Mark’s little nap. She shoots you a look and you ignore her knowing stare. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she challenges you, perfectly drawn eyebrows raised in question.

“That,” you gesture to her face.

“Oh, you mean the look I’m giving you when you share a little cute moment with your best friend who is most definitely more than a best friend, fine,  I won’t do that,” Karina pretends to give up, her hands raised in surrender.

You shush her at once, looking over to the boys that are currently fighting over the sink. Mark’s already dressed in some black cargo pants and an oversized Spider-Man shirt. He’s in the midst of styling his hair, struggling with one strand that will not stay in place. You hear his frustrated huffs and puffs while Jeno and Haechan chuckle at his antics. 

“Does my baby need help?” Donghyuck teases, reaching for Mark’s hair. 

“Yo, dude, no, stop! You’re gonna mess it up!” Mark shouts, backing away from him. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

“But you can’t do it on your own, my sweet baby, I’ll help you,” Donghyuck continues with the bit.

You remove yourself from Karina’s conversation and break the two idiots up. 

“C’mere,” you gesture towards Mark. 

He instantly comes to you, dipping his head down to your level as you lean against a piece of furniture. Your fingertips curl that one strand just the way he likes it, framing his forehead, and smile when it’s all finished. So focused on his hair, you almost don’t notice how close his face is to yours. Your breath hitches and you lean back to create more distance. 

Removing your hand from his hair, you smooth the non-existent wrinkles on his baggy tee.“There you go, not hard at all.”

“Right,” he murmurs back, body frozen in place but his large, pretty eyes still aimed at you. 

You clear your throat. “I, um, need to–”

“Oh yeah no, sorry,” he stumbles over his words, moving so you can get through. You shuffle past him, pretending to do a last minute check of your crossbody bag. His stare lingers on you as you fuss over your belongings and put on your Mickey ears.

You try to shake away your thoughts but Karina won’t let you. She slides up to you with a playful smile. “Not even eight in the morning and you’ve already had two little moments. When’s number three happening?”

“In your wildest dreams,” you snap back with a hiss, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Wanting to avoid the conversation from moving further, you open the door. “Let’s move, slowpokes, we gotta go!”

“Or yours,” Karina takes the last word as she exits the room. 

You can’t argue with your roommate because she’s right. You've been wanting to be with Mark and calling him yours since your first year. Yes, there were times in the past when it seemed like he wanted the same–moments just like the two you just shared–but nothing was explicitly said or done. Feelings were left unsaid. They lingered in the air until the romantic vibe fizzled out and the moment ended.  To love and be loved by Mark Lee is your wildest dream. It’s the one you’re sure will never come true. However, there’s a sort of magic in the air in Disneyland–a magic that will make even the impossible possible. You wonder if that bit of magic will apply to you, too.

✨ TOMORROWLAND

7:45am arrives and your friends are following you like little ducklings following their mother. Without you, they would be lost causes. 

It’s not your first time in the parks so naturally, you are the one who takes charge. You have all the tickets on your phone, scanning them one by one at the main entrance gate as your friends go through the turnstiles. They wait patiently until you are the last one through the gate. 

Karina holds your hand, giggling as you stroll through Main Street, happily taking in the sights and sounds of Disneyland. Mark, Jeno, and Donghyuck are behind you, phones out to capture anything and everything in sight. You hear them excitedly discussing the map, mentioning things that they want to do, and you mentally take note of them all. 

At exactly 8am, the ropes held by the cast members drop, signaling the official opening of the park. You quickly lead your friends towards the right of the famous castle and fight your way into Tomorrowland for Space Mountain. As one of the most popular attractions, it’s not so bad in the mornings when you’re one of the firsts in line. Jeno mentioned this ride in the past and you are determined to get him on it. 

The crowd is packed like sardines and Karina links her arm through yours as people shove their way through. Amidst the craziness, someone grabs hold of your free hand from behind. From the way his hand fits in yours, you can tell exactly who it is. Jeno’s hand is much larger than this one and it’s a lot rougher than Donghyuck. 

You turn your head to see Mark who asks you a question with a simple look. He knows you’re not too fond of crowds and is using this silent exchange as a check-up. You appreciate the gesture, much like how you appreciate every other way Mark looks out for you, and reassure him with a squeeze of his hand. You’ve frequented the park many times over the years so despite the mass of people, you know the theme park like the back of your hand. Mark returns the action and brushes his thumb against your knuckles. He doesn’t let go as the crowd dissipates into the ride queue and you don’t mind that at all.

As much as you love this dark roller coaster, you partially dread going on the ride, or any ride for that matter. The uneven number in your group guarantees that one person will be a single rider throughout the day and you are certain that will be you.  Jeno and Karina have been dating for a while now, so it makes sense that they ride together. Even with Mark’s hand still in yours, you’re certain he’ll sit with Donghyuck. When it comes to Mark, Donghyuck loves to cling to his best friend, no matter how annoyed the older one gets. It’s their thing and has been since childhood so who are you to get in the way of that? 

The wait goes by quickly, especially with the entertaining debates your friend group comes up with while queued up. It takes your group a mere thirty minutes to get to the front of the line. Once assigned your rows, you wiggle your hand out of Mark’s grip and silently move toward the last gate to make room for Donghyuck.  

“Wait, where are you going?” Mark masks his hurt with a confused tone.

“To the back,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Oh,” his tone drops and you can barely hear him through the echoing sounds of the ride. “I thought–”

“Huh?” you shout from the back row.

Seeing you in the last row, Donghyuck pauses for a second as if contemplating on where to go. “Wait. Why are you here?”

“What do you mean? Are you saying I can’t be here?”

“No. You’re supposed to be–” Your mischievous friend is cut off by the gates opening and the employees instructing you to enter and lower your lap bars. You do what they say and Donghyuck sighs before moving to sit with Mark.

You notice the frustrated look on Donghyuck’s face and an exasperated one on Mark’s but it’s too loud in the room to hear whatever serious thing they’re discussing. You try to lean in closer to catch a glimpse of their conversation but by the time the safety checks are done, you’re launched into darkness at a high speed with the ride soundtrack and Mark’s screams of terror filling your ears.

The ride ends quickly and you all rush to find your photo. Everyone in your vehicle looks like they enjoyed the ride minus Mark, who hid his handsome face in Donghyuck’s arm. The green-eyed monster makes a short appearance in your mind and you wonder how it would’ve been if you stayed with Mark. Would he cling onto you like that too, with his arm looped through yours and his face buried in your neck?

“Why didn’t you tell me this was a roller coaster?” Mark whines as you take a picture of the screen. You immediately send it to your group chat and Giselle, the one person missing on this trip, reacts to it right away.

“Because I knew you’d try to get out of it, you scaredy cat.” 

“Rude,” he scoffs, clinging onto you as you lead them to a breakfast spot. 

“Spidey, it’s really not that bad.”

“Yeah, says the thrill seeker,” Mark pouts at you, which makes you pinch his cheek. It’s not as soft as it used to be, his baby fat from your first year long gone. It’s replaced by the prominent bone structure that only highlights the features that you secretly want to kiss. “Warn a guy next time.”

“Okay, okay but you still did it! I’m proud of you!”

“Yeah but…” His voice trails off.

“But?” You echo, wondering what Mark wants to say.

He looks shyly at you, a faint redness painting his skin, “Can you sit by me next time?” He asks because you make him feel brave even when he isn’t. 

Mark’s timid request has you grinning from ear to ear and your heart beating faster than any roller coaster you’ve been on. Your best friend is expecting an answer, you can tell by his teeth sinking into his thin bottom lip and brown boba eyes widening with each second. 

“I mean, you know, like, sitting with Hyuck is cool,” Mark stutters when you don’t answer, trying to explain himself, “but I’d–well, I thought you were gonna sit next to me?” His voice raises at the end due to nervousness and you can’t help but giggle. 

“You mean, you were gonna leave poor Hyuck all alone?” you poke fun at him.

Mark deadpans, “He’d survive on his own.”

“I mean, I’ve been here before and it’s everyone else’s first time. I’m okay riding by myself,” you push back with a frown, trying to convince Mark and yourself for that matter, “I just want to make sure everyone is having a good time.”

“I get that but–”

“We’re here!” you cut him off, stopping in front of a quick-service restaurant. You gesture to the door and the others go inside. 

Donghyuck, Jeno, and Karina make their way in. You move to follow them but Mark stops you with a hand to your wrist. He hesitates, his mouth opening and closing, and you patiently wait for what he needs to express. The boy lets out a long exhale. 

“Look, what I’m trying to say is that riding with Hyuck is fun and all but I…” He pauses again. Mark has this habit of not finishing a full thought and you think this is one of those times. Despite that, you listen attentively. “I want you to be my ride partner today, okay?”

And again, your heart shoots to the moon. Its fuel is the adrenaline that runs through your veins as you process his words. A hint of a smile begins to peak out as Mark fuses in front of you.

“I mean, like, I’ve been to theme parks with Hyuck since we were kids, I’m not missing much with that and I just–I kinda–you know–want to experience things with you today.”

The way he confesses this, like every other thing Mark does, is adorable. You hope your forgetful brain will store this memory along with the rest of your core ones. He’s about to go off on another rant, you can tell by the small puffs of breath he takes and the redness that’s flushing his ears, so you end it before it starts. 

You cup a hand over his cheek to stop him from going even further and your fingers sense his rapidly beating pulse. “Okay,” you reply softly. 

That one word alone has Mark’s expression changing from an unsure one to the brightest face you’ve seen him make all morning. He rivals the sparkles on top of the castle and the bright sun that’s shining over you. 

“Really?” He perks up.

“Yeah,” you giggle at his change in mood, “now let’s get some food in you, Spidey boy.”

✨ THE CASTLE

“Get out, Hyuck! Why are you like this?” Karina yells from her spot beside Jeno, clearly frustrated with your friend. 

Karina and Jeno stand at the side of the castle, far enough from the crowds but close enough to still get their picture with the iconic landmark. Donghyuck is just out of frame, ready to jump in to ruin whatever adorable shot the couple is trying to take. It doesn’t really matter since you’re continuously snapping away on Karina’s phone. Knowing those two, more than one picture will turn out beautiful. Looking at them, how could they not?

“Because you’re taking too damn long and I want pictures too!”

“You already got yours!” Completely used to their bickering, you shake your head behind the camera.

She’s right. You’ve already taken everyone’s solo pictures at this picturesque spot–Karina taking the longest–and now there were requests for group or partner shots. Jeno, being the perfect Instagram boyfriend, helped take the shots of you and your girl best friend with no pointers needed. You thought you were almost done with this photoshoot but you guessed wrong.

“Not with Mark though!” Donghyuck shouts back, pulling Mark to his side.

“Yo, wait, what?” Mark squeaks.

“You got good enough shots, so move!” Donghyuck has no shame when shoving the resident couple away and dragging Mark to the exact place they stood. You shoot Karina an apologetic look, handing her phone back, right before you grab hold of Donghyuck’s device.

The younger of the duo, as affectionate as he is, has no problem hugging Mark tightly for a picture. Mark sighs but goes with it without much of a fight. You take pictures of Donghyuck hugging Mark from behind, clinging onto the older’s arm, forcing him into making a heart and standing back-to-back. As this goes on for several minutes, you endlessly snap pictures, not even looking at the screen anymore. While doing so, you miss the hushed conversation that happens at the other end of the camera. 

“Why am I doing this with you?” Mark hisses in between a grin. His arm around Donghyuck tightens and the younger one almost chokes at the sudden attack. “Are we done yet?”

“Why? Is there someone else you want to take pictures with?”

“Shut up.”

“I will not,” Donghyuck whispers under his breath, wiggling out of Mark’s grip. His volume raises as he announces, “Mark, catch me!” With that, the mischievous kid jumps onto Mark’s back and the elder of the duo has no choice but to do what he says.

Mark groans, “Why are you so annoying?”

“I will continue to be annoying until you man up,” Donghyuck nuzzles his forehead into Mark’s hair with a smirk. “I could keep this going or–”

With that, Mark lets go of his friend’s thighs and Donghyuck slides down with a helpless yelp. The boy is dramatic while dropping to the ground but Mark pays little attention to the action. Instead, he smiles shyly at you.

You raise an eyebrow at the duo’s suspicious actions. “Are you guys good or can we move on now?”

“I–um, actually–” He’s stuttering over his words more than usual, a red tainting his normal skin tone. You know he’s embarrassed but you can’t figure out what’s making him feel this way. The chaotic duo is up to their usual antics of Donghyuck being irritatingly touchy and Mark slowly losing his patience with it all so there’s no visible variable in your eyes. So, what’s the difference in this situation?

“What’s up?” When he doesn’t answer right away, you take that as a sign to keep moving. You turn your body away from him, adjust the straps of your bag to feel more comfortable, and get ready to move on. The park app on your phone is open to all the current wait times and you note that Fantasyland has low numbers, determining the most logical choice for your next destination. 

You open your mouth, preparing to spill out your plan to explore Fantasyland when Mark’s feeble voice breaks the silence. 

You don’t quite hear him the first time, leaning towards him in hopes that will help you focus on his voice alone. The excitement around the area only increases when the park marching band makes their way to the center of the castle for their afternoon set. Mark huffs in frustration when you fail to hear him for the second time. 

But as they say, the third time’s always the charm.

“Take a picture with me!” he yells when the band goes silent. The flush on his face increases tenfold and you almost coo at how flustered he is. His eyes were wide, almost begging for you to grant his request. His ears match the color of his Spider-Man plush hanging on the belt loop of his bottoms. 

Wanting to tease him a little more, you say, “We already took a group picture, Marky.”

You hold back your laugh when his hand goes back to fumble with his hair. He muses it, the strands now messy, making him look even more endearing than ever. 

“Yeah but–you know what I mean,” Mark’s voice drops at the end, his lips forming a pout. How desperately you want to peck his cheeks but you refrained, still scared of crossing that line. His brows furrowed. “You know what, never mind, dude, let’s go.”

Just as he began to walk away, you tugged him back into place. “I know what you meant, Spidey, I just wanted to mess with you.”

“You’re so mean to me,” he sulks and your fingers reach out to pinch his cheeks. It’s not quite a kiss but it’s close enough. 

You run your fingers through his messy hair, quickly fixing it and Mark just lets you, enjoying the little touches you are so willing to give.

“Hyuckie, can you please?” Donghyuck knows exactly what you’re asking of him, taking the phone out of your hands. He sets your phone to 0.5, bends down to get a better angle, and begins to snap away. All the while, you and Mark are a bit awkwardly standing side-by-side for the pictures. Your bodies are stiff--his hand is barely around your waist while his other hand is holding up a peace sign. You copy his pose, your fingers automatically making a V. 

“You guys,” Donghyuck sighs, grabbing the attention of Karina and Jeno, “at least act like you’re having fun with these pics. We’re at fucking Disneyland right now.” 

Karina laughs at how hopeless the two of you are. She takes pity on you and jumps in to give directions on how to improve your poses. “Mark, if you can just tighten your grip around her waist–”

Mark gulps, his nerves at an all-time high. Your best friend underestimates his own strength as he does what he is told. It happens a little too abruptly and you’re suddenly lurching into his body. Your head lightly hits his chest and you place a hand on the spot to create a little distance. He immediately fusses over you, looking down to check if you’re okay and it turns you into a giggling mess. 

“I’m fine, it’s fine,” you reassure Mark with a bright smile on your face.

Once he notices that you are nothing but smiles, the curve of Mark’s pretty mouth matches yours. It brightens his handsome face so much that it matches the glitter found at the castle tops. You take a mental picture of the face he makes, eyes and nose scrunched up with happiness, and the golden glow of the summer sun illuminating his beaming aura. 

Mark shakes his head and chuckles, pulling you into a hug. You sink into his hold, your chin perching on his shoulder. 

In your mind, Mark Lee is your (awkward) Prince Charming. While you stand together by the castle, you cherish every second he makes you feel like royalty.  He rocks you for a couple of seconds, swaying to the song playing in his head, and then pulls away. His stare, however, never leaves yours. You don’t dare break the connection. Your eyes curve up into little crescent moons and your hands drift back down to his chest. You feel the slight heaving from his laughter and it makes you giggle even more. 

“Stop laughing at me,” he says with a smile.

“Never,” you reply, sticking your tongue out at him.

The two of you are so caught up in your little moment, that you forget that your friends have phones in their hands, documenting everything that just occurred. 

“Oh, that one’s cute,” Karina says, snapping the two out of your shared reverie. Jeno and Donhyuck’s heads peak over her shoulders to look at the picture she’s talking about and they hum in reply. Then, she lifts up the phone to your eye level. You and Mark lean forward to take a closer look but the boy refuses to let go of you as you scroll through the selection.

Your finger swipes through what feels like thousands of photos before landing on one that catches your eye. In the photo, you’re so consumed in your laughter, lids closed happily and your dazzling smile half-covered by your hand. Mark holds you in his arms, fondly looking at you with sparkling eyes.

You stare at it a little too long, taking in the way he looks at you. You steal a glance at him and he’s wearing that same soft smile as he scans the photo. It made you wonder if your best friend always looked at you that way. You wonder if this was your first time making note of it. 

You pull yourself out of it, knowing that if you ruminate on it anymore, you'll sink into a deep neverending ocean. Your finger taps the bottom of the screen and the heart fills up, adding the picture to your favorite album. You just know this is a picture that had to be included in your photo dump.

“I like this one,” you muster out, fighting the urge to make eye contact with him.

You feel a squeeze around your waist, one that lingers for a moment, and hear him whisper, “I like this one too.”

Mark says it with certainty and with a hint of longing like there’s a deeper meaning behind his words. 

There is, of course, a message buried in his words. Mark likes how it’s just the two of you in the picture. He likes how it encapsulates how happy the two of you are in each other’s company. He likes it because it shows how in love with you he is. Mark especially likes it because it has you in it.

Mark Lee likes–no, loves–anything with you in it.

Mark loves you. 

Point blank.

Mark loves you.

And Mark hopes that by the end of the night in this magical place, where anything can happen, he can gather enough faith and trust in himself to tell you how he truly feels.

✨ FANTASYLAND

While strolling through Fantasyland, where all things fairy tales come to life, you make a pit stop at a store filled with costumes for princes and princesses. Your friends were amazed to see that deeper into the store, there was a salon that catered especially to children. All the kids sitting in the salon chairs were beaming with excitement as they got their hair and makeup done while dressed up as their favorite characters.

Karina coos as a little princess dressed as Rapunzel passed by her. She ran her fingers through the skirt ends of the costumes, admiring all the different dresses, while the boys immediately reached for the plastic weapons and shields. You hear their dramatic noises as Donghyuck stabs Jeno with a sword. Mark’s familiar laughter bounces off the walls as the fight continues, his hand shakily recording the ridiculous exchange.

“What is this place?” Karina asks curiously, turning to you for an answer. You knew she would love this place–the girl, although people perceived her as a tough girl, loved anything that had to do with princesses. 

There’s a sparkle in her eye, which only brightens when she approaches the section belonging to her favorite princess. Karina grabs hold of a pretty character headband, removing the one that’s on her head and tries on the new one. She spins to face you, silently asking if it looks good on her, and you nod enthusiastically, giving her a thumbs up. 

“Welcome to the Bippity Boppity Boutique,” you reply happily. Pointing to the cast members working on their guests, you continued, “They’re called Fairy Godmothers in Training. They help the kiddos with their makeovers.”

“Have you done it before?” Mark pops up out of nowhere, a little out of breath from the play fighting he did with the other two. He must’ve joined in the little spar after taking some pictures.

“Yeah, when I was little. I was Cinderella,” you laugh, remembering how pleased you were to be in the chair. You remind yourself to look for those photos; it’s been a while since you’ve seen them. “Can’t do it now as an adult though. Sorry, Rina.”

“Then why’d you bring me here?” She pouts at that, “To torture me? That’s mean. There goes my dream of being a princess.”

Mark bites back a chuckle at her bitter response and Karina has no trouble slapping his shoulder to shut him up. You choose to ignore the childish exchange.

“Well,” you start to say, inching towards the counter where a cast member eyes you curiously. “We can’t get full makeovers but we can get pixie dusted.”

“Pixie dusted?” Mark echoes, tilting his head in confusion. Your fingers twitch and you fight the urge to pet his head.

“The fairy godmothers have wands with them and they basically sprinkle glitter on top of your head while you make a wish. It’s really cute!”

The light in Karina’s eyes glows even brighter than before. “Really? Oh my god, can I do it?!” she asks, bouncing on the heels of her feet. 

“I knew you’d like it,” you giggle.

“Babe!” She calls Jeno over. 

His head pops up over a display, resembling a puppy hopping out of a hole they just dug. “Yeah?”

“Get pixie dusted with me,” Karina requests, reaching out for him with her wiggling fingers. 

Jeno quickly sets down the toys he was playing with, leaving a whining Donghyuck behind, and follows his girlfriend’s lead blindly. 

You and Mark watch them silently, both with smiles on your faces, as the couple holds hands and closes their eyes. The worker mumbles a little spiel as she taps her wand, the glitter raining down on their heads. Your camera is at the ready, finger holding down on the burst button for this special moment, capturing Karina’s tiny squeals and Jeno’s chuckles as the pixie dust settles in their hair and on their skin. 

“Anyone else?” The Fairy Godmother in Training asks politely, looking at you expectantly.

Mark nudges your side. “You gonna do it?”

“Of course. I’ll never pass up getting pixie dusted,” you say matter-of-factly, stepping forward.

“I want to do it, too,” Mark proclaims, stepping with you.

You laugh and warn him, “You wanna deal with glitter in your hair? It’s going to stay there for days.”

He shrugs, “They grant wishes, right? Maybe I need mine to come true.”

“Oh, yeah? And what wish is that, Spidey?”

He holds a slender figure to his lips. “If I tell you, then it definitely won’t come true. And I need all the help I can get with this one.”

You eye him suspiciously and when he doesn’t give it up, you sigh in defeat. Preparing yourself for the glitter, you bow your head down and close your eyes with your fingers linked together in the tightest hold. Your best friend nudges his forehead against yours and you let out a surprised giggle.

Just like Mark said he needs all the help he can get. He isn’t wishing for any regular thing. He wishes for something more precious than that–your heart. 

Sure, this is most likely playing make-believe but Mark Lee wants to believe in it. Maybe this is the little bit of magic he needs. Some might say he’s too old for this sort of thing but he wants to believe in fairy godmothers. He wants to believe in the shiny powder that they call pixie dust. He wants to believe in the magic that you do.

So when the glitter pours down on him, Mark shuts his eyes tightly and grips your hands with all his might. 

Mark wishes for your wish to come true,

Mark wishes for your happiness.

But most of all, Mark wishes to be yours.

Your next stop is quite the staple in the park and it’s a must-do on your list. Luckily, they all agree with you and suddenly, you are in line for the iconic teacups. For the summer, the wait isn’t too long–a mere fifteen minutes before it’s your group’s loading time. Before getting on the ride, the five of you decide to break into two groups instead of all squeezing into one tiny spice.

In their excitement, Karina and Donghyuck rush to claim a vehicle. Donghyuck lightly shoves Karina’s side when he realizes they are both aiming for the same cup, causing her to lose her balance. She groans once he hops into the pink teacup with hearts decorating the sides and scurries to grab another pink cup. 

“Why are you two like this?” You shout after them, shaking your head.

“When are we not like this?” Hyuck shouts back, his arms already spread across the rim of the cup. He calls you to join him and you do, closely followed by Mark.

Once you are seated and the door to the vehicle is closed, Donghyuck’s expression changes. “We need to spin this baby as fast as we can and we need to last longer than”–he sends a playful glare towards Jeno, whose hands are already resting on the wheel–“them.”

“Oh god, not this shit again,” you roll your eyes. 

The boys have an ongoing competition when it comes to spinning rides like these. Whoever spins for the longest period wins; the losers have to treat the winners to a prize of their choice. In the past, it’s been food, plushies, and anything else you can think of. 

“Can we just be normal for once?” 

“Bubs,” Mark laughs, “when are we ever normal?”

“Touche.”

Donghyuck dramatically drops his hands on the wheel, “Are you ready?”

There’s really no point in this competition. Although Jeno has a stronger build than you, Mark, or Donghyuck, there are only two of them in their cup as opposed to the three of you. There’s a clear winner. Despite that, you copy your mischievous friend’s actions,  a smile breaking through your unamused facade. “Alright, Hyuck.”

The spiel is blasted over the speakers, the music begins, and off you all go. Laughter surrounds you as the ride begins to spin. Your hands speedily make work and giggles spill out of your mouth when your hands pile on top of Donghyuck. Your friend matches your enthusiasm, his face crinkled in concentration as he turns the wheel, his whole body moving along with the teacup. You steal a glance at Jeno and Karina; seeing them only fueled your competitiveness and motivation to win this useless contest.

Mark, on the other hand, did not add to the spinning. He just watches his best friends, phone in hand. The device captures the most candid moments of you—smile wide enough to hear your laughter through the screen, hair flying in the wind, hands either gripping the wheel or Donghyuck when the cup goes a little too fast. 

Mark snaps a picture of you and Donghyuck cackling, bodies thrown over each other in the height of their fun. Even when your gorgeous smile is aimed at his best friend and not him, jealousy isn’t coursing through his veins. A warm feeling does instead—Mark just loves to see you happy.

He captures one last picture of you, your bright grin shining at him, and your hand reaching towards his camera. If someone were to play that Live Photo back, they would hear the giggles living in your voice as you call Mark’s name to join in on the fun.

This picture is the one he saves in his favorites folder and of course, in his heart.

✨ AVENGERS CAMPUS

“You’re nervous, aren’t you?” you ask Mark although the answer is obvious. Ever since you got in line, the boy beside you fidgeted with anything and everything possible. When he wasn’t playing with the keychains on your bag, he messed with the drawstrings of his cargo pants. He had a hard time staying still.

“No one asked you, Bubs," Mark hisses. His voice softens a moment later when he apologizes for snapping. The fussiness he exhibits is adorable in all kinds of ways and you fight the urge to mess with his hair in the meantime. You know it would only make him feel worse.

“It’s okay to be nervous, you know,” you reassure him as the people in front of you step forward. “It’s not every day you meet your childhood hero.”

“Isn’t this–I don’t know–a bit childish of me to feel like this? I mean, it’s just a guy in a suit.” 

“Hey,” you say, hating the way your best friend tried to bring himself down, “we’re here to let our inner child out. If you’re nervous or excited or whatever you’re feeling, just feel it.”

Mark sighs as the line moves again. “Right. You’re right.”

You laugh, ruffling his hair, “Aren’t I always?”

The boy groans, fingers immediately rising to fix his fringe. “Don’t mess it up, dude, it’s almost my turn.”

A soft giggle escapes your lips instead of an apology. You’re so fond of him. “You’re too cute.”

His cheeks flush with a bright red which only increases his cuteness factor. Mark, flustered as ever, opens his mouth to ask what you mean by that. His sentence is interrupted by the character attendant calling for the next person in line. Your best friend’s nerves are at an all-time high at this point and he looks to you for support.

You shake your head negatively and gesture to the phone in your hand. “This is all you, I have to take your pics!”

Mark sticks his tongue at you in retaliation before taking a deep breath. He approaches the awaiting figure with a cautiousness you’ve never seen from him. But with all due respect, Spider-Man is standing right there in front of him. If your favorite comic book and superhero character of all time stood in front of you, you’d probably react the same way. 

“H-hey,” Mark stutters out. You stifle a laugh as you snap the first picture of Mark and Spider-Man shaking hands.

“Hey, man, what’s your name?” Spider-Man greets enthusiastically. He gestures to Mark’s Spider-Man shirt, “Love the shirt.”

“It’s Mark,” he manages to say, “I’m a big fan. We just went on your ride and it was so cool.” Mark gestures to the building behind them, which housed the ride. It was an interactive ride that tasked the riders to help Spider-Man save the Avengers-themed area by shooting webs with motion-tracking technology. “My arm’s kinda tired though, I don’t think I could shoot webs like you.”

His rambling comment makes Spider-Man chuckle, his voice muffled through the red mask. “Yeah, I guess slinging webs isn’t for everyone. But hey, maybe if you train more, and go on the ride a few more times, you’ll be just as good as I am. We’re always looking to recruit new members to the team. You look like you’d be a great addition.”

Mark’s eyes glow with delight as the actor continues to shower him with compliments. “Yo, wait, that’d be so cool!”

“Should I show you some poses to start off with?” Spider-Man excitedly suggests. Mark easily complies and happily follows all the instructions the superhero gives him. While doing so, they stare right into your camera and you snap several photos of each pose. 

The joy radiating off of Mark’s face is enough to make your heart soar to a new height. The merriment he and your other friends exhibit as they make their way through the park is why you keep coming back. Disneyland brings everyone’s happiest self out and you will never grow tired of seeing people’s youthfulness shine through. 

“Got ‘em!” you shout from your place, giving the duo a thumbs up. 

You laugh as both of them return the thumbs up with a lightning-quick speed. Many people pointed out Mark’s speedy reactions, calling them his Spidey senses. Seeing Mark stand tall right next to Spider-Man himself, reacting the same way the character does, makes the term all the more fitting for your friend.

“Hey, you wanna jump in with us for a picture, too?” Spider-Man calls out to you. 

“Oh!” you exclaim, not expecting that at all. Your sole goal was to take Mark’s picture with his hero.  The thought of you joining in for a picture didn’t even cross your mind. “Sure, why not?” you grin, quickly handing the phone to the attendant on standby.

You swiftly shuffle into position, copying Spider-Man’s iconic pose, as the cast member takes a couple of shots on your phone. They prompt you to pose for the professional camera they have on hand as well and the three of you switch up your poses. The wide smile on your face is identical to Mark’s as the flash goes off. A feeling higher than contentment floods your entire being. You’re happy, incredibly so, to be in this moment with Mark and his hero.

You’re happy.

You see Mark dive right into another rambling burst with the prettiest little sparkle in his eye and you’re in love.

You’re happy and in love with Mark. 

Standing by for just a second, you see Spider-Man turn to you and nod his head in acknowledgment. Wordlessly, you open your arms to ask for a hug and the character accepts. “Thank you for making my Spidey’s day,” you whisper as Spider-Man squishes you to his side. “It means a lot to us.”

The actor catches onto the nickname and comments, “He’s your hero, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s my everything,” you confess under your breath and your face immediately heats up upon realizing what you said to a complete stranger.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” 

The moment passes so quickly, that Mark doesn’t even grasp that two of his favorite people held their own side conversation. You give Spider-Man one last wave, retreat back to the attendant who hands you your phone, and stand off to the side to swipe through the pictures. Mark stops his little rant to watch you with a slight tilt of his mouth.

“She’s a good one,” Spider-Man brings Mark out of his thoughts, “We could use a recruit like her too.”

“She’s really special,” Mark lets out a fond laugh as you happily show your friends the pictures you’ve captured. “She’s my MJ, man.”

The character beside him laughs, not out of ridicule, but because of the similarities the two of you share. “Does she know that?” 

“Nah,” Mark’s hair ruffles with the breeze as he shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Better let her know soon then,” he pats Mark on the back, gently pushing him in your direction. “And don’t let her go once you have her,” his hero adds as an afterthought. 

Mark turns back to give Spider-Man one last smile, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

Mark Lee doesn’t have you in the way that he wants to, at least not yet, but once he does, there is no way he is letting you out of his sight. He may be the one who carries the heroic nickname but you are the one who has caught him in your web of love. Wherever you go, you have his whole heart. 

You are his whole heart. 

How can Mark Lee ever live without his whole heart?

✨ CARSLAND / SH-BOOM

“Hurry up, hurry up!” you call to your exhausted friends, who drag their feet behind you. 

“But we’re tired,” Karina whines as her steps grow heavier. She’s stolen her boyfriend’s hat to beat the heat but has little luck doing so. Jeno, noting this, turns his portable fan to face her. She wearily smiles at him, squeezing the hand conjoined with hers to thank him.

Donghyuck echoes Karina’s sentiments but you ignore their complaints altogether.

There’s no time to slow down, you think, as you make note of the time. The sun is about to set and your group still hasn’t reached the spot you want–no, need–to be in. You understand their exhaustion because you feel the same way but deep down, you know the hustling will be worth their while. 

“You guys, just do what she says,” Mark comes to your defense, giving you a reassuring glance, “I mean, she hasn’t let us down this whole day. I’m sure whatever she’s rushing us for will be worth it.”

You weave and bob through the crowds with ease and your friends fall in line behind you. You pass through the entrance of Avengers Campus and lead them straight into Carsland. A mass of people are gathered at the entrance of the land and you cringe at how packed it is. But upon hearing Donghyuck gasp with excitement, you grin and bear it. In the past, your friend mentioned that Cars was one of his favorite childhood movies. Since you’ve found that out, you’ve gifted him a Lightning McQueen present every year for his birthday.

“Holy shit, bro, I’m in Radiator Springs,” Donghyuck clutches your arm, “This is the best thing ever.”

“Oh, believe me, Hyuckie, it gets even better,” you say, pulling your friend along with you. You giggle at his reactions to every little detail you point out–how everything is built to scale, that all visitors are meant to be cars, how every third blink of the traffic light is slower just like the movie–and his brown eyes widen in childlike wonder.

Once again, Mark stands back as you take care of Donghyuck. He appreciates all the thought you put into this trip–making sure you know everyone’s specific interests and adjusting the day’s itinerary to meet everyone’s wishes. Jeno wanted to get on every thrill ride possible, so you purchased the Lightning Lane express passes to guarantee he had a good time. Karina wanted to feel like a princess, so you took her to the Boutique to get pixie dusted and scheduled time in the Fantasyland area to take as many pictures as she wanted. You spent a bit of time in Avengers Campus so Mark could get the entire Spider-Man experience. And now, you’re expertly guiding Donghyuck through Radiator Springs, equally excited as your friend who’s experiencing everything for the first time.

When everyone else voiced how worn out they were throughout the long summer day, you kept the spirits up and took care of each and every one of them. You may have not outwardly mentioned how spent you were but Mark caught onto the signs. While you were busy tending to each person's wants and needs, Mark found himself taking care of you. You’ve done so much for the group, he wonders what exactly he could do in return.

“Alright, stop right here,” you stop in the middle of the land, granting the group the perfect view of the land, “and face this way.” 

“Why are we stopping? Isn’t the ride right there?” Donghyuck points to the end of the area. “I thought we were heading there.”

“Yeah,” you reply, “there’s something we gotta do first.”

“What’s everyone standing around for?” Jeno asks, hugging Karina from behind. 

The others take a look around to see that a large crowd has formed in this area of the park, all facing the same way. Everyone is eagerly waiting for the same thing you are, their phones propped up in the air. You take another peek at your weather app and it deems it around one minute before sunset. Perfect. 

“Well, my good sir, you are about to find out,” you answer cryptically.

You squeeze Donghyuck’s hand. “You ready, Hyuck?”

“For wha–” His sentence is cut off by the area loop music increasing in volume. Everyone around you cheers as Sh-Boom by The Chords starts to blast through the speakers. “Oh my god.”

The rest of Donghyuck’s sentence is trapped between his teeth as the neon lights, starting from the furthest point of the area, begin to light up. It’s an exact replica of the movie, the lights flickering on with the beat of the old-time music. The bright lights resemble your friends’ expressions, the giddiness of experiencing this iconic moment apparent on their faces. Donghyuck is practically glowing with childlike wonder, bouncing on the balls of his feet. You snap a photo of him as he continues to take it in. Jeno sways Karina back and forth, his arms wrapped around his girlfriend’s waist and chin resting on her shoulder as she records the whole thing.

Smiling, you turn to look at Mark whose eyes are solely trained on you. His phone is in hand, aimed in your direction, and you assume he took a picture of the lit-up signs behind you. “Isn’t it so pretty?” you ask, hands gesturing to the entire area.

Mark’s gaze doesn’t falter, doesn’t leave you when he answers, “It’s the prettiest.”

A heat spreads to all parts of your face and body at his flirtatious response. You turn away from him, too embarrassed to meet his soft stare. “It’s one of my favorite times of the day. My family always came here at sunset just to watch it. It’s fun watching everyone’s reactions and seeing people dance to the music, like them”–you point to a dancing couple, the man spinning his partner and the woman laughing gleefully–“I dunno, it just makes me happy.”

“I can see why,” Mark chuckles.

Your gaze lingers on the duo and Mark spots a look of longing in your eyes. Your best friend sees a chance, one as clear as day, and with all the bravado he can muster, Mark takes it. He tugs you towards him and you gasp at the sudden movement.

“What?” you whisper.

Mark sticks out a hand for you to take and bashfully says, “Dance with me.”

“What?” you repeat in shock, eyes dropping from his face to his outstretched hand.

“You heard what I said,” your best friend chuckles, “Dance with me.”

Instead of waiting for a response from you, Mark takes your palm in his and gently places his other hand around your waist. Your breath catches in your throat, anxious eyes meeting his own, and the boy shoots you a reassuring smile. He takes the lead, guiding you through a few swing steps as you dance on the street. You’re a little unfocused through it all, your mind wandering from the warmth of his touch to his unfaltering look. 

“Have you always known how to swing?” you ask as he leads you into a spin.

Mark dances with an ease you don’t expect from his clumsy self. You’re used to his harder, sharper style of dancing he exhibits when you all go out dancing–the lighter style catching you completely off-guard. It makes you fall for your best friend a little more than you already have.

He nods as he catches you in his arms before turning you around again. “Yeah, I learned from watching my parents dance. I only really danced with my mom, though. I guess I was just–” Mark coughs, shaking his head.

“Just what?” You egg him on, wanting to hear what your crush has to say.

“No, never mind, it’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” you quip.

“Nah, it’s stupid,” Mark tries to dismiss it, distracting you with another spin.

With him being the perfect leader, your sneaker-clad feet move in time with him, following wherever he goes. “Nothing you say is going to be stupid,” you add, squeezing his palm.

You know you’ve won the argument when Mark sighs. He’s so close to you now, you can feel his breath hit your face. There’s a hint of fresh spearmint, coming from the gum you offered him earlier. Any closer and your lips can press right into his, completing the romantic moment that you could only dream about. 

Mark gulps nervously as you look up at him with confusion. The words come tumbling out before he can stop himself from making a fool, “I guess I was just waiting for the right partner.”

There’s more to Mark’s sweet reply than meets the eye. Once again, you burn up at the implications. You shouldn’t assume the meaning behind your crush’s words but something about the way he said it makes you believe that you are the partner he is waiting for. To be deemed worth waiting for is a girl’s deepest fantasy and your heart swells in your chest at the thought of it all.

Despite the rapid thoughts running through your head, the only thing you can spit out is a quiet, “Oh.” 

Mark renders you speechless at the favorite part of the day and in your favorite place in the entire world; he pockets this as a big win. With his warm hand resting at your waist and the other clutching your calm, Mark leads you into a flurry of sequential moves. Never once does he bump into another person in the crowd, he navigates through the small space you’re granted so gracefully. Dancing with him brings you to such a natural high, you feel lighter than air. 

The laughter that spills from your lips fills his heart with joy and as the song reaches its end, the arm at your waist tightens enough to usher you into a dip. As your torso lowers, his body follows your own. He keeps you in this position, his pretty brown eyes glued onto your shaking pupils. He’s so near, that your sight triangulates from his eyes down to his grinning lips. You notice the pink that tickles his skin, from his squishy cheeks to his pierced ears.

As Mark pulls you back up, you circle your arms around his neck and give him the biggest hug in existence. You whisper a light and heartfelt, “thank you,” in his ears and Mark responds by pulling you closer.

While the song that played through the speakers announced, “Life could be a dream,” Mark Lee deems that his life already is. To him, his life is a dream and that’s because you’re in it. 

✨ FIREWORKS

The sun has set and your entire group is tired but the day’s not quite over yet. The five of you are amongst the throng of people seated on the asphalt, bodies splayed in all sorts of configurations. Karina and Jeno are in front of you, whispering happily as they go through all of their pictures together. Donghyuck has no problem taking a nap on the floor, using some plastic bags as his makeshift mattress and Karina’s new plushie as a pillow. Mark, on the other hand, is seated on your right and silently playing a game on his phone. 

The extent of your tiredness didn’t hit until you sat on the floor, a groan leaving your mouth as you fought to find a comfortable position. The ground really isn’t the best place to sit but you have to camp out for the best view of the castle and the fireworks. You find yourself hugging your legs and resting your face on your knees to keep yourself warm. The weather is a lot cooler than it was earlier in the day and the slight breeze has you shivering. 

“You okay?” Mark asks, still looking at his phone.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“You keep moving around like you’re uncomfortable or something,” Mark pauses his game and notices the goosebumps on your skin, “Bubs, are you cold?”

“Yeah, just a little bit but I’ll deal with it.” You leave out the fact that you’re tempted to buy a sweater from a gift shop, just as you do every single time you get cold in the parks. It’s an expensive tradition you need to break. Plus, there’s no more room in your closet for more cozy crewneck sweaters. 

Another quiver runs through your body as the winds blow through the area. Mark frowns as you tighten the grip around your legs. He immediately shrugs off the zip-up he wore, draping it around your curled-up shoulders. The warmth of the fabric combined with the smell of his cologne hits you all at once. 

“Mark, I told you I’m okay,” you pout at him as he gets up from his spot. He stops you from taking it off, his palms firm on your back. “You’re gonna get cold.”

He disagrees, pulling the hood over your head. “Nah, I run hot anyway. I don’t want you to get sick or anything so just leave it on, okay?”

“But–”

“For me?” Mark pushes. He smiles when you pout even further, knowing there’s no way you can beat him in this conversation. “That’s my girl,” he adds, a hand coming to cup the back of your neck. A sudden urge comes over him and before he even places what he's doing, Mark plants a tiny kiss on the top of your head. You feel the slight pressure of his lips between the fabric and your head is reeling the second he pulls back.

“I’ll be right back,” Mark whispers before setting off into the crowd.

You’re frozen in place, the ability to respond nonexistent in your mind. You simply watch as he fades away and then, the shyest smile breaks through. There are no clouds left in the sky but you’re officially on Cloud 9, your heart beating rapidly in your chest, and your face buried into the sleeve ends of his jacket.  

True to his word, your best friend returns fifteen minutes later with a plastic bag in one hand and a hot drink in the other. Mark pulls out the coziest Disney-themes blanket you have ever seen, folds it in half, and then places it onto the floor. He motions for you to sit on it and you smile even wider. “Better?” he asks as you settle crisscross on the soft fabric. 

A relieved sigh slips past your lips as the soft material rubs against your skin. “So much better.”

Mark plops himself right beside you. His bare arm presses against yours in an attempt to fit on the blanket. There’s lots of space left but you don’t mind, snuggling right up to his side. He chuckles at your action, draping his arm around your hoodie-clad shoulders to pull you closer. “Got you a hot chocolate too, passed by the cafe across from the gift shop,” your crush gently places the drink in your hands.

“You really didn’t have to,” you mutter, hiding your smile behind the drink.

“Wanted to.” 

“Thanks,” you reply in between your tiny sips.

“Anything for you, Bubs.”

With his arm around you and your body cozied up to his side, the time passes quickly. You’re in your own world, your quiet conversations drowned out by the chatter of the large crowd surrounding the castle area. The cocoa is passed back and forth between his hand and yours, an indirect kiss shared each either of you takes a sip. You laugh over things that happened throughout the day, from Mark’s burnt tongue to all the hideous ride pictures your friends took while wholeheartedly enjoying themselves. 

When Mark takes a big sip, you crack an unexpected joke that leaves him choking on the drink. Your roaring laughter attracts the attention of the others around you but you are so into Mark, you don’t even notice.  He’s a sputtering mess, with the hot drink all over his cheeks and hands. You help him through it, one hand patting his back and the other reaching up to wipe away the liquid with his sleeve. 

“You’re so silly,” you whisper fondly as your thumb rubs against his soft cheek.

“No, you just caught me off guard,” Mark replies, nuzzling into your hand. The moment feels a little too intimate, especially when his fingers reach up to connect with yours, but you don’t want it to end. It finally feels like something good is happening. It feels like the dream you’ve kept deep in your heart is coming true and you don’t want to fight it. 

You pay no attention to the way your friends are staring knowingly at you like this was all meant to happen. Your eyes are solely trained on Mark and how he holds you so delicately as if you were a bubble about to burst. Mark keeps you tucked into him until the five-minute before the fireworks announcement blasts through the speakers. 

Mark is the first to get up off the blanket and you hate how easily he does so. The feeling of pins and needles travel down your legs as you try to get up. You moan in pain, struggling to get up. When you finally rise from the ground, your knees buckle and you lose your balance. A little noise slips out as you stumble, your clumsiness almost leading you straight into another person. Strong hands from behind immediately fly to your hips to keep you steady and you fall right back into Mark’s sturdy chest. 

His hands remain at your hips as you turn to look at him. You mumble an apology and he clutches your waist a little harder. “Who’s the silly one now, huh?”

“Shut up.”

Even as the moment ends, Mark’s hands stay in place. The only movement he makes is a minuscule tug that molds you into his chest. He hears no complaints from you, just a pleased little sigh, that signals you’re one hundred percent okay with what is happening. 

The surrounding lights dim, projections on the castle come alive, and music that could only be described as magical begins to play. It’s the scene of your dreams–you are in the hold of someone you love as fireworks light up the sky. The show’s just begun and here you are, wishing you can stay in this moment forever.

Seeing as how he’s made it this far, Mark puts on his bravest face and circles his arms around your waist. You hum in approval, resting your hands right above his. He replies by tangling his digits with yours and you smile so widely, it’s brighter than the pyrotechnics shooting off above you. 

The soundtrack isn’t new to you; it’s the show the park features every summertime, so you find yourself humming along to every section and transition that passes. By the time the love-themed section bleeds through the sound system and the castle glows with pinks and reds, you tell your best friend, “This is my favorite part.”

He says nothing in response, too busy admiring you instead of the show. Mark rests his chin on your shoulder, his gaze directed at the side of your face. He takes in the sight of the glow the lights cast on you, your lips curled up as you mouth each and every lyric.

It’s quite obvious that he’s staring at you. Even if you didn’t catch him from the corner of your eye, you feel Mark’s steady breath hit your neck and cheek. Your entire body radiates heat upon this realization. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to calm the hopeless romantic inside you. 

You want to look at him, you really do, but you’re scared of what will follow after you meet Mark’s eyes. But when he whispers about your favorite song playing, your heart swells at his great memory, and you turn. 

The tip of Mark’s nose grazes yours after your sudden movement. You’re right there, less than a breath away from him, and his eyes are filled with immense tenderness. In your years of knowing Mark Lee, you’ve never seen him look at another person the way he’s looking at you at this moment. It’s a look filled with endearment and affection, leaving your heart swelling in your chest. 

You barely hear the boom of the fireworks shooting off, not when Mark’s eyes flitter down to your parted lips. He’s captivated your heart and soul, you can’t help but nudge your nose against his as you inch closer. It’s a silent signal, one he understands without further explanation. Your best friend shuts his eyes, calls upon the glittery pixie dust that sits in his hair and makes his final wish of the night. He wishes for the strength to make his next move. 

Mark’s soft lips touch yours most delicately; the press is merely there, and it throws you for a loop. The kiss makes you so incredibly giddy, that you turn your head even more and your hand anchors itself to his cheek. It keeps you steady as he dives in for seconds, this one more eager than the first. With your favorite love song in the background and the fireworks booming in the distance, you are happier than ever.

You are so happy that your wide grin and little giggles cause Mark to break away for a short moment. He plants another peck amid your laughter and soon he’s chuckling too. The arms around your waist lock you in place as he burrows into the crook of your neck, placing the tiniest kiss where your pulse hammers against your skin. 

Mark’s feet are on the ground but he feels like he’s flying. His heart has grown wings, allowing him to soar to new heights. He feels like he can touch every little star in the sky. Kissing you in this land of make-believe, underneath the fireworks, feels like a miracle and he fears that he will never come down again.

He’s pretty sure the gleam in your eyes mirrors his own. It’s so pretty and bright and magical–it encompasses all the emotions stirring in his chest. They start from his heart, bubble up through his neck, and the words he’s been meaning to say spill out as a crescendo booms throughout the area. “You’re my wish come true.”

Turning in his hold, you circle your arms around his neck. You draw him closer, your lips ghosting against his to say, “And you are mine,” before closing the sentence with another kiss. 

You’ve always loved fairytale endings–how the prince always gets the princess at the end of the story. When he grins against your lips, you realize you’ve been in one the entire time. The story of you and Mark is more than a dream that filled your head. It’s more than something you wished upon a star for. Your story is the slowest burn that led to the greatest happy ending. 

All it needed was a little faith, trust, and a whole lot of pixie dust.

TAGLIST. (tagging my gen taglist and friends that I think will be interested in it hehehe) @winwintea @johtenrecs @lavendersuh @itsapapisongo @nctsworld @hotdogct @smileysuh @suhnnyskiess @jaemdonuts @haetrack @bat-shark-repellant @bebsky

FINAL PARK ANNOUNCEMENT. Hey everyone! Long time no post. I think the last time I posted a fic was in either December or January? I'm happy to be back for a hot second. This fic was inspired by many things: Mark calling his fans "his MJ," my personal visits to Disneyland over the years, and especially the trips I've gone on with friends that I've met on this site. Hehehe. I really hope you all enjoy this rainbow of magic and fluff. Please let me know what you think of it. Your feedback keeps me going! Love always, Nikki <3

© SEHUNNIEPOTWRITES, 2024

[sir20]

Miss Géraldine, a portrait in film at the Tropicana, Ibiza by sir20

[angelxd-3303]

TW: mention of starvation and med stuff!

Knee deep in the transformers autism, I can't help but wonder what would happen if the TFP group was found by like an Autobot ship or something, and then proceed to get put on mandatory sick leave because they're all in varying states of starvation due to low resources, and the team has to cope with suddenly taking a backseat and having to let other Autobots take on the Decepticons after handling it alone for so long.

Like, Optimus is losing his mind because the ship captain and generals keep shooing him out of meetings and telling him to just relax. Ratchet huffing and pouting because the medical staff insist that he stop limiting his Energon intake because he no longer 'needs' to go without to make sure there's enough. Arcee goes stir crazy when she's not allowed to go on patrols and is ordered to focus on recovering. Bumblebee is frazzled when he finds fellow scouts who are all fascinated by him and wanna be friends. Bulkhead has a crisis because if he's not breaking stuff, he's just useless, right?

Bonus points if cybertronians actually have a wide variety of foods, and when poor Op has a near meltdown in the cafeteria because choosing from so many options after only having plain liquid Energon is overwhelming as heck, the humans realize just how rough their bots have had it. Raf and June panicking during the mandatory medical exam when the doctors ordered immediate bed rest and an IV for Ratchet because he restricted his Energon intake so much his systems have started shutting down.

The Autobots being given the equivalent of small hotel rooms on the ship and feeling awkward in the space. Not knowing what to do with their own kitchen, being surprised by the inclusion of personal washracks, and the beds being far too soft after recharging on metal slabs.

Bonus x2 if the bots try to sleep in separate quarters, but the rapid changes leave them stressed and unable to rest. It starts with Bumblebee carrying a yawning Raf up to Ratchet's door and knocking timidly. IV hooked up to his arm, Ratchet sighs when he sees them and ushers the scout in. Then Arcee shows up with Jack in tow. She was just worried about Ratchet, she's just here to check on him!

Sure thing, he says, patting the couch on the side that isn't taken up by a sleepy Bumblebee. Bulkhead finds them cuddling on the couch, and Miko very quickly joins her human friends in curling up on Ratchet's chest. By the time Optimus sheepishly appears, everyone is in a half-asleep daze. That's how they're found the next morning; a medic checking in on Ratchet finds the entire team in a big cuddle pile on the floor in front of the couch. They smile fondly, check on his IV, then leave the exhausted team to rest.

Because Primus knows they've earned it.

Feel free to do something with this idea, I'd actually love to see how others interpret the concept!

[yuikomorii]

AYAYUI IDOL AU: Chapter 6

// This might be one of my favorite chapters I’ve written so far! I tried to blend some fun with a bit of seriousness, so I really hope you’ll enjoy it. It’s kinda SPICY at some point, hehehe. I know it takes me a while to post new chapters, but I promise I haven’t forgotten about this fanfic, sometimes I just don’t have enough time. T-T

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

— Ayato opens the door —

Ayato: Haa… What happened?

Chief: Come with me! It’s about Subaru-san!

Ayato: Subaru?

Yui: ( Eh? That’s Ayato-san’s co-worker, right? I hope it’s nothing bad…! )

Place: Reception

Manager: Unfortunately, the cooking contest, as well as the filming, will be stopped for today.

Subaru-san picked a dish to make with one of the girls here, but he didn’t know it had garlic in it. After tasting it, he started feeling sick—bad enough that he had to throw up.

Ayato: Damn it…

Yui: ( Come to think of it... he’s in a group with a vampire concept and he has garlic intolerance. I can’t help but find this a bit ironic. )

( Still, poor Subaru-san... get well soon. )

Ayato: I’m going to check——

Manager: Don’t. Subaru-san is most likely resting now. He needs sleep more than anything after what happened.

Ayato: Tch… fine. But let me know when he wakes up!

Manager: Once he wakes up, I'll ask him to contact you. In the meantime, since you two share a room, I’d appreciate it if Ayato-san could spend his time elsewhere in the hotel.

Ayato: ( Did I indirectly get kicked out—? )

Well, whatever. But where exactly am I supposed to go?

Chief: Actually, now that the contest's cancelled and the other team is not present anymore, the onsen is completely free for you!

Ayato: Heh, is that so?

Chief: Y-Yes, but... since you, mister, are a celebrity, I’ll need to look for a private key first.

Can’t have fans fainting in the hallway if they see you half-dressed, right?

Ayato: Pfft, true… wouldn’t want to cause a stampede in a towel. But hurry up then. The sooner I’m in the hot water, the better~!

— Chief nods and starts searching —

Yui: ( I feel like I’m just a third wheel at this point, so it might be better if I quietly leave too. )

( Besides, my job is supposed to be done for today… and Ayato-san probably wants some space anyway.)

Chief: Wait! I almost forgot about Komori-san!

Yui: Hm? What’s with me?

Chief: Since you were Ayato-san’s cooking partner, the original deal included you getting a chance to use the onsen too, no?

I’ll find a key for you too, in case you want privacy! Just give me a sec——

Yui: …!

( Eh—!? Me? In the onsen? With Ayato-san still around? That’s…! )

Chief: Here they are~!

— hands them the keys —

But I should also mention... because the onsen is a relatively new feature of the hotel, we only have one single room so far. So, uhm... it would be great if you two wouldn’t go at the same time.

— Yui blushes —

Yui: ( Just one onsen... but what if we truly run into each other? )

Ayato: Alright, I’ll go there right now. You can go after I’m done, ‘kay?

I’m not exactly in the mood to wait around, so I’ll make it quick, no worries.

Yui: S-Sure, take your time.

Ayato: Will do~

— takes key and leaves —

*timeskip*

Yui: ( I wonder if he’s done by now… it’s already been three hours. )

— looks at clock —

( Yeah… I suppose he must be. I should start getting my things ready. )

— walks over to her bag and gets her towel —

( I hope the water helped him relax. He did seem tense after all… )

— leaves room —

Place: Onsen Entrance

Yui: ( It’s so quiet... he definitely left, didn’t he? )

( A-Anyway, I should knock or say something, just in case. )

*Knock Knock*

Uhm… Ayato-san? Are you still there?

*Knock Knock*

( No answer once again… )

— tries the handle —

( It’s locked? )

( Ah, he most likely locked it after he left, right? Yeah… that must be it. There’s no way he’d still be inside after all this time. )

— opens door with key and gets inside —

( Just as I thought, nobody’s here! )

— locks door —

( Hehe, time to finally relax! )

— starts unbuttoning her clothes —

( This indoor onsen is way bigger than I thought… The ceiling’s high, the walls are lined with smooth stone, and the pool is so huge that it almost covers the whole room! )

( No wonder the second one isn’t finished yet. This must’ve taken forever to build. The attention to detail alone is amazing! )

— slowly gets into water —

Ah~ so warm…!

( And to think they let me use this… I guess being partnered with Ayato-san really came with some unexpected perks, fufu. )

— stretches —

( So good… I feel like I could instantly fall as—— )

* Ring Ring *

( Eh!? Someone’s calling? )

— her eyes snap open—

( Wait! That’s... that’s not my ringtone? )

( Don’t tell me—! )

Ayato: “Haa... What is it this time?”

Yui: ...!

( That voice… it’s coming from the other side of the divider! )

( No… no, it can’t be— )

Ayato: “Yeah, it’s just me, why? Heh, so he finally woke up? Damn, can’t blame him though, since I had a pretty long nap too. So how is he feeling?”

“Oh, understandable. You took mine too? Mhm, it’s better this way.”

Yui: ( He… He’s been here the entire time…! )

( If he finds out I’m in the same onsen while he’s still inside, I’ll surely get in troubles! )

( What if he thinks I planned this!? )

Ayato: ( Ugh, my phone's dying.)

"I'll call you again, just need to find an outlet for my charger, 'kay?"

Yui: ( Ah, he's coming this way...! )

— gets underwater —

Ayato: ( Now where are the outlets supposed to be? Can’t see any at all. )

Yui: ( Did he leave? I don’t know how much longer I can hold my breath… )

( The water is so hot too…! )

Ayato: ( Whatever. I’ll just leave it like this for now. )

( More importantly… what is that? )

— gets closer —

Yui: ( Uuh… this pressure…! )

( I… I can’t… brea—— )

*SPLASH*

Ayato: Care to explain what the hell you’re doing here?

Yui: Aya…——

— faints —

Ayato: Fuck…!

— pulls her out of water —

*timeskip*

— Yui starts coughing —

Yui: Ngh... ah... I-I'm alive!

( But wait… why can’t I move? )

— eyes widen —

( No way! I'm tied to a bamboo stick!? )

Ayato: Finally awake, huh.

Yui: A-Ayato-san!

— face turns red —

( I-I can’t even cover myself...! This is beyond embarrassing! )

( To think that he really went as far as to tie me up… that’s completely unreasonable! )

Yui: D-Don’t look at me like that!

Ayato: Tch. You're in no position to tell me what to do.

Besides, you should be grateful I didn’t report you. Most people would’ve called the cops by now, don’t you think?

Yui: I-It’s not like I did it on purpose! I merely assumed you left! The door was locked, and… and I had a the key too, so… it’s just a misunderstanding, I swear!

Ayato: A misunderstanding, huh?

Tell me then, did you even bother checking the whole room before stripping down? If you had, you would've definitely noticed I was still here.

Yui: That’s… I can’t argue with that. But I truly didn’t have any bad intentions, I was just careless!

Ayato: And why should I believe you’re not just some stalker?

You know I’m famous. You’ve listened to my music and watched my MVs—based on what you said in the kitchen. And then there's the fact that, when we first met, you acted like you didn’t recognize me at all. Even though you're working at Yume no Mori, the very hotel that’s known for hosting events for idols.

And now, after everything, you somehow end up in the onsen at the exact same time as me?

Wherever I go, you just happen to show up too. So tell me, how do you think that looks from my perspective?

Yui: I-I think you must be mixing me up with someone else. When did I even pretend not to recognize you, Ayato-san?

Ayato: Haa… When you handed me that bottle of water outside the club, you moron!

Yui: Eh?

( What is he talking a— wait a second! The bottle of water…? )

…!

— eyes widen in shock —

( No way! Ayato-san… he was the boy I met on my very first night in Tokyo!? )

( The one who had a chest ache… who paid for my taxi… That was him! )

Ayato: Now quit playing dumb, it’s crystal clear you coming here was not an accident.

So what’s the deal with you? Are you really that desperate to get a glimpse of my body? Or is this just part of some sick little obsession you’ve got going on? Either way, it’s disgusting!

Yui: N-No! You got it wrong! I didn’t even know it was you that night!

I just saw someone who looked like they needed help, so I offered some water… that’s all!

And as for me being here... I didn’t come chasing after you or doing anything weird! I got this job through a work exchange program. It was all just a coincidence, not some plan to follow you around!

Ayato: Tch, when will you stop lying?

Yui: But I’m not!

Ayato: ( She’s not only dumb, but also got a damn big mouth. )

Fine, I’ll believe you.

Yui: ( Phew, thanks goodness… I really thought I got him mad. )

Ayato: But don’t start celebrating just yet. I’ve got a condition.

Yui: ( That tone… It’s never good when someone says "but there’s a condition" like that. )

Uuh… what kind of condition?

Ayato: Simple. You don’t tell anyone that you saw me at a private club that night. Not your friends, not your family, not your coworkers, not even your boss—no one.

— gets closer —

Actually, I want you to forget the whole thing. Erase it from your memory. You didn’t see me alone in Tokyo, and you sure as hell didn’t hand me a bottle of water in some alleyway.

Yui: ( That’s it? )

Yes, I promise.

Ayato: You better keep that promise, because if word gets out that I was in such a place, especially unguarded, it’ll stir up more trouble than you can imagine. One stupid rumor, and my entire career could take a hit. You get that, don’t you?

Yui: I-I do.

Ayato: Good. Then zip it and stop following me around. Or next time I won’t be this generous.

( I already took pictures of her in here. If she ever decides to snitch on me, I’ll make sure she goes down too. )

— unties her —

Yui: …!

Than——

Ayato: Don’t thank me. Just go put some clothes on. Then leave the onsen immediately.

— Yui nods —

Yui: ( He's scary when he's like this… But I guess I can't really blame him, can I?)

( It was stupid of me to come in without checking properly... so, I suppose it was indeed my fault. )

( To think he’s the boy I met that night after I first arrived in Tokyo... that truly caught me off guard. )

( Just what kind of person are you really, Ayato-san? )

I-I’m done!

Ayato: And why are you telling me this? You expecting an award or something?

Just unlock the damn door and leave already.

— Yui starts searching key —

Yui: ( Now where did I put it? I know I had the key when I came in… maybe it slipped into the towel?)

— checks towel —

( Oh no… it's not here either? Don’t tell me I dropped it somewhere in the changing area? Or worse… in the water!? )

Hey… Ayato-san? I… I can’t really seem to find my key, so could you maybe lend me yours…? J-Just for a second! I promise I’ll give it back right away!

Ayato: ( Seriously!? First she breaks in, then she nearly drowns, and now this? )

You're telling me you managed to lose a single key in a closed room in less than two hours?

Yui: Uhh… I must’ve dropped it somewhere without noticing...

Ayato: Haa…

— pulls out his key —

I guess if you beg nicely, I might give it to you.

Yui: B-Beg!?

Ayato: …Or do you wanna stay locked in here all night and explain yourself to the hotel staff tomorrow?

Yui: No, no!

Ayato: Good, then be a good dog and do as I tell you.

Yui: ( A dog, huh…? If that’s what you really want… )

— sits on all fours and looks at him —

Ayato: …!?

Yui: P-Please, give me the——

Ayato: You… you obscene bitch!

Yui: Eh?

( Wait what? )

Ayato: ( What the hell is wrong with her!? To sit on all fours in front of a man who’s only wearing a towel… did she want to suck me off!? )

Leave me alone already!!!

Yui: But I—

Ayato: I-I said leave me alone!

— shoves her out then shuts the door —

Yui: Ayato-san…

Yui’s monologue

So many things happened today… It’s almost overwhelming trying to piece them all together.

From carrying the luggage, to cooking with Ayato-san… and then—

The onsen. That whole incident. My heart still hasn’t stopped racing…

I came to Tokyo with simple intentions: to work, to learn, and to make new friends.

And yet…

The boy I met on my first night here and the one I couldn't stop thinking about…

He turned out to be Ayato. Ayato, the frontman of SAKAMAKIS. A name everyone knows. A face on billboards.

Someone so far removed from my world, it's really laughable to think we’d ever cross paths again—

Yet we did.

But instead of a reunion, it felt like rejection.

I made a mistake… and now he sees me as nothing more than a nuisance. Maybe even worse.

I keep telling myself that it shouldn’t matter. That it’s impossible for an ordinary person to get closer to an idol.

But then…

Why am I crying now?

[hederasgarden]

I can’t stop thinking about Scott x Tyler’s young sister! Reader. Like she’s all bubbly and sweet offering him food, and he starts to feel guilty over being so condescending towards their group. Maybe like he comes to her hotel room one day to apologize (kinda like Tyler bringing Kate that pizza) and they just start to bond. Anyways Scott has such a chokehold on me

Scott seems to have a chokehold on a lot of us. I’m not sure what it is about a mean, 6'4" engineer, but I feel like I could fix him (though I probably couldn’t).

Thank you so much for sharing your idea with me!

Since I strive to be as inclusive as possible, I usually avoid writing readers who are directly related to another character. That’s to ensure that everyone can insert themselves into my stories. However, it would certainly be hilarious to see Tyler come unglued when he finds out his little sister is shacking up with the resident asshole.

I do like this concept for a reader who Tyler and co adopt as their little sister so we get the same protective vibes.

Scott would be annoyed and confused by her, simply because being happy and positive all the time is not how he operates. I love the idea of him being really awful to the reader, only to realize—after he’s driven her away—that he actually liked having her around. (Please don't ask who hurt me in the past for this be a sexy plot point for me, okay?)

He’d be the most awkward apologizer, standing there rubbing the back of his neck and sort of half-insulting her in the process. He would likely bring a peace offering, something specific he’s seen her eating because, at the end of the day, he is a smart and observant guy.

The reader would just stand there, perplexed, until she finally asks, “Are you trying to apologize to me?”

“Yeah,” Scott replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh….you're like dumb smart, huh?" She says with a laugh. "Well, I forgive you."

Scott would stand there, looking surly, until she invites him to have some pizza and watch a movie.

[jamminvroomvroom]

our secret moments.

ln x fem!reader // childhood friend to lovers

in which you’re friends. best friends. but then you buy a dress for him to take off.

this one is for you guys. thank you for inspiring this, my beloved dress anons. i hope you guys love this as much as i do, and that i got it right for you! obsessed with the concepts and brain rot that went into this aaaaaaa lemme know what you think i beg <3 also sorry if the formatting gets weird, trying out smau elements again :D

songs to set the mood: DRESS by taylor swift

warnings: 18+!! minors dni! smut, oblivious friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst, mutual pining, general sex acts, language, an argument

5.6k words

-

your dress sparkles like a mirrorball as the lights flash along the strip.

vegas week begins with a bang; it’s the night of lando’s 24th birthday. the name of your dad’s company is plastered all over the city, as it usually is wherever there’s a race weekend. a round of golf leads to dinner plans and you get dressed up nice with your girlfriends.

you’re almost ready when lando texts you, your friends giving you a look that you brush off when they see the papaya heart next to his name. you tell him you’ll all be ready soon, that’ll you meet him and the boys in the lobby.

high heels sound against the marble floor of the hotel. you walk confidently, tall, scanning for the group of men you’ll be spending the evening with. you spot max fewtrell first, your dear friend here for the occasion, and then ash, who has his back to you. it’s because he’s talking to lando, your best friend, the man that made you fly in to sin city a week earlier than you would have liked.

he’s looking at you before you even see him, watching you walk towards him over ash’s shoulder. he’s checked out from the conversation the second he spots you, glittering under the chandeliers. he can’t breathe, because you’re wearing a dress that renders him somewhere between life and death.

but you’re getting closer, and max, who can see the look on lando’s awestruck face, nudges him so hard in the ribs. he forces himself to inhale, smile, keep breathing.

“good evening, mr norris.” you grin, squeezing his shoulder. “we starting with slots or drinks?”

both is the agreed upon answer, and you let loose in the casino. you watch him roll the dice at one of the game tables, and suddenly, you’re twelve years old again, playing board games on the floor of a hotel room, while your dads talk at the bar downstairs.

your father is, perhaps, the worlds biggest motorsport fan. he’d been sponsoring different series’ since you were little, and he hadn’t stopped expanding as you’d gotten older. that’s how you’d met lando, aged ten years old with braids in your hair, covered in mud, somewhere in the english countryside. you’d been going to kart races since you could walk, and you were sure from the first time you spoke to the small british boy that you’d be destined to meet him. he’d left a mark on you that day, something golden; he radiated sunshine.

your friendship flowed like wine over the years, nice and easy. time on the road with your father meant that lando was the friend you saw the most, and it stayed that way throughout your teenage years. lando’s step up into formula 1 was paired very well with your dad’s investment into mclaren, and five years later, you rarely missed a race.

lando was so easy to be friends with that it was only natural that he was just as easy to love. platonically. you loved him platonically. it was easy to have late night dinner’s with him in his hotel room, easy to walk around the cities you visited with him until your legs hurt, easy to fall asleep on his bed after a netflix binge. so when he told you to pack your bags and be in vegas, it was like he’d pulled an invisible string, because of course, that’s where you would be.

your friend is waving her hand in front of your face when you finally snap out of it. you’ve been staring across the room for god knows how long, and now the girls are laughing at you.

okay, so maybe it’s not just platonically, but you’d rather die than admit it.

“still gonna tell us there’s nothing between you?” nancy, one of your closest friends, teases. your other friend, mia, is giggling beside her. they’d both flown out for the race as well, and had spent the last two years helplessly watching you fall harder and faster.

“shut up,” you whine. “he’s my-“

“best friend.” they both cut you off in unison, mockingly. nancy rolls her eyes.

“he is!” you protest, waving them off.

you leave them in the dust to join the lads at the table. lando’s arm is draped over your shoulder the second you arrive.

“lost your millions yet?” you whisper into his ear. he tuts in response, knowing grin on his face.

“you have no faith in me, honey.” he bumped your hip with his as he spoke.

the game continues, and somehow, much to your surpise, lando gets richer. the walk from the casino to the club is short, and soon enough, you’re drunk and sweating under strobe lights. rounds and rounds of shots disappear and you sink deeper and deeper into the booth you’d reserved.

you let the music thrum through your body, closing your eyes in contentment. a knee nudges yours, and you open your eyes to see lando sliding into the booth next to you. he hands you a drink, and you mouth him a thank you.

“got your eye on anyone here?” lando’s head is resting in the crook of your neck when he asks. it’s obviously just so that you can hear him.

you pull back from him, scanning his face for a moment, really taking him in. the slope of his nose, curls matted on his forehead, grey blue eyes that you swear flit to your lips for just a second. just a brief second. you smile, soft and tired.

“nope.” you mouth back to him. “you?”

lando returns your smile, mirroring you perfectly. he shakes his head.

it’s around 3:30am when you crave the sweet release of sleep. your feet are aching and your head is throbbing. no questions are asked when lando offers you a piggyback ride.

you ignore the way your friends look at you both when he carries you up to your room.

youruser just posted on instagram

liked by: landonorris, yourfriendnancy, yourfriendmia, maxfewtrell and 378,654 others

youruser: sin city for nozza’s birthday

user: are they together?

otheruser: mother?

landonorris: lost millions.

user2: the photo of the dress next to the photos of lando? she’s tryna tell us something i think.

and 444 other comments

-

you ignore the nausea pooling in the pit of your belly.

apparently, the medical centre isn’t that far away when you sprint there. harsh fluorescent lights greet you when you burst through the door, searching for a mop of curls and a burst of orange. your eyes find adam, lando’s dad, and you rush to his side.

“is he okay?” something about the fear in your eyes makes adam crack a smile. it seems there’s no hiding how you feel from anyone except lando.

“they’re just checking him over now, think they might take him to the hospital, just to be safe.” adam explains. “he was asking for you.” he smiles again.

“so it’s just precautionary?” you ignore the last bit. you ignore the way it makes your stomach twist and your brain fight to keep a smile off of your face.

“you can see him, if you want.” adam gestures towards the nearest examination room.

you’re gone before he can say anything more, bursting into the room without even thinking of knocking.

lando’s pretty much stoned. god knows what they gave him but it seems to be working; he’s propped up on the bed, cracks a sleepy smile when he sees you.

“hey, pretty girl.” he drawls, waving slowly. you pray you’re not blushing.

“scared me out there, you prick.” you joke, but your voice shakes.

“c’mere.” he frowns, so you walk around his bed. he slaps the small spot next to him clumsily, and you perch on the edge of the bed.

lando grabs your hand, pulling you in closer, eyelids drooping as he does it.

“i’m sorry, honey. always wanna race well for you.” lando is pouting. he’s fucking pouting at you.

“hey, hey, it’s fine! as long as you’re okay.”

he nods like a child being told off, but he doesn’t drop your hand. he doesn’t drop it in the helicopter to the hospital, either.

youruser just posted on instagram

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youruser: alls well that ends well (but i’m in a new hell every time you go to the hospital)

landonorris: whoops?

user1: THE TAYLOR LYRICS HELLO?

user44: do y’all think we can’t see you.

user2: 3RD SLIDE HELLO?

yourfriendnancy: anyway. the dress ate.

otheruser: @ yourfriendnancy WHAT DO YOU KNOW

and 567 other comments

-

“i just don’t get why you keep wearing the fucking shoes if they hurt so much.” lando bumps your shoulder with his, teasing you.

“sometimes you do what you gotta do for the ‘fit.” you huff, trying to keep up with him.

you’re on your way to dinner with lando, marking your first night in dubai. the restaurant isn’t too far, but your shoes are simply not cooperating. you’d left lando to book a table, knowing that a name drop from him would mean good food and not too many people there to watch you both eat it. after vegas, the rumour mill was working overtime, and you’d had a headache for two days as a result.

none of your other friends have arrived in the emirates yet, so it leaves just the two of you to hang out. it’s something you usually love to do, but after the whirlwind of the last few days, it makes your tummy twist.

you can’t stop thinking about the hospital, your hand in his, the way he’d demanded you accompany him despite the presence of his literal father. you absolutely can’t stop thinking about “pretty girl” or the lazy smile on his face when he said it, like it was what he always called you. he usually sticks to honey, not the most platonic thing in the world, but he said it once and it just stuck.

you’re pulled out of your downward spiral by the way he suddenly comes to a stop in the middle of the pavement. you look at him confused, but then he’s making a suggestion that makes you want to lay done in front of an oncoming ferrari.

“want me to carry your shoes? you can put them on right before we go in.” lando shrugs. you must be blushing by the way he fights off a smile.

“lando, i cannot walk down the streets of dubai shoeless.” you scowl. he chuckles.

“says who? give ‘em here. you can wear mine if you want.” lando reasons, and after staring at him likes he’s grown a second head, you cave.

you start to crouch down but he beats you to it. your breath hitches in your throat when his fingers graze your ankle. you watch in shocked silence as he undoes each clasp, letting you step out of the shoes. the pavement is relatively cool under your feet, and it snaps you out of your state. you decline his offer of his own shoes, and he’s started walking again when you stop him.

“lando, why are you doing this?”

“you took good care of me last weekend. least i can do.” he tells you, and you nod once. “c’mon, we’re gonna be late.” he ushers you along and you walk the rest of the way in silence, silver heels swinging in his hand.

youruser just posted on instagram

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youruser: dinner w bestie

user: lando took this. bet.

user3: her other friends aren’t in abu dhabi yet she has to be with lando

landonorris: how was dinner?

youruser: @ landonorris u tell me.

user4: a date if i ever saw one?

user63: are we sure they’re not just friends?

user4: @ user63 girl. be so fr

and 329 other comments

-

the restaurant is licensed, so you find solace in a glass of white wine. lando sticks to water.

your mains arrive and you natter back and forth, discussing the end of the season and any gossip you may have acquired. you barely stop laughing, head thrown back every time he opens his mouth. it feels easy again, and you find yourself thawing out, previous worries shoved to the back of your mind.

“so what’s next year looking like? last year of your degree.” lando wiggles his eyebrows, wearing a hint of pride on his face.

“might have to stay away from race tracks for a while. it’s gonna be a busy year.” you sigh. his face obviously falls.

“how long is a while? need my cheerleader.” it’s said in jest, but desperation lies in the outskirts of his voice.

“until the summer break.” you frown. you’d gotten far too comfortable studying on the road.

“can’t you continue as you are? i’m gonna mis- your dad will miss you.” lando corrects himself and your fork clatters against your plate.

“can’t get rid of me too easily, norris.” you clean up the awkward mess before it can even become one, returning to the lighter side of the conversation.

“trust me, i’m not trying to.” he flirts. in jest.

you roll your eyes and gulp down wine.

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youruser: new heights n pretty lights

user2: i know who took 3/4 of these pics.

landonorris: i want that hat back btw

user6: she is the moment

user: mommy? huh who said that?

and 588 other comments

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lando.jpg: from the road

oscarpiastri: violation.

youruser: can u send me these. especially the one of oscar :)

user4: WAIT didn’t she post the second one a while? LANDO TOOK IT?

user81: oscar 😭😭

maxfewtrell: why don’t you take nice pictures of me like this?

user11: the wags are fighting omg

and 799 other comments

-

your back is to his chest and the music is unbearable. it doesn’t stop you from swaying your hips against his.

nothing beats the abu dhabi grand prix’s after party.

lando stays p6 in the championship, but it’s only by one stupid point. celebration is certainly called for, and you bask in the freedom of the season ending.

you don’t even want to think about the way he hugged you when he got out of the damn car.

so you don’t. you drink and you dance and you beg for someone else to try and take you home so that you can avoid him. you’re scared, fucking terrified, and avoiding him seems like the best option.

that’s until he finds you in the sea of people, because of course he does, and you get closer, closer, closer, until there’s no room for god and his hands are on your hips.

it feels too fucking good to stop, you can’t even compute pulling away, so you let yourself go. what’s the point in trying to hide the way you feel when he’s holding you against his crotch? ah, yes. a cornerstone of friendship.

but it’s too hot and it’s too bright and it’s too loud and the anxiety hits. it hits and you can’t stop the way you freeze up against him. you’re sick to death of pretending. you’re sick to death of nights like this one repeating themselves far too often, only to wake up in the morning and act like it means nothing. like the way he holds you and looks at you and touches you means nothing.

no matter how drunk he is, no matter how far gone he is, he knows you too damn well. he’s spinning you around in his arms and pulling you through the hoards of people.

cool air lands on your flushed skin and you realise you’re in the smoking area. lando looks wrecked, but he’s watching you as intently as he can manage.

“you okay, honey? want me to take you home?” he’s rubbing your arm as he speaks and tears well in your eyes. you’re not entirely sure why.

“stay, i don’t wanna ruin your night.” you croak. you need to get out of there immediately.

“no, no, no, you’re my priority, i’ll call us a driver and w-“

“stop it, lando. i can go back to the hotel alone.” he looks bewildered, and you don’t blame him. you sound harsh, way too harsh considering what he’d offered.

“i should take you.” he replies quietly and you feel bad.

great, now you are crying.

“just- i don’t want this to change, i don’t want us to change and if you keep on like this-“

alas, everything changes, then. every unsaid word is fair game and neither of you are holding back. the shots you’ve thrown back fuel an explosion.

“if i keep on like this? what, you think i don’t see the way you look at me?” lando’s words hit like venom and you’re white hot with embarrassment.

fiery despair hits you and you’re bound to regret every word when you’re sober and sane.

“at least i don’t fuck with your head.”*

“you think that doesn’t fuck with my head? the one woman i- fuck, you know what? it doesn’t matter.” he bites his tongue but you most certainly don’t.

“what? what, lando? as if the way i look at you compares to carrying my shoes and putting me to bed and calling me pretty and every other thing that you do to drive me up the fucking wall.” you spit.

your tears burn your cheeks, you’ve always been an angry crier, and they fall faster when he practically deflates and turns away, disappearing into the club.

you make your getaway, your father’s assistant sends you a car.

you cry yourself to sleep in your hotel room, watching the orange sun rise.

-

the flight home is quiet.

your plans to fly home with lando are abandoned, and you board the earliest flight available.

you never fight with him, so you don’t know how to proceed. everything had changed in a matter of words and you ignore the lump in your throat when you land in miserable, rainy london alone.

you’re surprised to see your dad’s blacked out range rover waiting for you when you get through customs. he’d been on the first flight out of the emirates as soon as the race had finished, and you assumed he’d be asleep for at least a day or two. the man never rests during the season, from the minute the lights go out in bahrain, until the flag falls in abu dhabi. then, he biblically crashes, the excitement and adrenaline hibernating until next year. average behaviour for the world’s biggest motorsport fan.

he’s out the car and opening the boot for you before you even reach him, and he’s pulling you into his fatherly embrace when you finally do. you let out a shaky breath, having been in desperate need of a hug.

“hey, kid.” he mutters into your ear. maybe it’s good to be home.

“what are you doing here?” you ask from the passenger seat, once all of your luggage is packed into the car.

your dad sighs, turning to look at you. you groan, thudding your head against the headrest. you know that look, the one that precedes a motivational speech, a bit of tough love, and usually very sound advice that you never ask for.

“lando called me.” he deadpans. they’d grown somewhat annoyingly close over the years.

“fantastic.” you reply, sarcasm as clear as day.

“he was beside himself. told me what happened.” your dad says softly and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“it’s so, so fine. i don’t wanna talk about this.” your voice trembles and you don’t have the energy to cry anymore.

“there’s nothing wrong with telling him how you feel, sweetheart. don’t throw something away because you’re scared.” and, here we go… you think.

“i can’t lose him.” you whisper, furiously wiping away the stray tears that fall, staring out the window.

“you won’t lose him if you tell him. trust me, kid. we all see how that boy adores you. no father ever thinks a guy is good enough for their girl, but lando comes pretty damn close.”

“i don’t even know where to begin.” you rub your temples, battling the tension headache you’d developed sometime the night before.

“well, start thinking. you’ve got a week.” you can see your dad smirking from the corner of your eye.

“what?” you blurt, blindsided. you’d need more than a fucking week.

“end of year gala, kid. pick a dress.”

fuck.

-

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youruser: commotion for the dress?

yourfriendmia: *commotion*

user5: on my knees begging

user1: no lando like? divorce? 😟

mclaren: always good to see you! 🧡

yourfriendnancy: kicking my feet looking at this lord have mercy

and 504 other comments

-

you’re glowing, draped in champagne pink silk.

from the other side of the room, you watch lando, and he watches you. it’s like a game, who’s gonna break first? who’s going to extend the olive branch?

he looks so pretty in his suit that you would cry if there were any tears left in you, if you hadn’t purged them all out of frustration and longing in the week of radio silence.

you’re nursing a glass of champagne, waiting for dinner to start. the room is full of rich people with big ideas, icons of the racing world, both past and present. you make small talk with oscar and his girlfriend, exchange pleasantries with your father’s many friends, and beg that lando makes the first move.

the clinking against a glass indicates that dinner is ready to be served, and you scan the tables for your place card. apparently, the event coordinator has a vendetta against you, because scrawled in deep orange cursive on the place card next to yours is mr lando norris. you scan the room for the nearest exit. your grand scheme to flee in a floor length gown and too high heels is interrupted by the sound of your chair scraping out next to you.

you feel a ghost of breath against your bare shoulder. curls tickle your skin and then, a head rests in the crook of your neck.

he says your name, and the world stops for a second.

“i’m sorry.” lando whispers in your ear, and your heart falls to your stomach.

you whip around, holding him tight as you wrap your arms around him. the tension plaguing your body since abu dhabi dissipates in seconds.

“don’t apologise. just… i missed you.” you sigh.

“you look… fuck. you’re gorgeous.” he breathes in your ear. one hand skims low over your waist. something inside of you explodes.

you don’t even try to fight the blush that tinges your cheeks.

someone important is trying to make a toast, so you take your seats. you’re not listening to a word being said, though. you just smile at lando, and lando smiles back.

you’re gonna tell him, you decide. he has to know, although you suspect he already does; you can’t imagine another day without the privilege of him looking at you the way he is right now.

dinner is a breeze. you eat, drink, laugh at the stories exchanged. you remember why you love this world you were raised in, and find yourself grinning mindlessly at your father as he rattles off yet another wild tale from your travels. you’re lucky, you know you are, and it’s reaffirmed when the man sat beside you - who you think you love a bit more than platonically - drapes his arm over the back of your chair.

plates are cleared away and a band starts their set on the makeshift stage. the mtc is lit so beautifully, fairy lights twinkle above you casting dainty light over the makeshift dance floor.

“dance with me.” lando requests. he hates to dance at these functions, so you know the request comes from the heart.

“lead the way.”

he takes your hand and you make your way onto the floor, which is slowly filling up with other couples. his hold is firm, yet gentle, and you lean into him as he keeps you close. eventually, your ear is to his chest, and you can hear his heart hammering away. you melt further into him as the song plays out, and you wish it would play forever.

“we gonna talk about it?” lando murmurs, just loud enough over the music.

“we are.” you mumble against the lapel of his jacket.

“come home with me.”

you nod, inhaling the scent of his cologne; god, how you missed every little part of him.

you keep dancing and dancing, until the champagne runs out and the band starts to pack up.

-

the door slams softly behind you.

lando takes your coat, and you drop your bag on his coffee table. when you turn around to find him, he’s stood in the doorway watching you. there is so much to say, but you can barely form a thought.

“i can’t take this any longer.” lando tells you.

your breath hitches in your throat.

“neither can i.” you whisper.

“we can be more.”

“what do you want us to be?” your chest is tight and you’re looking at him so fucking intensely, desire as clear as day in your eyes.

“you know what i want. and i know you want it too.” he walks towards you slowly as he speaks, footsteps punctuating each word.

“i need to hear you say it.” you breathe. you’re shaking; you’re not sure if it’s the anticipation or the way you’re holding yourself back.

“all i want, all i ever wanted, is you.” he’s right in front of you and his hands are on your waist. you’re tingling everywhere.

lando’s nose bumps yours. you’re scanning his face, every line, freckle, slope that maps him out. he can’t help but look at your lips, darkened eyes flitting over your face. all you can hear is shaky breaths, and perhaps your heartbeat ringing in your ears.

“can i…?” lando mutters.

you close the gap some more, lips brushing his.

“of course you can.”

he kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. his hands cup your cheeks and yours find his neck, gently pressing your fingertips into his skin. lando’s frantic, passionate, oh so careful as he deepens the kiss, pulling you somehow closer. you hum in surprise, and you feel him smirking. he’s moving hungrily, and you’re starving, impatient when your hands find his curls. the groan he emits at the sensation makes you ache for him all over.

you’re both panting when you pull away, the urgency to breathe the only thing stopping you. the relief you feel is astronomical, your lips lock perfectly and he feels wondrous under your explorative hands. he smiles wide and you grip his collar, pressing your forehead against his.

“i was gonna tell you, and then you turned up looking like this… fuck.” lando groans, and you can’t help but lean up into him once more.

the kiss is slower this time, languid, and he licks slowly into your mouth. his pupils are blown when you break apart and his eyes flutter open. your thighs clench under your dress.

“so, you like the dress?” you giggle incredulously, buzzing from the interaction. lando looks at you like you’re stupid.

“you look…” he runs his eyes over you, pausing mid sentence tentatively.

“say it.”

“fucking incredible.”

“thanks. bought it with you in mind.” you tease, smirking coyly.

his jaw goes slack; you can see him mentally undressing you, and then he’s kissing you all over again.

his bedroom isn’t far, but he insists on carrying you there, sweeping you up into his arms. he peppers kisses over your neck, kicking the door open with his dress shoe.

lando places you on your feet at the foot of his bed, smoothing his hands over the curve of your waist, the silk of your dress. he tucks your hair behind your ears, drawing you close once more as he does, cupping your face in large, calloused hands.

“what do you want tonight?” lando asks, searching your face for any sign of hesitancy.

“need you. all of you.” you keen into his touch, and his breath hitches in his throat.

“we’ll go slow.” he murmurs.

“no.” you shake your head, and his hands drop from your face. “don’t want to hold back anymore.” he finds your ass, grazing his fingers upwards until he finds the fastening of your dress. you maintain eye contact while he drags the zip down, shivering as your hear the faint buzz of the metal.

lando stops, just for a second in an attempt to compose himself.

“take it off. bought it so that you could take it off.” your brutal honesty breathes some urgency into him.

he keeps his eyes on yours as the silk falls off your body, pooling at your feet. the cool air brushes your skin - covered only by lacy panties and stilettos - but his touch warms you when he grabs your waist. lando walks you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the foot of the bed. he places you on the bed, on top of you like a shot, kissing you into the mattress.

he clambers off of you, sliding down your body until he reaches your heels. kisses trail up your legs while he takes them off, the thud of them hitting the floor making you jump. anticipation pools in your barely there underwear; he can see you, all of you, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

“careful with those, they were expensive.” you joke, but your voice sounds wrecked already. you can’t even imagine how you’ll sound when he’s done.

“i have different priorities right now.” he flashes a grin and you lose him between your legs.

your underwear stay on when he dives into your pussy, teeth scraping over your covered folds. he can definitely taste you already, stuttering out a moan as he casts his tongue over you. you sink deep into the sheets, bucking your hips into his face, but his hold on you is firm and you have to relent. he lets go of you for a moment, just to pull your panties down, and as soon as they’re gone, he’s delving deep into you.

the sounds he’s making are obscene, his entire face buried away. lando flicks his tongue over your clit, beginning an extended assault on your nerve endings, sucking hard and fast until you whimper his name. a knot forms in your core.

lando takes his mouth off of you, lips slick and glistening. he swipes his tongue over them, sitting back on his haunches. he begins rolling his sleeves up, and you manage to push yourself up so that you’re resting on your elbows. you reach out to toy with the buttons of his dress shirt, leaving his torso exposed to you. you rake your nails over his abs, transfixed on the way he tenses, shudders under your touch. once his sleeves are out of his way, he pushes you back. your hair fans out around you as he resumes his position between your legs.

one finger ghosts over your clit, poking and tracing the bud. you’re reeling, writhing at the feeling of everything and almost nothing at all. he drags the digit down until he finds your entrance, abandoning the teasing and slipping it inside of you. he twists his wrist, adding a second finger, grinding them deep. he’s slow with it, watches the way your face twists in euphoria, finding a deep sense of pride in the way he makes you shake.

“you have no fucking idea how long i’ve wanted to do this.” his words have you clamping down on him, fucking yourself onto his hand.

“the feeling’s mutual.” you gasp.

lando cocks an eyebrow. he scales your body until he’s hovering over you again, fingers still working in and out of you. the angle change is delightful, your back arching and your nipples harden as they skim his bare chest.

“is it, honey? was it mutual all those nights i pictured you next to me, right on this bed? all those nights i watched you dance in your short skirts? all those nights i carried you to bed and wished i could stay?” he whispers right into your ear. his fingers speed up.

“fuck, lando. yes.” you cry, mouth hanging slack.

“tell me. tell me how mutual it was and i’ll let you come, pretty girl.” he teases; goosebumps litter your skin. there he goes again with pretty girl. this fucking man.

“always wanted more… was too scared to ask for it.”

“oh?” he coos, mockingly.

“couldn’t lose you if you didn’t want me.” you pant. a weight lifts off your chest as you let the words slip, his efforts sending you hurtling towards an orgasm.

“not going anywhere.” he kisses the base of your throat. “ever.” he punctuates, thumb sliding over your clit. “let go, love.”

the wave of pleasure crashes on your shores and it doesn’t stop, rippling through your belly and down into your toes. lando’s name falls from your lips like a sin, over and over until you can’t even hear yourself anymore.

lando’s smiling when you come down, small and knowing. he pecks your lips, once, twice, humming into the kiss when your hands find a home under his shirt. it’s unbuttoned already, so it slides over his bronzed shoulders easily. you hear it thud softly when it hits the floor.

“what?” you catch him looking at you, giddy.

“i can’t believe we’re doing this.” he grins. his words overwhelm you.

“i know.” you beam up at him bashfully.

he undresses himself and then the wait is over, and god knows it was a long one. he finds home between your thighs, runs his cock through your folds.

“you sure?”

“don’t make me wait any longer.” you insist.

it takes you a moment to adjust; he strokes your walls nice and deep and you feel everything he has to offer you. it’s surreal, really, stretching around him like this. you’d only ever daydreamed of the possibility, and now that it’s happening you can’t quite believe it. he moans low, forehead resting on yours. you watch his eyes roll back when he bottoms out.

your lip is quivering; it’s too intense, he’s too good. he takes it slow, just like he’d insisted, but he grinds deep, long strokes making you dizzy. you leave imprints of crescents in his shoulder blades, marking his pristine skin.

you can’t take much more of this, his hips hitting yours at such a delectable pace. he drags in and out, building a blissful rhythm and you’re whimpering into his neck. your teeth dig into the muscled plane of skin, minimal pressure applied, and his thrusts turn erratic, curses tumbling freely from his pink parted lips. it makes you squirm, spilling all over him, white hot and wet.

lando collapses into your damp body, the room is humid. you drag your nails through his hair, pushing the sweat slicked curls off of his forehead, and then your hand thuds lazily against the pillow.

“i’m done pretending.” he mumbles. “i’m yours.”

the last few years of your life flash before your eyes. you think back to his buzz cut and every time you’d failed to rebound. you think of bleached hair and lies about love and how he always saw the best in you. you think of nothing but him, you, together. he’s carved into you now, you think he always has been.

you fall asleep happy. you’ll wake up by his side and then you’ll do it the morning after, and the one after that too.

-

youruser just posted on instagram

liked by landonorris, mclaren, francisca.gomez, lilymhe and 735,641 others

youruser: our secret moments

landonorris: “only bought this dress so you could take it off” 🕺🏻✨💘

youruser: @ landonorris omg shut up (omw over)

user1: FINALLY

user4: bisexual panic is a real thing.

otheruser: i used to pray for times like these

maxfewtrell: took you long enough.

yourfriendmia: mum n dad

user63: mclaren ships it and so do i

and 1,442 other comments

-

taglist

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maintenance: i’ve removed any tags that weren’t working! lemme know if you wanna be added or removed!

[russellsppttemplates]

You're a racewinner (Lando Norris)

The one where Lando won his first Formula One race

Note: english is not my first language. That race took years out of my life and all of the tears out of me, but I couldn't not do something for this moment ✨️

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Cw: alludes to smut at the end, curse words

Tag list: @myloverjk-blog @hiireadstuff @c-losur3

"Baby, can you come here and help me, please?", Lando called from the hotel bathroom, "I can't place this quite right".

Getting the plaster from your boyfriend's fingers, you fiddled with it a little before holding Lando's jaw so he could face you properly, "stay still,", you whispered, applying the sterile material on his nose cut with a tender touch.

"Thank you, lovie", Lando mumbled once you peeled both hands away from his face, pecking your lips, "couldn't help myself when I have your beautiful face so close to mine", he snickered.

Shaking your head at his capacity of turning you into mush, you pecked his nose gently, "are you going to play padel the whole afternoon?", you wondered.

"I'm not sure, I think so - we have dinner reservations downstairs though, Will, Mark and Oscar said they'd join us as well", he offered.

"Okay", you nodded, grabbing your laptop so you could get on with work at the desk in your room.

"Do you have a lot of work to do today, angel?", he asked, kissing your naked shoulder as he looked at the screen. For his life, he couldn't understand half of what you had written in there, let alone actually do any of the smart tasks you had in there.

"It's not too bad - it's the administrative boring stuff that I actually enjoy doing", you admitted. There wasn't much to it, and while your colleagues found it boring, you found comfort on the sequential and system like steps.

"I'm going then - call me if you need anything, okay?", he kissed the top of your head, "I love you".

"I love you too, Lan - enjoy yourself!", you kissed him back before he grabbed his things and left the room.

It certainly wasn't something you did for every race, but whenever it did, you'd fly in earlier with Lando and work remotely whenever he had his own duties and activities.

After King's Day, you and Lando flew over to Miami, the sunshine greeting you to contrast with the gloomy days you had back home. Warm weather always made you feel happier and you welcomed the golden hues on your skin after spending the first two days basking in eachother's presence by the pool and walks along the beach.

By the time Lando came back, he was met with you putting your laptop back into your backpack, "all done for today, beautiful?".

"Yes - for the week actually! There was a meeting that was cancelled and the other was pushed for next week, so I went ahead with the rest and it's all done!", you smiled, "I was about to shower when you texted saying that you were on your way back".

"You were waiting for me? Such a good girl", Lando whispered on your ear after wrapping his arms around your towell covered body, "let's go then", he pulled you with him.

After a shower filled with soft touches that were a thin line away from teasing, you both got ready for dinner, meeting the rest of the group at the restaurant.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?", Mark asked Lando once you were already enjoying your meal.

"What's tomorrow?", you questioned.

"I'm going the yoga class with Hilton - actually, you can come to that now that you don't have the meeting anymore", your boyfriend suggested, "you're a good... yoga practising person".

"That one on the beach? Am I allowed to go?", you asked. You wouldn't mind having a muscle stretching session.

"I'm sure they can put a mat down for you", Mark offered, "I'll text them about it".

"Lando will just get distracted by you and fall on his face - at least you can add to that plaster", Oscar joked before taking a sip of his water and earning himself a kick in the shin from your boyfriend.

.

"My girlfriend is actually quite good - I asked her to teach me some of this stuff because i didn't want to be too bad at it", Lando admitted, winking at you while he dusted the sand off of his fingers.

So far, the class was one of the funniest videos you've ever watched Lando record. He was really taking on the job and the part seriously, answering Alli with all of the lines you had told him about yesterday. Since you were sitting further at the back, you could giggle freely at his antics, stealing quick looks from eachother every chance you could.

"Look at this excellent form!", Alli complimented as she watched the rest of the class.

"She's talking about me, not you guys - me!", Lando chirped in as he stretched his arms up.

"Now this one is really good to stretch your hips", Ali added as she moved into a different position.

"Work on this one, lovie!", Lando shouted at you, "but be careful, okay?", he ensured as he looked to see if you were doing it well.

"I'm good, Lan, thank you!", you giggled, shaking your head before changing your feet position on the mat.

"Are you afraid of the sand?", Alli asked.

"I don't like the sand, no", Lando snickered, swatting the grains away from his hands, "Y/N will tell you all about it since she's always making fun of me because of it - she's lucky she's cute otherwise I might get mad", he argued half jokingly.

As the crew tidied the area, Lando crept up behind you, hugging your waist and pulling you to his chest, "did you like it, love?".

"It was nice, yes - my back and hips feel better actually", you smiled, resting your hands on top of his around your tummy.

"That's good", he placed a soft kiss on your neck, "how about we go and take advantage of that then?", he whispered.

"Lan, we're outside and we were doing yoga!", you scolded softly despite the goosebumps erupting on your skin. The warm Miami air didn't have anything to do with that reaction, so Lando knew you were just as bad as he was.

"We'll go to our room, of course - you look so good in these leggings and this top", he turned you around to face his chest, his hands grabbing a handful of your hips and butt, "I can tell you want it too", he smirked.

Playing coy, you fiddled with the string of his hoodie. How he was wearing it under this sun and warmth, you had no idea, but it would be a plus to touch and admire his body underneath it.

"You don't need to do anything else?", you asked. Despite your desire, you would never do anything that go between his work duties.

"No, I'm free for the rest of the day", he smiled.

As soon as you got the okay to leave and call it a day, Lando was a man on a mission to spoil you and let you lose yourselves in eachother.

.

Media day was usually the quietest day, but given the media and celebrity attention the paddock got for this Grand Prix, it was quite packed and action filled.

"Hello handsome", you greeted Lando once he came to meet you in the lounge for some lunch.

"I'm tired and I haven't done any racing yet", he muttered, "the social media team made me film this video which I think you'll like", he said, getting his phone from his pocket and showing it to you.

"Aren't we full of ourselves, hm? It's a video of your handsome face", you pointed out teasingly, kissing his cheek before watching it again.

"Are you saying you don't like it? If you didn't like it, you wouldn't have watched it again and again", Lando tickled, ending up having to hold your back so you wouldn't fall to the ground.

"You look very handsome, baby", you agreed with him, catching your breath as you sat on his lap.

"We also met Jimmy Butler and the team brought one of the trophies out - it was so cool, look!", he showed you on his phone, flickering through his gallery.

.

The first sprint qualifying session gave the team a 1-2, followed by Lando's pole position for the second session was applauded by everyone in the garage, "I'm not sure how it's going to be with the compound change though, but everyone else is also changing so we'll see", Mark observed. 

The car seemed to skid away slightly, the grip level from the new tire not allowing Lando a smooth turn as you watched his on-board for the third and last qualifying session. 

"I'm happy with everything, just not one thing", you heard Lando say in the post qualifying interviews.

You didn't get to see him before he went to the media pen, so you couldn't whisper sweet words to him before he went out there. Not that he would listen to them too much anyway. If there was something you learned over the years is that you should let him come to you, no matter how much you wanted to hold him in your arms.

He was always too hard on himself and it was no different after this qualifying. You waited around for him, chatting with some of the team members while you did so to pass the time.

"Lando!", you waved, calling him so he could notice you.

"I need to go to my driver's room", he offered his hand out for you to hold and follow him.

Once you were inside, you wrapped your arms around Lando's neck, kissing his neck multiple times and rubbing his back.

"I can't believe I did that? Not even a rookie would've done that shitshow, it's like I forgot how to drive", Lando muttered, shaking his head.

"Everyone struggled with the grip Lando, they were either eating up their tires or squiding away", you reasoned with him, "I don't think any of the guys thought they had a good lap".

"Mine surely wasn't", Lando scoffed.

"Hey, look at me", you said sternly, cupping his face in your hands to make sure he wasn't looking elsewhere.

You had to let him come to you, but that didn't mean you couldn't give him a piece of your mind first.

"You have been with this team since you were a kid, Lando, and everyone inside this hospitality is rooting for you, bad day or good day, everyone has your back, and as well as you don't win on your own, you don't lose or get a bad result on your own. Everyone out there is supporting you and no one thinks you're a failure or a bad driver", you stated.

You knew what was going on inside his head, Lando reasoned with himself - there was no point in lying to you or saying that he wasn't feeling like that when you could practically read him like a book.

"You're only as good as your last race, Y/N that's how this sport works", Lando offered.

"Then let's make this one count - the weekend has barely begun", you rubbed his cheek.

"I have to go to debrief", Lando mumbled, looking down before he pressed a kiss on your forehead.

"I love you, thank you", he whispered, squeezing your wrists before kissing them too.

"I love you too, all of you and everything that you do", you winked before he left his driver's room.

As soon as all of his duties were taken care of, you went back to the hotel, deciding to stay in for the night after a long shower.

"Come here so I can play with your hair and magically pull away all of those bad thoughts going on inside there", you smiled, finally sitting down on the bed.

Lando didn't want to seem needy or clingy, but every time you reached for the body moisturiser to scoop some of it out and rub it on your skin, he felt himself deflate a little, having to wait a little more to be able to touch you.

Crawling to your hold, your boyfriend rested his head on your chest as his arms circled your waist, feeling your fingers do as you had told him.

"Do you think tomorrow will be better?", he muttered.

"I don't know for sure, but I hope so", you answered honestly, "you deserve a good result tomorrow, you deserve all the good things, love", you added.

"I don't deserve you", he mumbled, looking up at you.

"You do, Lando", you kissed his forehead.

"You're the best thing that has ever happened to me", he stated, "whether I deserve you or not is another ballgame, but I hope you never leave me".

"It's not on my plans, no", you chuckled despite the seriousness of your words, "do you know what is though? Sleep, because tomorrow you have a big day", you kissed his lips, "go to sleep, baby".

"I love you, baby - sweet dreams", Lando whispered.

"They always are when you're here with me", you murmured.

.

"Fucking hell", you groaned, "is he staying out?", you wondered outloud.

The team radio with the veredict came in quickly, deciding that the risk they would be getting into by continuing the race and potentially worsening whatever damage the car had was not worth the points that would be up for grabs. Like so, they would retire the car, so Lando jumped out of the car and crossed the track.

"He shouldn't have done that", you muttered, noticing the other people around you looking at you curiously. Most of them were paddock guests who you had never seen before, so you excused yourself as politely as you could, waiting for Lando to come back from the pitwall and into the garage.

He exchanged a few words with the team before he approached you.

"I'm sorry it didn't go the way you wanted - do you want me to fight anyone?", you tried to get a smile out of him.

"Sometimes these things happen, there was nothing I could do", he kissed your forehead, "they're bringing the car back but it seems to have not been that bad - I was worried about the suspension damage but it doesn't look too bad from what they can see on the computer", he offered, "I need to go to the media pen, lovie".

"Go go, I'll be here if you need anything", you smiled, feeling him squeeze your hand in his before he found the team member he was supposed to go with.

A couple of hours later, race qualifying rolled around and despite P5 still being a good position, you could see that Lando was struggling a little bit and he would surely blame himself on his lack of skills.

"Is he coming straight here or the media pen?", Ria asked you.

"I'm not sure", you mumbled, looking around to check for any signs of where your boyfriend would be headed.

When Lando came back to the garage, you were the first person he looked for.

"Hello hello", he said, squeezing your hand once more before greeting the rest of the group.

"That was not bad, P5 means a lot is up for grabs still", you tried, not really sensing the mood he was in which was unusual for you.

"It felt better yesterday, we still have to check about the changes we made and decided what to keep and what to undo", Lando offered without a prominent emotion on his tone.

"I'll be here when you're back", you told him.

"I still have the debrief and I'm staying as long as I can", he stated, "you can go to the hotel if you want to".

"I'll wait here", you kissed his cheek before letting him go.

His mood wasn't the greatest, but it wasn't the worst you had ever seen it, so you had to make do for now. Getting your book from your bag, you went up to find yourself a spot in the lounge since Ria told you they would be going back to the hotel.

"Are you ready to go?", Lando announced his presence a couple of hours later, stepping closer to you with his backpack on his back already.

"Yes", you said, putting the book back and getting up, "What is that?", you wondered as you pointed to the envelope on his hand.

"A fine for crossing the track - twenty-five thousand euros because I got out on my own, and it's that little if I don't do anything else again", he shook his head, "do you want to have dinner out or in the room?".

"Whichever way you prefer, handsome", you replied earnestly.

"Are you doing it because you feel pity for me? Is that why you're that quiet and following my lead to whatever I say?", he mused, letting his insecurities get the best of him, "because I told you, it happens and I'm fine".

"It could never be out of pity when it is, always, out of love, Lando", you smiled, pecking his lips and heading to the car so you could make your way back to the hotel.

.

Lando woke up earlier than he expected considering how tired he had been, sensing your even breathing pattern next to him. His mind filled with strategies, outcomes and potential situations that could arise, so he definitely wasn't sleeping until nightime.

"Good morning", you surprised him as he didn't think you were awake yet, your eyes greeting him as he turned around to face you.

"Good morning, lovie", he smiled, getting your hand from under the pillow and kissing your knuckles, "you're awake already?".

"Couldn't sleep anymore - you?", you mused.

"Same - means we can have some morning snuggles", Lando offered as he pulled you closer to him.

"Do you want to talk about the race?", you mumbled after you kissed his lips.

"You know me too well, don't you?", he chuckled, kissing you again while he traced patterns on your waist.

"We've been dating for nearly seven years - it would be a little weird if I didn't", you pursed your lips jokingly.

"I don't know, I keep thinking about all the things that can go wrong and what I can do in that situation - P5 isn't bad but I'm not sure I can extract all of it", he sighed.

"You're too hard on yourself", you mused, "there hasn't been a challenge that you didn't want to face, you never backed down from it and it's not something you're going to start doing now, baby", you stated.

"Do you think I have it?", he mused. He wasn't sure what it meant, but right now he didn't know anything.

"Of course you do, it will come to you, my love", you tried to build his confidence up, "you're such an amazing, skilled driver, you climbed up the ladder on your merit, and your team is backing you up. With some work there, that podium can be yours, Lando".

"I don't know", he tsked still.

"Well, I do know, so you'll have to trust me", you moved under the sheets, supporting your torso on your hands so you could hover over Lando, "this one is for when you'll start doubting yourself", you kissed above his left eyebrow, "this one is in case you need a little push", you kissed his right eyebrow, "this here is for good luck", you kissed his forehead, "this one here is because you are the best driver out there", you kissed his nose, "this one is for how much you deserve to be on that podium", you kissed his cheek, letting your eyelashes tickle him, "This is for the amazing person that you are", you kissed his jaw, "And this one is for how much I love you and how proud I am of you", you landed a kiss on his lips, letting yours melt into his to show you just how much you meant all those words.

Lando felt loved unconditionally. There were no better words to describe what he felt. No matter what he delivered on track, you were always there for him. To congratulate him when things went well and to comfort him when he needed. It didn't matter if he was P1 or P20, your love and affection was a constant in his life.

"I never want to know what life is like without you by my side", Lando cupped your cheek, rubbing the skin.

"I'm not going anywhere", you promised.

You stayed in bed until the alarm rang, then getting ready to go to the track. Lando kissed your temple before he went to the debrief meeting, leaving you to grab a cool drink to deal with the Miami heat.

"I love you, be safe out there", you smiled, kissing over his left eyebrow.

"I could do with a little more luck", he admitted, blood rushing to his cheeks as you stood on your tippy toes to kiss his forehead like you had that morning in bed.

Lando continued getting ready while you occupied your spot on the garage, giving him a little wave before he went to the grid.

"He seems hopeful today", Mark nudged your shoulder as he sat next to you, "I don't suppose you have something to do with it", he smirked.

"What do you mean?", you wondered.

"Yesterday he wasn't exactly cheerful, but he walked into the debrief saying that today was a day full of opportunities", he clarified.

"Just helped him see the other side of the coin", you blushed at his assumption.

The race got off to a bumpy start, making you hiss as soon as you watched the cars get through unharmed, "that was a close call", you muttered.

Just as Lando had set the fastest lap, you watched Max go outside of the track slightly and hit the cone and later giving Oscar first place since he needed to pit, "the car pace looks good, doesn't it?", Jon told you.

"Oscar is coming to the pit and Max is right behind Lando", you muttered as you heard your boyfriend's radio and watched the mechanics get ready with the new tires for Oscar.

By lap thirty, still under the safety car, Lando was the one to pit and you couldn't help but do the math, "He's going to come out at the front, isn't he?", you looked at Jon and Mark, wanting to check your calculations right.

"Yes, look at him go", Jon pointed to the screen.

From then on, your heart beat as fast as it ever had, your eyes focusing on the gap between Lando and Max as your leg bounced up and down.

"Y/N, you should take it easy", Jon said, "you're going to work yourself up and it won't be good", he noticed. The way your eyes watched the race combined with the heat, your innate lack of water intake and the way your blood pressure seemed to be going, his worry was genuine.

"Mas just said on his radio that he's struggling with his car", Mark said as he placed a hand on your shoulder.

"Don't jinx it, don't jinx it", you whispered as you looked at everyone else around you.

Everyone shared the nerves you felt, everyone held on to see what was happening while keeping an eye on Oscar's brilliant drive after all that came his way.

"Should have dated an accountant", you mumbled before getting up, pacing around the small area once you made sure you weren't annoying people too much and not blocking anyone's view, "my heart wouldn't be like this", you took a deep breath as the last five laps warning came on the screen.

"Love how Oscar is the one with the fastest lap all the way down there - it's such a shame, he deserved more", you pointed out in an attempt of distracting yourself.

"Three laps!", someone yelled.

As you saw the rush to the checkered flag and your boyfriend's car be the first one to cross it, the garage and pitwall erupted in celebration.

"HE WON! HE WON! LANDO WON!", you yelled, crying into your hands after the initial shock wore off, Mark and Jon hugging you as they celebrated, "this is amazing? Aren't you amazed?", you yelled.

Lando's screams and laughs filled your ears as you listened closely to your boyfriend's first reactions after crossing the finish line on his first win, the pout being replaced with a massive grin even though you were still crying happy tears, "we did it, Will! We did it!", he boasted.

Once you were allowed, you joined the rest of the team and ran to Parc Fermé, stopping by Natalie once she spotted you for a quick hug.

"Will! Will! Will!", you called your boyfriend's race engineer once the team kindly let you go to the front, "Congratulations!", you hugged him, "I'm so happy!!", you squealed as he laughed.

Your phone rang with a FaceTime call coming from Max, "Hiiiii!", you beamed.

"Are you at the front?", he asked, "he did it, Y/N, he fucking did it! I'm going to add Adam here, just let me go here...", he tapped his screen until you noticed a new square forming on your phone.

"Hiii!", Adam and Cisca accepted the call quickly, "Y/N! Where are you now?", Cisca asked.

"I'm at the front here, slightly on the side!", you yelled as you showed them the number four car park in front of the number one plaque, "Look at him!", you squealed.

Lando was quick to get out safely, celebrating his first position and getting weighed in before taking his helmet off, leaving it on the ground and diving into the team who congratulated him enthusiastically.

"He's so happy and he has his big smile that makes his eyes crinkly!", you cheered as you stood next to Mark, making sure you didn't get shoved or pushed around too much.

"She and Lando are so cute, ugh, I can't deal with it", Pietra groaned.

"He's very lucky to have you, Y/N", Adam agreed before you saw Flo and Cisca.

"Lando No wins no more, hey? Y/N, have you seen him? He must be so ecstatic!", Flo offered.

"Stop it - I just passed by Natalie on my way here and she recalled the first time I watched a race from the garage when I was nineteen! Nineteen, might as well have been a baby! And I cried a little more, nearly choked because I had to run here and my breathing was ragged", you muttered, "I think the guys are putting him back down", you mused.

"Dude! Broken Rib time!", Zak yells once Lando was back on the floor, hugging your boyfriend before Andrea did the same.

"Now make room for the missus - she also gets to hug him all in one piece", the italian engineer encouraged while he helped you with the barrier.

Seeing Lando was enough to get your eyes to water again, not caring about hitting your phone on his back once he pulled you into his arms, nuzzling his face on your neck.

"I'm so proud of you, baby, you drove brilliantly out there", you let out, kissing his skin before cupping his face with both hands once Zak took your phone away from you, "you're a race winner, Lan, you're incredible and I love you so so so much", you told him before smashing your lips on his.

"Did the microphone pick that up?", Zak asked everyone on FaceTime after waving at them.

"It did - they're the cutest, I told you! I'm team Lando-Y/N until the end of time", Flo chuckled as she watched you and Lando look at eachother as if there was no one else around.

"I love you, babygirl", your boyfriend gave you a big smile, "this is for the team, for my family, my friends and for you! I love you, Y/N Y/L/N!", he said as he walked back with the FIA staff member that was guiding him to the cool down room.

Getting your phone back, the mechanics let you stand at the front with Will who gave you your phone back, "I'm back, the crybaby is back", you stated, wiping your cheeks.

"Mum is no better, Y/N, don't worry about that", Flo joked as you watched Cisca crying too.

"You and Lando are so cute, ugh, I can't deal with it", Pietra groaned.

"Stop it - I just passed by Natalie on my way here and she recalled the first time I watched a race from the garage when I was nineteen! Nineteen, might as well have been a baby! And I cried a little more, nearly choked because I had to run here and my breathing was ragged", you muttered.

At the podium celebrations, you grabbed a good spot to watch your boyfriend finally go on the highest step, accepting a hug from everyone who came to offer their congratulation on your boyfriend's achievement.

"You do know we are watching on TV, right?", Max wondered as you waited for the call for Lando to step on the podium.

"Of course I know - I'd feel bad for you if you were actually paying attention to what I've pointing the camera at -, I just need your company because I think I've cried all the tears I have in me and if you're not here with me, even if figuratively, I might fall apart again and that won't be good", you reasoned as you switched the camer around to show your face again.

Hearing the anthem and watching Lando raise his face up to the sun added magic to the serene moment until they sprayed the champagne between them, Lando saving some from his bottle to try and get the rest of the team too.

After all the media content was take care of, you and Lando headed back to the hotel ao you could get ready for dinner.

"You have a really big smile on your face, Y/N", Lando pointed out as you showered together.

"Look who's saying it", you blushed, grabbing his jaw so you could kiss him, "I'm so happy and so proud of you Lando, it doesn't fit inside my heart or my body what I'm feeling right now".

"I can't believe it still", he mused as his hands found themselves on your naked waist, "thank you for being here - today and every day you're with me", he joined your foreheads.

Dinner was lovely and you left to the party straight after, meeting up with Max once you were inside and in the reserved area. You danced all night along attached to your boyfriend who didn't seem to want to let you go, teeth nipping at the skin on your neck.

"Do you want another one, baby?", Lando asked and you shook your head no, kissing his lips.

"I'm good, Lan", you smiled, twirling him and kissing his lips.

"You two could stop fawning over eachtoher, you know? Y/N didn't rest until the whole paddock was informed of your win, as if they hadn't watched it happen and now this?", he chuckled playfully, "you two make me sick!".

"Can't help it if I'm proud of Lando!", you stuck your tongue out at him.

When you left the club to go back to the hotel, Lando walked with you on his arms with your back to his chest, allowing you to walk on your legs still but his rush setting the pace you were doing it with.

"Lando!", you squealed as you balanced yourself, holding on to his arms like your life depended on them "we're are we going?".

"I'm taking you to our room, put the no disturb sign outside and have my way with you in any way you allow me to", he smirked

"Our flight leaves in a couple of hours", you reasoned, a big smile on your face mirroring your boyfriend's.

"Then I'm going to take advantage of those hours we have left - I can't wait until we get home and what I want to do with you is not mile high club appropriate", he winked, "I'm a race winner, babygirl, and the celebrations are just getting started", your boyfriend said, tapping your butt once again.

[doodler16]

You know,I'm starting to get really curious about why Vivziepop created Millie.

It's obvious she doesn't even care about the character,but you also can't say Millie is a very old character who just got reused into Helluva Boss (since the original concept of this series was to have Blitzø and Moxxie act like comedic Saturday Morning antagonists to Charlie and the other Hazbin Hotel characters.)

While you can say Loona was created to attract a certain demographic,what even is (or was) Millie's purpose?

In the Helluva Boss 2019 Bible pitch, nothing much has changed personality wise. Millie is still the energetic and muscle of the group.