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[beautifuljester416]

too long wo I cut it but

🔫✅️👎🫘🫥

first 5 faceless emojis are how your summers gonna go

[okwonyo]

R U MINE ？ ✶ biker!enha

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖻𝗂𝗄𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾

𝟏𝟔𝟐𝟒𝒾──── enhypen 𝗑 f!rea ✿ fluff 𓂋 kissing skinship cursing ❞ 𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒖𝒆 ｡

𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦

HEESEUNG

he is making you nervous. very much so. with his hands on your hips, his body sitting right behind and you his breath against your nape— perhaps to teach you how to drive his bike— but you fear you are going to crack the bike at some point.

“breath, sweetheart,” he whispers, his grin obvious at the sound of his voice. you bet he feels

all mighty at this exact moment. his hands pressed your hips gently, in an attempt to reassure you. “i got you, i promise.”

your entire body tense. your grip on the handlebar becomes stronger, your fingers push against the clutch lever on one side and the front brake lever on the other side. your heartbeat skips as the machine turns on— defying every road’s law ever made.

“woah, woah,” your boyfriend says. he laughs, your cheeks flaming, whereupon his big hands cover yours. “we got all the time in the world.”

he slows the motorcycle before settling his hands back on your body. that sit on your waist as if it was their birthday right, making your entire body shivers as you ride the bike.

heeseung kisses your neck, he embraces your waist, presses his chest against your back, humming a gentle praise against your skin, “you are doing it right, baby.”

JAY

“turn around, princess,” jay’s tone his honey–coated. with his hands on your shoulders, he turns you around, making your back his face him.

you can’t lie. you are confused. there is not reason for him to ask you to that— unless he got a surprise for you, which you doubt. funnily enough, he in fact does.

you are taken aback when his fingers run through your hair smoothly. even more when he starts to part them. you quickly understand what he is doing: brain ding your hair to put the helmet on. because he knows you don’t like when your hair becomes messy.

what surprises you the most isn’t the gesture, but how perfectly he is doing it. his touch is gentle as always and you know that the end is going to be beyond satisfying.

he finishes his job by wrapping the hair tie he keeps on his wrist around the bottom of the brand new braid, “here you go, my love.”

“where did you learn to braid like this?” you tease when he is done, facing him once again while your finger touches your perfectly braided hair.

jay kisses your forehead, “i called your mom to know how you liked them,” then he puts on your helmet ever so casually. as if he didn’t turn your world upside down.

JAKE

he calls you at the right time, right when you finished to get ready for the night, ��h–hey,” he says, his usual greeting. “i have something to tell you, can you come down?”

“uh, sure,” you laugh, confused and a tad worried at his tone: he seems more nervous than usual. “is everything okay?

you hear jake sigh and the smile that draws itself on his lips, “yes, i just get nervous to see you.”

you bite down a smile. you don’t trust yourself enough to formulate a correct answer at the current moment, if it’s not giggling. you decide to hang up and leave your apartment.

you walk to the way of your building with a giddy feeling, excited to see what makes jake so nervous. what is the silly secret your nerdy boyfriend seems to be hiding from you?

when you the cool night hair brushes over your skin, the sight of jake makes your heart stutter. his thick glasses are still sitting on his pretty nose but he isn’t wearing his usual out wear— but a lather jacket and black pants to match well with the motorcycle he is leaning on.

you step closer to him with a smile on your face, “is that what you were too nervous to share?” jake’s fluffy brown hair move with the wind. “that you are cooler than i thought?”

jake blush, “ah, i didn’t know if you were in—” the rest of his sentence dies in an uncontrollable whine after you cup his face and kiss him.

SUNGHOON

sunghoon is going to go insane. listen, he knows how pretty you, how easy it is to be attracted by you like some sort of magnet. he knows it. he knows it because he is your boyfriend who fell victim to your effortless attractiveness.

if he let his inner thoughts, who are feed by jealousy, win, he would lock everyone who looks at you for too long in a basement. but he can’t do that. he can only give them a lingering, menacing look that tells them ‘don’t touch, don’t look, i’ll kill you’— yet some of them don’t get the hint.

and when fuckers in the streets ask his girl if she needs a ride, his jaw clenches so much that he gets a bit scared it will pop out and his knuckles are slowly turning white.

he takes a deep breath before walking to you. he grabs your waist with one hand and walks you away from the man, a deep “c’mere, baby,” slipping from his mouth.

your knight in shining armor guides you to his own bike. “thank you for saving me, hoon,” you laugh, noticing the jealousy written on his face.

“you don’t need another ride,” he answers. he wraps his hand around your neck gently, to give you a kiss, knowing that the other is watching. he whispers against your lips, “you already have me.”

SUNOO

the best thing about having a boyfriend with an obsession for bikes isn’t the rides or how insanely hot he is. it’s something more useful, something that you can use to your advantage.

no matter where you are, if it’s not far from your apartment, sunoo can reach it in a matter of few minutes. therefore you can ask him for anything and he will bring it to you in a hurry. thanks to the fact he is always in the same area as you are.

you also find it very amusing how he doesn’t need to call your phone and tell you that he is here for you to know. you could recognize the sound of his motorcycle from miles away.

truly, your favorite part of all this is how you get to see him take off his helmet, shake his head to rearrange his hair and his chest heaving in a relieved sigh. you want to taste him.

“hey, pretty,” he leans in to kiss your cheek. your turn your head and capture his lips with yours when he tries to pull away. he smirks when you let him go, “wow you were hungry weren’t you?”

you could push him for this, but you can’t. he bought you lunch and he’s too hot to push him away. “haha,” you deadpan, taking the lunchbox in his hand. “thank you.”

JUNGWON

“what the fuck?” you exclaim as soon as your eyes catches the insane sight behind the door’s window. the cab’s chauffeur looks at you from the rearview, wondering what is happening but you are busy looking at your boyfriend on his bike waving at you.

jungwon knows he is playing a very risky game. you were already extremely mad at him when you stormed out of the apartment. he knows that getting on his bike to follow your can either be his best or worst idea ever.

but what else can he do? you are not answering his calls nor checking his texts. you barely even looked at him during the entire morning before leaving. he couldn’t let you go to work, still angry at him.

he is quite relieved when your cab parks. he gets off his bike immediately, taking of his helmet and walking to the car.

“jungwon, what the hell—” you start as soon as he is close enough to hear you. the man is already getting on his knees before you can cuss him out. “oh my god..”

“listen, i’m sorry, please,” he starts to beg, watching you run your fingers through your hair. “i didn’t mean to hurt you or do something bad— it won’t happen again.”

“jungwon, get up,” he does as you order.

“you can’t be mad at me forever, angel, it breaks my heart.”

you sigh, he did make a lot of efforts. “go home, i’ll answers your calls.”

it’s a win for him.

RIKI

“look to your left,” your boyfriend says through the phone. you turn your head to the direction he indicated, a little hesitant and nervous for some reason yourself ignores.

your breath catches when his gaze locks with yours. riki, with his read leather jacket—matching his bike—and his cool sunglasses, are waiting for you not far away.

he takes his glasses off and leans in the kiss your lips upon you are close enough to him, “hey pretty girl, you are gorgeous.”

you smile against your boyfriend’s mouth. and your eyes wander on the bike behind him when he pulls away. you’ve never seen this one before—“is it a new one?”

riki doesn’t reply right away, you don’t think your question reaches his ears yet. he is hung on your lips for the life of him. “mh?” he looks at the bike like he forgot it was there, “oh, yes i won a race,” then he is coming for your lips again, “i deserve a reward for that, don’t you think?”

“didn’t you already have one?” you laugh. yet, you still let him kiss you.

riki’s hand hold your waist, pulling you closer than you already. “i know, babe,” he whispers, tilting his head to the side for a better angle. “i wanted another.”

분지 ܃ this isn’t my best work but i hope you enjoy nonetheless 🎀

taglist ( open )

[ari-ana-bel-la]

could you write a dad!Oscar who we know is private but the other drivers dont know he has a kid till he invites them over his house and when lily or oscar open the door yn is there in her walker lookig up at them exacly like Oscar (bonus if they have a pet the other drivers are scared of but yn is fascinated with it)

The secret daughter

The post-race dinner invite had taken everyone by surprise.

Oscar wasn’t exactly known for being social. Quiet? Definitely. Polite? Always. But throwing casual dinner parties? That was new. So when he casually mentioned in the paddock after the Australian Grand Prix, Hey, if you're around, come over to mine for dinner tonight, the rest of the drivers had stared at him like he’d just grown a second head.

"Are you serious?" Lando asked, raising a brow.

Oscar had just nodded, offering that small, elusive smile of his. "Yeah. Should be fun."

Max had squinted at him. "You? Hosting dinner? Are we sure this isn’t some elaborate prank?"

Oscar just shrugged. "Come or don’t. Up to you."

Of course, they were going to come. They couldn’t resist the mystery.

---

It was nearly sunset when the group pulled up to a modest but beautiful house nestled into the outskirts of the city. Australia had always had its charm—open skies, endless greenery, and that unmistakable warmth in the air that hinted at home. Daniel, retired now and visiting the paddock just for old time’s sake, had tagged along with the group, grinning like a kid.

"You know, I’m proud of the kid," he said as they stepped out of the car. "Hosting a dinner, inviting people over. He’s evolving."

George adjusted his collar and glanced at the front door. "Are we sure we have the right house?"

"Looks about right," Charles said, holding a bottle of wine. "He texted the address."

Max leaned on the car. "Well, someone go knock then."

"You knock," Lando shot back.

"You’re closer."

With a dramatic sigh, Lando marched up to the door and knocked twice. They waited. Silence. Then a faint rustling.

The door swung open.

A little girl, no older than three, stood in the doorway. Brown curls framed her cherubic face, and her wide eyes blinked up at them in a serious sort of way—exactly like Oscar’s. Her expression was so deadpan that for a moment, no one said a word.

"Uh... hi?" George offered awkwardly.

The girl stared at them.

"She looks just like him," Charles whispered.

"She can’t be..." Lando murmured.

"You guys coming in or what?" she said, voice tiny but confident.

Before anyone could respond, she turned and darted back into the house. "DADDY! The tall people are here!"

Five grown men stood frozen on the doorstep, processing.

"Did she just call him Daddy?" Max blinked.

"She did, right?" Lando asked, eyes wide.

Daniel let out a loud bark of laughter. "Holy shit. Oscar has a kid."

Inside, Oscar appeared, as calm as ever, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Hey. You guys found the place. Come in."

"You have a child," George said bluntly.

Oscar blinked. "Yeah?"

"You never said anything," Lando said, eyes still trailing after the small child, who had now settled on the couch with a juice box.

Oscar tilted his head, bemused. "You never asked."

"Seriously?! That’s your excuse?" Max asked, walking in, still stunned.

Oscar shrugged. "I don’t go around asking if you guys have secret families."

"It’s not a secret if she opens the door for us," Charles said.

Daniel was grinning ear to ear. "Mate. You legend. I didn’t know you had it in you."

"Thanks, I think," Oscar said dryly.

Lando had crouched slightly, watching the little girl with fascination. She glanced up at him, unblinking.

"Hi," Lando said.

"Hi," she replied.

"I’m Lando. What’s your name?"

"Yn."

"That’s a pretty name."

She took a long sip of her juice box. "Wanna see my pet?"

Lando blinked. "Uh... sure."

Oscar looked up from where he was arranging some bowls. "You don’t have to say yes, by the way."

Lando, determined, shook his head. "No, it’s okay. I like pets. Is it a bunny? A hamster?"

Yn grinned, then skipped over to the corner where a small terrarium sat.

"Larry!" she sang. "Come say hi!"

The group watched in silent horror as she reached into the glass box and pulled out a tiny, coiled snake.

Lando backed up so fast he nearly tripped over Max. "WHAT THE HELL?!"

Yn cradled the snake lovingly. "This is Larry. He’s my best friend."

Max looked at Oscar like he’d grown another head. "You let your toddler have a snake?!"

Oscar glanced over. "He’s non-venomous. Very chill. Yn loves him."

Charles had pressed himself against the nearest wall. George was hovering behind the couch like it could protect him. Daniel, meanwhile, looked delighted.

"She’s a true Aussie," Daniel said proudly. "Respect the reptile."

Yn patted Larry's head and brought him closer to Lando. "You can pet him if you want."

"I think I’m good," Lando squeaked.

Oscar crossed his arms, one eyebrow raised. "Scared of a baby snake, huh?"

"He looked at me with malice in his eyes."

"Larry doesn’t even have eyelids," Oscar deadpanned.

Daniel clapped Oscar on the shoulder. "Fatherhood suits you. You’re terrifying. I love it."

The evening carried on with more laughter than anyone expected. Yn eventually let Larry rest back in his enclosure, and Oscar set up a makeshift kids' table where she could eat her nuggets and carrots. The rest of the group sat around the main table, eyes occasionally drifting back to the little girl who had rocked their worlds in under five minutes.

"So, uh... how old is she?" George asked cautiously, sipping his drink.

"Three and a half," Oscar said.

"And... you and Lily?"

Oscar nodded. "Yeah. We kept it quiet. Wanted some normalcy."

"She’s adorable," Charles said. "I mean. Scary, with the snake. But adorable."

"She is," Oscar said, and for the first time that evening, his voice softened. Everyone noticed.

Yn ran back into the room at one point, straight to Daniel, crawling into his lap like it was the most natural thing.

"Uncle Dan," she said sweetly.

"Hey, sunshine," Daniel replied, instantly melting.

Lando looked betrayed. "Uncle Dan?"

Daniel smirked over Yn's curls. "Some of us got in early."

"I want to be her favorite," Lando muttered.

"Should’ve petted the snake, mate," Max said with a grin.

Oscar leaned back, watching the group. For the first time in a while, he looked completely at ease. Maybe it had always been like this behind the scenes—the quiet life, the family, the snake.

But now that the secret was out, no one was going anywhere. They were hooked.

"So," George said later, holding a brownie, "next time we hang out at yours, should we bring mice? Or are snakes allergic to snacks?"

Oscar rolled his eyes. "You guys are ridiculous."

Yn peeked around the corner. "Uncle Lando? Larry misses you."

Lando visibly paled. The room erupted in laughter.

Oscar just smirked.

"Told you. She’s a real Aussie."

And that, they all agreed, was terrifyingly accurate.

Extra

The drivers reaction to meeting Oscars daughter:

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

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

-♡○♡

[pupytrail]

@chimishuu @hwizou

I hate editing sprites-

[landopoet]

dada's girl.

pairing lando x reader

synopsis an unexpected pregnancy, the journey through milestones and a race day with dada's girl.

warnings just some cute, long awaited norris family fluff <3

author’s note here's the dad!lando i promised heheh, hope you enjoy! special thanks to @clovermoters for always being there to proofread and help me get my creativity flowing with her ideas. highly recommend you check out her dad!lando (and other!!) stuff, it's as great as herself

₊ ⊹

Lando never knew he wanted to be a dad until 3:05 pm on a random Tuesday in June. 

He was sitting on the couch, eating whatever you had started for lunch that day, before you started feeling ill and he had to take over. What you planned to be a delicious pasta dish for that day had turned into a burnt… something… on Lando’s plate. The guilt of ruining your food made Lando promise to buy you some takeout once you felt better.

You had gotten increasingly nauseous and felt weak nearly every day for the past two weeks, but Lando figured it was just the flu so he brought you tea and some chicken noodle soup (ordered in) every once in a while. 

“Lando!”

Your voice echoed down the halls from you two’s bedroom and he paused his show before jogging over, ready to get you the world. What he saw when he opened the door made his heart swell— you looked like a shell of yourself, all pale and weak underneath the sheets. 

“What do you need, angel?” He sat down next to you, gently placing the back of his hand on your forehead to check if you had a fever. 

You sat up, taking his hands in yours before taking a deep breath. “I need you to buy me something.” 

“Anything.” He nodded, paying attention. What he didn’t expect to hear was pregnancy test as soon as he answered you. “A what?” 

“Pregnancy test,” you repeated. “Just in case. I don’t want to scare you into anything, but we also can’t be unprepared if that’s the case.” 

“You mean if you’re pregnant,” he hums, completely lost in thought. “I, uhm, I gotta get a shirt on and I’ll go get you the, uh. The pregnancy test.”

Lando flailed around your bedroom like a headless chicken, looking for a shirt to pull over his naked chest, his hips already covered by black shorts. He tugged on a Quadrant hoodie and looked over to you, about to say something. You raised your eyebrows to encourage him, but he just turned around and ran out of your bedroom, closing the door behind himself. 

He’s not even sure how he got to the pharmacy. All he remembers is calling Max frantically from the car on his way home.

“Dude, are you okay? You look insane.” Lando’s best friend laughed through the screen. When he noticed his curly haired friend simply glancing over at his phone with worry, Max furrowed his brows. “Seriously, what’s going on?” 

“Isn’t it crazy how, like, someone peeing on a stick could potentially change your whole life? Like I know more goes into that and, like, stuff happens before the pee stick, but isn’t it insane to you?” Lando rambled. 

“Mate, pee stick?” Max looked confused. It’s only when Lando held up the little pink box that he finally understood. “Oh, you think she’s pregnant?” 

“No, she thinks she’s pregnant. I was watching Dexter and she just called for me, and then I’m-“ 

“Lando, breathe.” Max cuts him off. “It’s okay, you two are at a great place in your relationship right now to start planning for these things, if this turns out to be just a pregnancy scare.” 

“Are we? I mean, am I even ready to be a dad?” Lando continued freaking out, the car already parked at the garage. “I’ve never even thought about kids, and this is just-“ 

“How about you go inside, go be there for her, and if it turns out that you will be a dad, then you call me and freak out, okay?” 

Lando was about to bite off his whole finger with how aggressively he was nibbling at the skin around his nails. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.” 

It took him another ten minutes before he got himself out of the car. He was dreading it. He wasn’t sure what you were thinking about it, either, so he didn’t know whether or not his lack of excitement was because he was scared for himself or for you. 

You knew he would never force you into anything you didn’t want to do, but motherhood? That’s not something Lando could imagine was easy to be in or get out of. Hell, he couldn’t imagine what the next nine months would be like for you. Especially with how he’s away for most of the time.

Maybe that’s what he’s most scared of.

He knows you’d be a great mum and he could be a good dad if he tried, but his career could interfere with this. 

Lando liked how you would sometimes pick to come and visit him during race weekends, especially at Silverstone or Monaco, but what if that’ll have to stop and he’ll only get to see you a few days every month? 

The fear of being a present but physically absent father shook him to his core. 

He was still scared and trying to stop biting his fingers as he watched you open the bathroom door. “So?” 

“We have to wait five minutes,” you told him before sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He noticed your shoulders shake before you let out a quiet sob. “Sorry, I’m just-“ 

“Shh, it’s okay,” his arms instinctively wrapped around your body as he pulled you in, all the fear from his just gone the second you needed him. “I know you’re probably terrified.” 

“Yeah,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “I know I should be happy, but I’m so scared.” 

“You shouldn’t be anything other than you are, babe.” His hand came up to caress your head, like he knew you liked him to do. “I’m fucking scared to death right now, and I honestly feel better knowing you didn’t expect me to be happy.” 

“No, I know. This could fuck up your whole career,” you pulled away, wiping your eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey, no, what?” Lando’s face changed from worried to confused. “Don’t even think like that and don’t apologise. It’s kind of both of our fault if we’re having a baby.” 

That’s when he saw you dart up from your seat and practically throw yourself towards the bathroom. He followed you closely, leaning on the doorframe to your en-suite bathroom, his bottom lip between his teeth as he anxiously nibbled at it. 

Lando couldn’t exactly read your expression. He couldn’t tell if you were looking at a positive or a negative, your face was just frozen in the expression you had when you looked at it. “So?” 

Your bottom lip quivered as you turned the little plastic stick towards him. 

“We’re having a baby?” He took it into his own hands, hastily, eyes darting between the two lines on the test and the nervous look on your face.

“We’re having a baby.” You nodded, a sad smile decorating your face as you welled up in tears again. 

Lando’s not sure what changed, but in that split second, he felt an overwhelming amount of joy pump through his system. His face erupted into a wide grin as he picked you up and spun you around. 

“We’re having a baby!” 

— november

The bedroom door opened to reveal your boyfriend with a small smirk on his face. 

“What have you bought this time?” 

He raised his arms in offense. “What do you mean? Why does me entering the bedroom have to mean that I bought something again?” 

“Because you have that look on your face. The one that tells me you bought something, and I won’t know if it's a new car or a tub of ice cream until you tell me.” You rubbed your little bump as a thought came to your head. “Oh, ice cream. Could you get some? Caramel, please.” 

“Yeah, sure, later. And you’re right,” Lando finally revealed what he was hiding behind his back. It was a small, turquoise, paper bag with a pacifier logo on it. “I did buy something.” 

You watched closely as he dumped the content of the bag onto your bed. He lifted up each article of clothing one by one, showing you what he picked out with a proud smile on his face. 

“Aren’t these cute?” He asked, glancing over at the laid out onesies, shirts and socks on the bed. “I got them for like four to six months, cause I heard they grow out of newborn clothes, like, immediately.” 

“That’s sweet, angel,” you smiled at him. “But we don’t even know the gender yet and you’ve already bought the baby their whole wardrobe.” 

“No, I know.” Lando nodded. “That’s why they’re all either green, yellow or papaya,” he said the last colour with a wiggle of his eyebrows, which made you roll your eyes and laugh. 

“You’re lame.” 

He leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead. “And you’re beautiful. What does baby want for dinner?” 

Lando developed a habit of speaking to you through the baby now. It was honestly adorable— he’ll wake up in the morning, a hand softly caressing your belly as he asks how did the baby sleep, which in truth is asking how you slept. It was lame, but cute. 

“Ice cream. Caramel.” You remind him. “And maybe some chicken with rice.” 

“Ew, are you trying to be healthy?” Lando grimaced. “That’s like what I eat for race weekends to be all fit and stuff. You need to eat nutritious and filling meals.” 

“Is chicken not nutritious or filling?” You crossed your arms, challenging him. 

He shrugged. “I don’t think that’s what the baby wants.” 

He knew your little tricks and habits. You would spend a little too much time on pregnancy blogs online, reading into their nonsense about how much or little you should eat, and what you should or shouldn’t eat. 

You had already had some doctor visits and Lando had made sure to ask if you needed any dietary changes, to which your doctor said no. So, Lando knew that you being a health-freak again meant you were in your head, and he wasn’t wrong.

When you finally dropped your shoulders in defeat, he smiled softly. “Yeah. Baby wants fries and nuggets.” 

“Coming right up,” he waltzed out of the bedroom, leaving you to fold all the new baby clothes and put them in the dresser Lando had built for them. It stood right next to the crib, of course. 

Lando was a little over prepared at a really early time, but it made you that much more excited to see him become a father. 

You know he’ll do great, even if he spends about half his money on baby stuff.

— august

It’s a few months after your daughter was born and you have yet to fully get the hang of parenthood. 

She’s amazing— little Maryn Grace Norris, a head full of hair and the chubbiest little cheeks known to man. Lando fell in love with her the second he saw her, his eyes welling up in tears when they laid her on his bare chest for the first time. 

And you fell in love with him all over again seeing how he carried Maryn in one arm and prepared a bottle with his other. He was tired, hair messy and a yawn left his system as often as a breath at this point, but still— fatherhood looked gorgeous on him. 

Lando thought the same about you. His heart grew twice the size when little Maryn was born, and he admired how you immediately knew what to do to make Maryn feel content.

Since it’s already been a few months since her birth, you two decided to let friends and family come visit. The first two people who wanted to see little Maryn were Max and Pietra. 

The pair came bearing many gifts, of course, and you had to put them all in the spare guest room since your bedroom had an abundance of baby products in it already. 

You and Pietra sit on the couch, watching how Maryn slept soundlessly in your arms. There’s distant chatter from the kitchen where Lando and Max are discussing racing stuff and preparing dinner, so you three decided to head to the living room and watch a show.

“She’s so tiny,” Pietra softly tucked her finger into Maryn’s tiny palm. “Is she always this calm?”

“Most of the time, yeah. She gets fussy at night, but Lando’s always up with her.” You look towards the kitchen, a small smile on your face as you watch your fiance stir the pan. He’s always shirtless, because Maryn immediately calms down when she feels the warmth of his skin— something she probably would’ve gotten from you if it was genetic— and his back muscles were on full display.

“What?” Pietra notices your gaze lingering for a while and once she sees who you’re looking at, she snorts. “Are you thinking about another one?”

“Another what?” You snap out of your tiny daydream and turn to her. “Baby? No, definitely not.”

“Mhm,” she gives you a knowing look and takes a sip of her wine. “I’ll give it a year or two before we have another copy of Lando running around.” 

“We’ll see,” you look down at the sleeping girl in your arms. She began to fuss a little, rubbing her nose with her fist and threatening to cry. 

In a few more minutes, Lando waltzes into the living room with a new glass of wine for Pietra and one for you. “Non-alcoholic,” he says, placing the glass down in front of you. “Now gimme my girl.”

You gently lift her up and hand her off to Lando, and of course, the second her cheek lays against his bare chest, she’s calm again. Pietra’s eyes widened. “You weren’t lying.”

“I know!” You pick up your glass and take a sip. “He’s like magic or something.”

As Lando walks away back towards the kitchen, he briefly turns his head towards the two of you with a proud smile. “She’s just a daddy’s girl.”

Both you and Pietra roll your eyes before continuing your conversation.

— march 

It’s the middle of the day and Lando was helping you get Maryn ready to go visit your parents.

The little one was now ten months old, babbling about things only she could understand, but Lando found it entertaining to have full-on conversations with her, as if she could respond in any intelligible way.

He was getting her dressed when Maryn started babbling again.

“Yeah? You like this dress, huh?” He smiles down at her. “I bet your grandma will love it, too.”

You were in the bathroom, curling your lashes when Lando suddenly called out for you. When you walked out into your bedroom, he was holding your daughter with a little glimmer in his eye. “She just said dada.”

“No way,” you gasp. When you’re close enough, Maryn reaches her arms towards you and you pick her up into your embrace. “Did you? Is my big girl about to start talking?”

She starts babbling again, poking at your face and playing with her fingers. In the midst of her babble, she says dada again, and your eyes immediately shoot to Lando. “I told you! I knew she’d be a dada’s girl.”

“That’s just unfair, I spend so much time with her!” You sigh in defeat before turning to your daughter. “C’mon, you got this. Say mama.”

Maryn just looks down at her fingers and how she’s grasping her own hands in an odd way. She babbles again, blowing raspberries as you lay her down on the changing table.

Lando walks up behind you and places a kiss on your shoulder, before harmoniously announcing, “dada’s girl,” as he walks away.

“I don’t know how you do it, Mar,” you look at your daughter again, a wide grin on her face as she continues talking to you in a language only her little mind can understand.

— june

Dulcet sounds of your favourite songs play through the kitchen as you prepare lunch for you and Maryn. Lando’s out to golf with Max, so you two decided to have a little girls day. 

She’s playing in the living room when you turn around to the pans for just a minute. You can hear the pitter patter on the floor and assume it’s her tiny palms as she crawled over.

Maryn was a traveller, she enjoyed playing in the dirt and sand, and crawling through your backyard to find rocks and flowers. And she was a huge daddy’s girl. To the point where she would start crying if she hadn’t seen Lando in more than an hour. 

Today, however, she didn’t seem to be too bothered by his absence.

When you turn around, you see her sitting on the floor in the spot between your kitchen and living room. “Are you coming to mama?” You kneel down and watch as Maryn begins crawling to you.

What you don’t expect to see is her stand up on two feet and steady herself, eyes focusing on you as she held herself up with a hand on the wall. She was determined to make her way toward your outstretched arms, and so she did.

Maryn took one step, and then another, and then three, four, five, until she slumped into your arms with a giggle. 

“Oh my god,” you kiss her head as you pick her up. “Your dada will be so happy.”

As if on cue, the front door opens and Maryn’s head whips to the source of Lando’s cheery voice. He steps into the kitchen with a grin on his face, “my two favourite girls,” he kisses your temple and takes Maryn into his arms. 

You decided to not tell him that she already took her first steps and instead let Lando experience them himself without expecting it. You’re not sure how long it’ll be till she decides to walk again, but you’re sure it’ll spark that same excitement in Lando’s chest as it did in yours. 

It took her a few more days, and a week before her first birthday, to take her second-first-steps.

Lando was sitting on the couch watching an old race of his, you were in the kitchen preparing a snack for your little girl while she sat and played on the playmat in the hall between you two. Lando would glance over at her every once in a while to keep an eye on what she was doing, but Maryn has always been a calm girl so there was no worry there.

“What’s on the menu today?” Lando asks when you set down the plate on your coffee table. He has a habit of stealing a few bites of Maryn’s snack once in a while, which eventually made her understand that he was also hungry when she was, so she’d immediately share her food when he’s in sight. 

You smack his hand away when he reaches over to take a cucumber off her platter. “Leave her food alone, she hasn’t even had a bite yet.” Lando sighs in defeat and looks at Maryn when you call her name. “Maryn, come have your snack.”

Lando’s heart skips a beat when the girl pushes herself up to stand on her legs. He softly touches your shoulder, “babe, look.”

Maryn lets go of the wall, her balance still off for the most part, but she reaches her arms towards you two and waddles a few steps over to the coffee table. Lando’s beaming and jumps out of his seat to pick Maryn up and spin her in the air. “My big girl can walk!”

You watch as Maryn erupts in giggles and Lando kisses her face, a warmth in your chest so big it could replace the sun.

— a year later

The paddock was buzzing with people and Maryn grew more and more anxious in Lando’s arms.

You walked beside them when Maryn tucked her head into the crook of Lando’s neck. “You okay?”

“Loud,” she mumbles, snuggling closer to hide her face from the sun. Maryn was now two and a half years old, and made her first paddock appearance today.

She had already met a few of the drivers and found them all incredibly funny, and all of them adored her. Maryn had grown into her personality— she’s curious, funny, caring and silly. She pulls funny faces when she notices someone’s sad, gives pieces of her food to you and Lando when she’s eating, makes jokes without even realising it and asks questions about everything. 

The three of you make your way to the McLaren garage and all the engineers beam at the sight of Maryn. 

“Alright, you two can stay right here while I go get ready,” Lando pressed a quick kiss to your lips and softly pinched Maryn’s cheek before making his way to where he needed to be. 

Maryn watched as her dad walked away and gently placed her head on your shoulder. “Where is dada?”

“He has to change into his special clothes for the car, remember?” You look down at the curly-haired blonde girl and she nods an answer to your question. “He’ll be back in a bit, don’t worry.”

The little girl just huffs a sigh and takes a look around the garage from where she’s sat on your lap. She can see all the aunts and uncles who work with her dad, noticing how all of them are dressed in the same colour as her— a small LN4 shirt sitting baggy on her torso. Maryn smiles to herself, believing that they are all matching her. 

“Mum?” Maryn glances up at you. You smooth a hand over her curls, knowing that whenever she says your name like that— soft, a little hesitant— she’s about to ask something important.

“Yes, love?”

“Why does dada have to go in the car?” she asks, blinking up at you with those green, wondering eyes that always seem to look right through to your heart.

“It’s his job,” you remind her, “he has to go fast and win the race. It’s kind of like a game.”

She rests her head against your chest, processing, as her tiny fingers play with the hem of her shirt. Then, in the smallest and most sweet voice: “Can I go fast too?”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arms around her, softly tickling her sides. “Maybe one day, but for now you get to sit with mama and watch daddy race.” Maryn giggles at that, leaning into your arms as she tries to wriggle out of your hold. 

One of the engineers comes by and hands her a tiny headset, custom-made just for her. She squeals when she recognizes it— she’s seen Lando wear one just like that. “Look, mum! I match again.”

“You do!” You grin a smile as wide as your daughter and softly adjust the headset to sit more snugly. “You look just like your dad.”

As if summoned by the sentiment, Lando appeared back in the garage, now clad in his orange race suit. Maryn spots him and immediately sits up, bouncing a little in your lap. “Dada!” She waves with both arms and Lando makes his way over. 

He picks her up from your lap with a soft peck to her forehead. “There’s my little racer,” he beams. “Ready to see me go fast?’

Maryn nods, enthusiastically. “Mhm! But, be careful, okay?” She curls into Landos’ embrace, awkwardly laying her head against his chest. 

“Of course, baby,” he softly caresses her back in an attempt to calm her. “I promise only safe speeds today, okay?”

You watch the two of them, softly smiling as the paddock noise blurs in the background. When one of the engineers informs Lando that he has to go, the curly-haired racer hands Maryn off to you and places a kiss on each head of his girls. 

“Go win this,” you tell Lando, smiling as he prepares to walk away. Maryn raises her arms in support, “go win, dada!”

“For my girls,” he nods, flashing the two of you a smile before tugging on his balaclava and disappearing further into the garage. 

Soon after, the race is about to begin and the garage springs to life—monitors flicker with telemetry, voices crackle through the headsets and engines roar as the cars exit the pitlane. You pull Maryn closer on your lap and adjust the volume on her headset, making sure it’s just low enough not to startle her, but high enough to hear her dada’s voice filter through. 

Her big, green eyes track every movement on the screens—all the colourful cars are displayed but she’s only looking for orange. When a McLaren appears on the screen, she narrows her vision to notice the helmet. She knows that uncle Oscar has a blue one, and her dada’s got a fleuro green. 

Excitement erupts in her whole body when she notices the green helmet, “there! That’s dada!” She squeals with such awe, as if she can’t believe that the superhero on the screen is the same man who tucks her into bed and sneaks her cookies when you’re not looking. 

You brush some curls away from her forehead and plant a soft, but proud, kiss on it. “Yep, that’s him. Look at him go.” 

For the next laps, Maryn sits still, as if her movement could, in any way, make a difference in the race. She thought that if she sat still, her dada could focus and win, so she did just that. In all truth, she was completely captivated. Maryn didn’t understand a thing about racing just yet, but she knew enough to know that when the aunties and uncles in orange start leaning forward, narrowing their eyes at the screen, her dada’s doing something incredible. 

And he was. 

Lando gains a position, going from p4 to p3. A cheer breaks out in the garage and Maryn shrieks with joy, mirroring the smiles on everyone's faces. 

“Did he win, mum?” she asks, looking up at you with curious eyes. 

“Not yet, love, but he’s getting there.” 

A few more laps pass and she begins to fidget, tired. You lay her against your chest and her thumb slips into her mouth like it does when she’s sleepy— a habit she formed soon after you took pacifiers away. Still, despite the noise of the garage lulling her to sleep, Maryn’s little eyes stay glued to the screen, watching Lando in quiet admiration. 

Then, in the last few laps, when Lando’s another position ahead and fighting for pole, the energy shifts. The entire garage sits still— hopeful, waiting. Maryn’s eyes flutter shut, no longer fighting the sleep as your eyes stay focused and your heart pounds, watching as the gap between Lando and the car ahead shrinks corner to corner. 

“Come on, Lan,” you whisper under your breath as you subconsciously caress the back of Maryn’s head. 

And on the very last lap— through a risky overtake and a perfectly timed sector— he does it. He gains the position and lands himself in first place. 

Maryn jolts awake at the noise of engineers cheering around her, and she quickly glances to the screen. “Mum, he won!” She grins widely, still sleepy but happy to be included once you tightly squeeze her into a hug. 

“He did!” You laugh, blinking away a tear or two. 

The cooldown lap passes in a blur of shared hugs and smiles, and Lando’s voice plays in the headsets, light and breathless. “This one’s for the two loves of my life waiting for me. I love you.” 

You feel your daughter sigh happily in your arms, waiting patiently for when her dad joins you two. Once the team helps him out of the car, Lando makes his way back to the garage, flushed and sweaty, but beaming. He barely gets his helmet off when Maryn starts running in your lap, her feet not even touching the ground yet. 

She wriggles out of your lap and sprints across the floor, arms raised for her dad to pick her up. Lando catches her mid jump, lifting her high in the air and twirling the two of them around before bringing her close. 

“You went so fast!” She beams. “And you were so brave!”

“I had to be,” he mirrors the same smile that’s on her face. “You were watching.” 

You join them when Lando walks over to you, heart full and eyes welled with happy tears. Lando leans in to kiss you and you meet him halfway. 

“She didn’t take her eyes off of you the whole time,” you murmur against his lips. 

“She's just like you, then.” He gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but still wrap an arm around his waist, hugging the two most important people in your life, surrounded by victory and love. 

Maryn tucks her head into the nape of Lando’s neck, cheek pressed against his race suit as she softly mutters, “I want to be fast, too. Just like you.” 

“You will be, princess. One day.” 

— 

It’s late by the time you get home. 

Your little girl is barefoot the second she gets through the door, padding down the hall to her bedroom, in search of her stuffie and blanket. You and Lando follow more slowly, shoes off, bags dumped at the door, the post-race adrenaline now wearing off, but still faintly buzzing in your limbs. 

Lando yawns as he drops down to the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as the other lays across his belly. “I think I aged six years today.” 

“You say that after every race,” you laugh, making your way to the kitchen. You grab a glass of water and lean your back against the counter, watching as he runs a tired hand down his face. 

Maryn returns with her blanket trailing behind her on the floor and a half-eaten bag of popcorn she must’ve hid somewhere in her bedroom. “Movie time,” she declares and plops herself down next to her dad like she owns the house. At this point, she kind of does. 

Lando raises a brow at you, helping her pull the blanket over her legs. “You approve of this?” 

“She’s almost three. She doesn’t ask for approval.” 

Maryn hums contently as she rests against Lando in her usual manner— one arm draped across his stomach, cheek pressed against his chest. “You won today.”

Lando kisses the top of her head. “That’s right. And who cheered the loudest?” 

“Me,” she mumbles through her best battle against sleep. 

You cross the room and join them, tucking your legs beneath yourself as you sit next to the two of them. None of you say anything for a while, letting the TV play a replay of the race on low volume as you closely observe every move. Maryn eventually stills completely, asleep, face soft and peaceful. 

Lando’s still absentmindedly playing with the ends of her curls when he says, “I used to think winning was the best part of this,” he nudges his chin at the TV. 

“And now?” You raise a curious brow. 

“Now it’s this,” he leans his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion tugs at his features. “Coming home to you two. Even when there’s popcorn crumbs all over me and my back hurts.”

You shake your head with a laugh, softly nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’re getting soft, y’know.” 

“Probably am.” He looks at you— tired but content—and adds, “still wouldn’t change a thing.”

[cheaploafs]

Book wasn’t that interesting anyway..

[cryptozoolliegy]

AH YEAAASSSSSSNFSKFKSNFNDN!!!!!!! I LOVE THE TAKE ON HER THAT SHE ISN'T THIN IT WORKS SO WELL!!!!!! I love the way you designed her and also ur REALLY GOOD WITH THIS ANATOMY AAA???

🐚my take on miss calypso after listening to love in paradise on loop

[ramilpaytai]

ramilpaytai recap [ep 1-7] @userdramas : creator bingo [gradient+shapes+transition] [☆]

[tls123]

THE UNTAMED — 1.34

[queermarzipan]

#me an Australian looking at all my stories about prisoners being forced and colonists being tricked into settling a distant land to #enrich their homeland and running into people who already live there and having to deal with that #me a biologist looking at all of my stories about possible evolutionary paths and new reproductive strategies and how different evolutionar #niches would influence things like communication and morality #me the queer person constantly writing stories with alternate gender systems and challenging the assumptions of the standard #binary-as-default mindset #me living in the age of the internet constantly writing about knowledge being lost not due to conspiracy but due to simple neglect #and being incorrectly reassembled in the future based on new cultural assumptions that the assemblers haven't noticed in themselves #me the career writer constantly writing about the importance of stories as a communication and cultural training tool #surely these things all mean nothing

derin <3

[cod-bin]

you always looked fine to me

gym bro!simon x insecure!chubby!reader

ask

wc: 3k

a/n: omg anon this one hit close to home 🥺 literally whenever i go to the gym this is literally me so it was lowkey easy to write 🫶

You’ve been going to the gym for months now. Same time every evening. Same locker in the corner. Same oversized shirts and sweatpants, no matter how hot it gets. Not because you’re lazy. Not because you’re sloppy. But because every time you tried to wear something tighter—something even remotely flattering—you caught a look. A side-eye. A smirk. A whisper.

“If I looked like that, I wouldn’t wear that.”

That one stayed with you for weeks.

You didn’t even finish the set that day. Just left early and sat in your car with your heart in your throat.

Since then, it’s been full coverage. No skin. No curves. Nothing to point at or judge. Just baggy clothes, headphones in, and eyes on the floor.

Still, the comments find you sometimes. Not always mean. Sometimes fake-nice. Sometimes stupid little jokes you pretend not to hear.

“You’re here every day—where’s the progress?”

“Damn, it’s 90 degrees and she’s still dressed like it’s January.”

“Probably just here to feel better about eating later.”

You never react. That’s the worst part. You just lower your head and keep going, even when your face burns and your throat tightens. Even when it takes everything in you not to disappear.

But someone always notices.

And his name is Simon Riley.

He’s hard to miss. Built like a wall. Hood always up. Giant hands gripping weights like they’re nothing. People move when he walks by. Girls preen when he’s near. He never reacts. Never flirts back. Just keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing and nods at people when they say hi.

He’s never said more than a few words to you.

A quick, “You done with this?”

Once, a low “Need a spot?” when you nearly dropped a barbell.

And one quiet, raspy “You alright?” when you accidentally wiped your eyes too hard after a whisper that hit too close.

But lately… something’s changed.

You feel his gaze sometimes. Not in a creepy way. Not like the others. But like he’s checking—watching. You’ll finish a set and look up and he’s already looking away. You’ll walk past and he’ll move slightly, like he’s clearing the way just for you.

One time you caught him staring after a squat set—your sweats riding low on your waist, your baggy tee damp with sweat—and his jaw clenched like he was holding something back. You told yourself you imagined it.

Until the night he actually waited.

You’d finished your workout, earbuds in, head down, already planning what you’d eat in secret later, and then—

“Hey.”

You turned. He was leaning against the front desk, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes on you like he had every right.

“Me?”

He nodded once. “You free Friday?”

Your throat closed. “Uh. Why?”

His lip twitched—just a hint of a smirk. “Thought you might wanna get food.”

You blinked. Stared. Tried to decide if this was some kind of joke.

“You’re asking me out?”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You nodded. “Okay. Sure. Yeah.”

He just nodded again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Pick you up?”

You nodded again, stupid and flushed and already spiraling.

And now it’s Friday night. He’s on his way. You’ve changed clothes four times. Cried twice. You don’t own anything “hot girl cute.” You don’t even own jeans that make you feel good.

So when he knocks, you answer in your sweats and an oversized tee.

Still thinking maybe this was all a mistake.

And there he is.

Simon Riley. All 6’4 of gym-bro intimidation, in a plain black tee that fits him like a second skin, his arms crossed, hood down, eyes soft but unreadable. He glances down at you—at your flushed face, your bare collarbones, the baggy tee that probably looks ridiculous—and frowns just a little.

“You alright?” His voice is low, warm. The kind of voice that wraps around you without asking.

You nod. “Y-Yeah. I just—um. I couldn’t decide what to wear.”

His brow twitches. “So you picked nothing?”

You freeze.

“I mean—not nothing,” you say, tugging at your shirt, cheeks going hot. “I just… couldn’t find anything I felt good in.”

Simon tilts his head. His eyes sweep over you, quick but careful. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate. It’s messy. You’re a mess. But you step aside anyway.

He steps inside, boots heavy on the floor, and turns to look at you like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “So that’s it?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re just gonna tell me you couldn’t find anything,” he says, “and expect me to believe that’s why you were panicking behind the door?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “I wasn’t panicking—”

“You were.” His voice is so calm it makes your chest ache. “I heard you trip.”

You let out a weak laugh and hug your arms over your middle. “It’s dumb. I just—”

“You don’t feel good in anything.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Not with pity. Not with confusion. Just with this weird, heavy softness in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe.

“You look good now,” he says simply.

You stare at him like he just said the sky’s purple.

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve seen you at the gym. You always look good.”

You laugh, but it comes out shaky. “Yeah, in my giant sweatpants and hoodie.”

“Exactly.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, steps a little closer. “Not even a bit. You think I’ve just been sitting there watching you squat for fun?”

You blink at him.

He smiles, faint and slow. “Okay, maybe a little for fun.”

“Simon—”

“I like how you look,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in it. “And I like how you carry yourself. Even when people stare. Even when you keep your head down and pretend you don’t hear ’em. I notice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He doesn’t say it like it’s romantic. He says it like it’s true. Like he’s been thinking it for a while. Like it’s obvious.

Then he glances at your couch. “We’re staying in.”

“What?” you blink.

“Not letting you spiral over clothes for the rest of the night.” He moves past you and plops onto your couch, legs spread, one arm thrown over the back like it’s his now. “C’mon. I’ll even let you put on one of those dumb romcoms you pretend not to like.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. “You haven’t even seen my Netflix.”

“I’ve seen your hoodie rotation,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Don’t need to.”

You roll your eyes but feel a flutter in your chest.

He pats the cushion next to him. “C’mere.”

You hesitate.

“You’re not hiding,” he says, quieter now. “Not from me.”

You sit beside him, cross-legged, still hugging your arms like a shield. He’s warm beside you. Way too big for your couch, thigh pressing lightly against yours. It feels dangerous. Familiar. Safe.

“You seriously don’t think I look—” you start, then stop.

He turns to you. “Bad? No. Not once. Not ever.”

You look down. “I always feel like I have to prove something. Like if I’m not shrinking, people think I’m lazy or gross or… I don’t know.”

Simon shifts closer. “Fuck ’em.”

“Easy for you to say. You look like you were built in a lab.”

“Still insecure,” he says. “Still hate my reflection sometimes. Still overthink every time I talk to someone like you.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Like me?”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. “Yeah. You’re funny. And sweet. And every time I’ve seen you, you’re kind. Even when people are dicks.”

Your throat burns. “That’s not—”

He cuts you off gently. “I like you.”

You stare.

“You don’t have to say it back.” His voice is quiet now. “Just don’t sit there thinking you’re not worth being liked.”

You bite your lip. “I just never thought… someone like you would want to…”

“Someone like me?” he echoes, brow raised.

“You’re intimidating. Like. Hot intimidating.”

Simon snorts. “You ever seen yourself stretch after a lift?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. “Simon!”

“What?” he grins. “Not my fault you look good with your hair up and those little flushed cheeks—”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily, then tosses it aside and grabs your hand before you can look away.

His hand is so much bigger than yours. Warm. A little rough.

“You don’t have to be anyone else tonight,” he says. “Not for me.”

Your chest is tight. But it’s not painful. It’s full. Like he just cracked something open inside you, and now all the air’s rushing in.

You lean into him, just slightly.

He wraps his arm around you and pulls you in fully.

Your head fits against his chest like it’s been there before. Like it’s home. His other hand rests lightly on your knee, not moving, just grounding you there.

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t really want to watch a movie.”

“That’s alright,” he murmurs.

“I just want to sit here for a bit.”

“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

And he means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you. The way he settles in, like this is all he wanted.

You exhale slowly, finally letting your body relax against him.

Maybe you’ll wear something cute next time.

Maybe you won’t.

But right now, you’re not thinking about how you look.

You’re just thinking about the weight of his arm, the way his fingers graze your wrist, and how good it feels to not hide—for once.

He notices.

He always has.

☆taglist☆

@poshestpigeon @avgdestitute @eremika104 @lostintransist @little-mini-me-world @just-lost-inbetween-worlds @h0lydrag0ns @trixilove257 @fertilise-me

[sw4gg1e]

coughs uh sketch request mumscarian perhaps……

This ship is so cute it truly has my heart.

[unamzi]

I'm dead.

[1becuijc]

Uh, I wanted to draw. I didn't want to study🥲, so I drew little dots of Moon.🤏

I have never drawn a solar eclipse. Let's try it.😏

[majorblinks]

triple dog dare (ive wonyoung)

(male reader, prompt for & much love to suchsweetstories, 6k words)

A year to the day since the last time you saw her face:

You run into Jang Wonyoung in the alley behind a seedy bar.

“Hey,” you say, and stop short. 

“Hey,” Wonyoung says. She’s wearing a black dress, thin straps, hem falling past her knees. She doesn’t even look surprised to see you. Only coughs around the cigarette she’s smoking.

“I was actually just about to call you.” 

“Were you?” Her voice, when unforced, is always different than you expect. Low and rich and full. 

“Yeah,” you say. It’s ludicrous, running into her tonight. Like something more divine than coincidence. “I was. Happy birthday.” 

Wonyoung stares at you.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t say that to me.” 

It doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. Jang Wonyoung is the same as she always is. Ice-cold. No dimples. No smile. All that glossy excessive hair. Those unseeing, unblinking large round doll eyes, reflective sheen like they’re encased in plastic. She looks beautiful. She looks like a ghost. She looks like she hasn’t eaten in weeks, sickly and skeletal in the moonlight. She looks like no one you could ever love.

“Wonyoung,” you say. “Come home with me.”

She takes another drag. You shouldn’t smoke, you think of telling her; come on, you’re killing yourself. But you’d never say that. You’re not in the business of hurting her and you never have been. Plus it’s her twenty-fifth birthday and there’s only so much cruelty a girl can take, even a girl like her. 

It doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. Everything between you two is still as spectacularly fucked up as it’s always been. 

“Fuck you,” Wonyoung says. And then she takes your hand. 

-

You and Wonyoung have no reason to know each other. But:

“This is my table.” 

It’s seven years ago and the first time you meet is in college, when you’re waiting in an on-campus coffee shop and look up from your laptop and there’s this girl standing above you with her arms crossed, looking somewhat mutinous. “I’m sorry?” you say. 

“This is my table.” No pleasantries. Actually tapping her foot at you in her prissy little ballet flat. “I sit here every time I come here.”

“Uh,” you say. 

“So move,” says the girl, flatly. 

“Um-” 

“My God, Wonyoung, are you already torturing him?” 

The switch in mood is immediate, an impossible glimpse of summer sun in mid-winter blizzard. An Yujin walks up with her dimples and tight jeans and dazzling smile and throws an arm around the girl’s stiff, slender shoulders. The effect she has on you just by walking into a room is physical. You relax the second she throws that smile your way. 

“Oh,” says the girl. Looks from Yujin to you. Her expression shifts even colder, as if to compensate. But just like you, her posture relaxes too. “So he’s one of yours?” 

You splutter. “One of-” 

“Shush.” Yujin smacks a kiss to the girl’s cheek. “Ignore her,” she says to you. “This is Wonyoung, my best friend. And - yes, she’s always this much of a sweetheart.” Then she grins, throws a hand out to you in a flourish. “Wonyoung, this is the guy I’m going to marry when I turn thirty.” 

“I’m her boyfriend,” you supply. “Nice to meet you.” 

Wonyoung’s face contorts like she’s just eaten something very sour. She gives you a rather unimpressed once-over, from your hair to your shoes. You’re halfway convinced that she’s about to chew you out like a mean girl from a movie. But all she says is: “Thirty? Like, exactly? You don’t want to get married earlier?”

“I’m not going to get married in my twenties like a fucking child bride,” says Yujin, appalled. “I’m way too pretty to squander my youth like that.” 

Horrifically this makes both you and Wonyoung laugh. You glance her way; she wrinkles her pert, perfect nose, disgruntled to have something in common with you. 

“Thanks for saving me a seat,” Yujin says, cheerfully oblivious or very good at faking it, and plops herself down right next to you.

Somehow you all end up sharing the table for the next two hours. Obviously Wonyoung doesn’t say another word to you that isn’t snide and you roll your eyes every time she tosses that long glossy curtain of hair. But you keep having these moments where you glance up and your gazes connect, where you catch each other with mirroring grins, where she goes to kick Yujin under the table at the same time you reach for her hand. It’s uncanny and horrible. She looks at Yujin the exact same way you do; quickly it becomes clear that this is kind of the root of the problem. But it’s just kid stuff, this instant rivalry. It’s college and you’re a stupid teenager and she’s a heinous bitch. You don’t look at Jang Wonyoung and think: We’re going to know each other forever. 

But that’s exactly what you do. 

-

About how you met An Yujin: 

You were taking the same two PM lecture. You both sat in the back of the class. You turned to the side on the very first day and saw bangs and bright eyes and dimples and a low-cut top and a thousand-watt smile. Hi, the girl said. Her hair was up. You couldn’t stop staring at the column of her throat. Hi, you said, dumbly. The smile got wider. Then she said: You’re really cute. Why don’t I know you? Ten minutes later you were skipping class to make out in the bathroom. A week later you were dating. I don’t believe in taking things slow, Yujin said that Saturday, following you into your shitty dorm room wearing shorts so tiny it should qualify as public indecency. She’d made you laugh and then sucked your soul out through your dick and then made you laugh again. Naturally you have come to the conclusion that you have miraculously stumbled across the love of your life. But she holds your hand and kisses your mouth and steals all your clothes and fucks you half to death and tells everyone who’ll listen that she’s marrying you so at least you’re pretty sure it’s mutual. 

“Oh, wow,” says Wonyoung, when she hears you tell this story. “Been there.” 

You gape at her for a second. Then say: “Which part?” 

“Definitely the part where she fell in love with me after I gave her the best head of her life,” says Yujin. 

“No,” says Wonyoung, frostily, color rising in her cheeks. “Shut up. Obviously not that. We’ve never - whatever. I meant the…” Here she mimics you: “Why don’t I know you?” 

“Right.” You say. You shoot a sidelong glance at Yujin, who looks very pleased with herself. Flash of both dimples and most of her teeth. “That how she got you, too?” 

“Pretty much,” agrees Wonyoung. “Seventh grade. She sat right next to me in class and said: You’re too pretty for me to not know you.” Wonyoung makes her voice nasal and smarmy with the impression, gives an exasperated little eye-roll after. But there’s a tilt to her mouth that makes you think that line worked exactly the way it was supposed to. “Best friends ever since.”

“Is this what you do?” you say to Yujin, whose smile has gone so wide her eyes are nearly shut. “You just walk up to people and decide they belong to you?”

Except these days you’ve learned to know her, so you already know the answer. Oddly enough you’ve sort of learned to know Wonyoung, too. It’s weird but the months pass and the three of you hang out every week, almost every day. You skip more classes than you attend and pretend you’re studying together just to end up talking for hours and go to terrible frat parties and spend your weekends getting high in their dorm room until Yujin’s half in your lap and Wonyoung’s ice-princess face has split open in real unguarded laughter. When she looks at you in those moments it’s almost like you’re friends. But then she sees you looking and her expression goes cold and you’re certain you never will be. 

“Yep,” chirps Yujin, leans in, kisses you. Pulls back with victory in her eyes. “Now you’re mine forever.”

“Alright,” you say, smiling. “I think I can be okay with that.” 

-

She breaks up with you that spring. 

She was really very nice about it in the moment, too. Said all the right things like she was reading from a playbook, held your hand to soften the blow. Her bangs were falling into her eyes and you went to brush them away before you remembered you were no longer allowed to. She sighed and said: It’s not you, it’s me. But coming out of her mouth it sounded like brave and earnest honesty instead of the world’s worst cliché. What happened to being yours forever? you wanted to say, and didn’t. Like she’d heard it anyway, Yujin smiled sadly. So sympathetic and sorry. I’m sorry things have to be like this, she told you. I never meant to break your heart. But you stared at those dimples and you knew better. Does it really matter if I left you? that smile said. You still belong to me.

Is there any way we can still be friends? Yujin asked, blinking up at you hopefully. 

Of course, you said, sick with love for her. Always. 

“Damn,” says Wonyoung, when she hears the news. She’s doing that thing where she makes her voice higher than it actually is, as if the princess-like benevolence will cover all the sarcasm. “Tough break. I really thought you guys were in it for the long haul.”

“We’re better off as friends,” you say. “Just like you and her, right? Friends.”

Wonyoung’s doll eyes narrow to slits. You watch her fingers twitch, each nail painted pink like viscera. But all she says is, “Right,” voice still sugar-sweet, and somehow turns away without strangling you. 

And, well. Probably you’ll hate each other's guts forever. Probably she’ll murder you some other time. But you’re Yujin’s two favorite people in the world - that’s a tie that won’t break easily. Like being handcuffed to Wonyoung’s bony little wrist, thrashing so hard against the link between you that it leaves you both with bruises. 

Or scars, one day, if you keep this up. But you’ll just have to wait and see. 

-

A comprehensive list of your most significant memories involving An Yujin and Jang Wonyoung:

1. Freshman year finals week, the three of you holed up in the twenty-four-hour study room in the library until you accidentally fell asleep. Somehow you had all melted together on the floor like some misshapen, multi-headed body; Wonyoung was leaning against your shoulder; Yujin was kind of sprawled across both of your laps. Guys, you said, which startled Wonyoung awake. What are you… she began, peeved to be touching you, obviously about to throw some sort of fit. But then she saw that Yujin was still knocked out cold and paused. Wonyoung’s face was still puffy with sleep, mascara flaking off beneath her eyes. It was the first time you had ever seen her look less than perfect. Eventually Wonyoung said: Don’t wake her up. Then she spent the better part of an hour pressed against your side, sifting a hand through Yujin’s hair. Thing is, you probably knew Wonyoung was in love with Yujin before then. But that was the moment you were finally sure. 

2. Sophomore year Yujin dated some guy who thought she hung the moon, which was the kind of worship that can really only end one way: him storming out of Yujin’s dorm and running straight into you and Wonyoung and snapping: I don’t know how you put up with her - that girl is seriously fucked up. Then he started talking shit about her to anyone who would listen. So one night you and Wonyoung and Yujin went out to the parking lot and destroyed her ex’s car. More accurately: you and Wonyoung destroyed his car while Yujin sat on the curb and cheered you on. Whatever. You were all pretty drunk. Here’s what you remember: Yujin’s wicked grin, moonlight pooling in the cup of her collarbone. Wonyoung, wearing a miniskirt and hair tied up in some complicated updo. She was so ridiculous and girlish and vain, even then: leather gloves and lip gloss as she dug a knife into some asshole’s tires. She caught you staring and scowled at you, like she was waiting for you to finish the job. So you glared back and you did. Spectating from her spot on the curb, Yujin laughed and laughed. I fucking love you guys, she hollered, and you believed her. You had never seen her happier and maybe never would.

3. Junior year Yujin started drinking a lot, and often, and destructively, to the point that you and Wonyoung began staying sober at parties just to look after her. But there was this one night where you were so tired of playing babysitter to the girl who broke your heart that you got drunk yourself and started flirting with some girl who was not nearly as gorgeous or complex or exhilarating or infuriating as An Yujin. Which was okay. Preferable, actually. But then just as you started kissing her Wonyoung stomped up to you and bodily ripped you off this girl with strength she summoned from God-knows-where and demanded to know where Yujin was. I don’t know, you said. You don’t know? she repeated, the high panicked pitch of her voice unfeigned for once. And that’s how you knew it was bad. So you two tore the place apart looking for her and eventually found Yujin locked in the upstairs bathroom. She was crying hysterically, blubbering nonsense. You were willing to step out, let her cool off. But Wonyoung knelt by the door. Please, she said. Her face was pale and tight with fear. Please open the door. I just need to know you’re okay. Tell me you’re okay. She stayed like that for twenty minutes until Yujin flung open the door and threw her body into Wonyoung’s arms, tears apparently forgotten. Wonyoung shut her eyes. As she hugged Yujin back you could see that she was trembling all over. After you’d both gotten her home and into bed Wonyoung yelled at you for a long time, for being a fucking idiot, for letting Yujin get so drunk, for leaving her alone, God, fuck, don’t you know you can’t leave her alone like that? Then she’d sunk to her knees outside of Yujin’s bedroom door and put her face in her hands and took in a deep, long breath. It’s just, she said, very quietly. There was this one night. In high school. She got so drunk, and I found her on the roof, and she was saying all these things - and then Wonyoung cut herself off. Shook her head very quickly. It doesn’t matter, she said. I worry because I have a good reason to. I’ve seen what she’s capable of. 

4. Senior year you discovered Wonyoung was kind of weird about sex. You shouldn’t have ever known this. You wouldn’t have ever known this except that Wonyoung started hooking up with one of her TAs and subsequently began showing up with bruises everywhere: wrists and neck, inner thighs in her frilly skirts, ankles and thin forearms and knees. So one day you pulled her aside and said: Look, if anyone’s hurting you… But Wonyoung only stared at you blankly. Then nearly smiled. Oh, she said. No one’s doing anything to me that I didn’t beg for. Which was - fine. It was fine. Actually the thing that bothered you most about this was that Yujin was the same way. When you were dating her it had always kind of freaked you out, how hard she wanted to be hit. So one day you were talking with Yujin and Yujin made some crass joke about Wonyoung and her bruises and you just went: Why does she do it? Almost immediately Yujin replied: Because she hates herself. Obviously this shocked you. What? you said. Wonyoung? No. Why would you think that? And Yujin grinned at you with all her teeth and said: Take a wild guess.

5. Graduation, when Yujin wrapped her arms around you and Wonyoung and gave you both sloppy gross kisses on your cheeks and said: Not to be fucking disgusting right now, but you guys are going to be my best friends forever and ever and ever. You and Wonyoung groaned and complained: Yujin, ugh, that is fucking disgusting. Yeah, well, said Yujin, carefree and lovely, so high she’d never come down: Aren’t we all? And right then you met Wonyoung’s eyes and secretly thought the two of you would love An Yujin for the rest of your lives. 

6. Three years ago, on Wonyoung’s twenty-second birthday, when you got the call.

-

There’s this one conversation the three of you have, drunk at the top level of a parking garage: 

“How do you wanna go?” 

Yujin’s leaning over the railing, wind in her hair. You and Wonyoung are on either side of her and trying very hard not to stare. But it’s a beautiful night and she’s got her head tipped back to the night sky and she’s smiling, dimples and all. You and Wonyoung look for so long at her that you accidentally make eye contact, just past the slope of Yujin’s nose. Probably Wonyoung’s wasted, or you are, and you’re seeing things. Because for a second you swear she almost smiles at you. 

“Something painless,” Wonyoung says. It’s funny because she has a constellation of bruises on her collarbone right now, courtesy of her regular TA hook-up. You’ve never known her as a girl to shy away from pain. “Like - I just go to sleep and I never wake up. I don’t want to be afraid. That’d be the worst part.” 

You look back at the moon, full and high in the sky. Say: “I agree, actually.” 

“Ew,” says Wonyoung. She’s definitely smiling now; you can hear it in her voice. “Get your own way to die.” 

“I think,” Yujin says. She’s speaking very softly. When you turn to her you see her eyes are closed, like she’s somewhere else entirely. “I’d want it to be exciting. Theatrical.” You watch the swanlike line of that beautiful throat bare itself to the stars. “A blaze of glory. You know me.” 

“You have major issues,” says Wonyoung. But she’s laughing, and you’re so close to graduation and the endless golden possibility of the rest of your lives, and that one horrible night from junior year feels very far away. “Good luck with that blaze of glory.” 

“Baby, I’m not blazing alone,” says Yujin, seriously, which sends you and Wonyoung into hysterics. “You guys know I’m taking you two down with me, right? If I’m going, you’re going.”

You and Wonyoung switch from giggling to protesting heavily about this - come on, you two say, talking over each other, except Wonyoung’s too drunk to fake her little princess voice so she’s sort of steamrolling you entirely and you’re reaching around Yujin to shove her in the shoulder, unfortunately totally in sync, variations on the same playful complaint: Yujin, God, leave us out of your fucking drama. We love you, you know we do. But let us live. 

But then Yujin turns and breaks into a smile so stunning it brings both you and Wonyoung into complete silence. 

“Please,” says Yujin, airily. “Like you could ever live without me.” 

-

Three years ago, on Wonyoung’s twenty-second birthday, when you get the call:

“Hey,” you say. “What’s up? You never call me.”

But there’s a sudden and terrible unease creeping up your spine; a feeling like someone is breathing down the back of your neck. Because it’s true. Wonyoung never calls you. Unless it’s about-

“Yujin,” chokes out Wonyoung, in this horrible, sobbing gasp. “Yujin, she - she-“

She never gets the words out. But somehow you just know.

-

The day of the funeral-

You don’t want to talk about the funeral. 

-

Somehow the world doesn’t stop turning. Months pass, then years. You try to move on and be normal. You get a job. You make new friends. You try to date people. You want to be as honest as you can. But there’s not really a delicate way to say that the girl you loved hung herself from her ceiling fan when you were twenty-two. So mostly you just don’t talk about it at all. 

But it’s like an inevitability. Like they can all smell something tragic and wrong on you, taste the thick weight of grief in your mouth. Eventually all your girlfriends get skittish, suspicious. They don’t leave you. They want to figure you out. Going through your drawers, guessing at your passcode, scrolling through your texts. Confronting you at the end of the line: Who’s that girl in your camera roll, smiling at the lens? Who’s that girl you keep calling who never picks up the phone?

The truth always comes out, in the end. She was my favorite person in the world. She died. She’s gone. 

Even the aftermath is the same. The big shocked eyes. The: Oh, I’m so sorry. The polite, perfunctory condolences, drawing you into their arms. And then, later, to all their friends: Well, I think he might be too sad, too damaged; I catch him wandering in circles around the apartment like he’s looking for something he’s lost. He says her name in his sleep. He wakes up crying. He’s too much; he’s in no place to love or be loved, and might not be for a long, long time. Yeah, I guess he’s a good guy, real nice, real sweet, but I’m leaving him - some things are just too heavy for anyone to handle.

“I don’t know why you bother trying,” Wonyoung says. “No one will ever understand you anymore.”

It’s her twenty-fourth birthday. You’re sitting on the hood of your car, sharing a cigarette. You’re not holding hands so much as you’re holding her wrist in your lap, tracing the clasp of the charm bracelet Yujin gave her when they were fifteen. Yujin had a matching one, too. They’d buried her in it. At her funeral you’d stared transfixed at that glint of gold and remembered how it used to warm with the heat of her skin and how strange it was that if you touched it in that moment it would be just as cold as she was now, would be forever. You never once looked at her face. 

You thumb the twinkling charms of Wonyoung’s bracelet. You’ve seen other guys tug her around by this wrist hard enough to bruise. But you only lift her hand to your mouth and press a kiss to the soft pale center of her palm. 

“You will,” you say. “You do.”

-

A comprehensive list of people you have spoken to about the day An Yujin died:

1. The guy who lived next door to Yujin. He’d been the one to call the cops first, actually. All the noise had woken him up. The screaming, he said. Her friend, the one who found her - she just wouldn’t stop screaming.

2. Yujin’s parents. But only very briefly. They always liked Wonyoung more than you.

3. The old lady who saw you standing on the curb, staring up at Yujin’s bedroom window. She lived across the street. Apparently she’d lived there Yujin’s whole life. Well, she told you, sighing with a shake of her head. It’s a tragedy, certainly. But we knew that one wasn’t long for this world. She wasn’t all there. She was always very fragile. Very reckless. All those hospital stays. You know she tried to kill herself before? Parents called the police and everything; terrible racket at two AM. You know she got drunk and crashed her car into that tree in our front yard? We didn’t blame her. We thought: Oh, poor girl. Everyone knew she was troubled. Plus, our lawn looks much nicer without the tree. God, sweetheart, I’m sorry for bringing up the tree. You lost much more than a silly tree. That’s horrible. That’s heartbreaking. You loved her, didn’t you? You loved her?*

4. Wonyoung. For a long time you kept having this same conversation about that night. Just tell me, you were always saying, I don’t understand, you just saw her, you were just with her, how could this have happened? Wonyoung must have heard an accusation in there somewhere because one day she turned to you and said: I don’t know what you want me to say. She was already dead when I found her. I tried. I did everything I could. I had her skin underneath my fingernails. I begged to fucking God. I couldn’t save her.**

(*Right, you said, staring up at that dark window, that childhood bedroom, the last place to feel her breathe. Yujin’s whole life. Beginning to end. She’d never even make it to twenty-two. I loved her.)

(**Don’t look at me like that, Wonyoung said. You couldn’t have saved her either.)

-

The day of the funeral-

You and Wonyoung decide that you’re going to go together. So in the morning you show up at her place. 

Even now she’s inhumanly beautiful. Exquisite, really. Without makeup her doll eyes look wider than ever, underlined by bruiselike marks of exhaustion. She’s wearing this dress. Black, thin straps, clinging to her tiny waist, hanging past her knees. Her hair shines and cascades and never ends. For some reason you can’t stop looking at the sharp point of her left shoulder. Once someone had grown a bad habit of sinking their teeth into that shoulder, back in college. You never truly knew who. Only had a suspicion. Only saw the marks that lingered for days afterwards. The same little cuts reopened, over and over. You can’t believe she was left unscarred. You stare at her for a long while. 

When you look up to her face, she’s staring back at you. 

“Hey,” Wonyoung says, doll eyes gleaming with tears. 

For a moment it’s as though you share a brain, and maybe a body too, fitting yourselves into the same coffin, dirt in your eyes and mouths and noses and lungs, suffocating as one. Involuntarily in sync in your train of thought, the way you always have been. This is it. Things will never be okay ever again. It’s the end of the world and the only thing we ever loved on this whole miserable planet put a noose around her neck and abandoned us. It’s just you and me, now. You and me. 

“Hey,” you say. The link between you two as binding as it ever was. Or stronger, now that it’s the only thing that’s left. 

Maybe that’s why you end up in her bed. 

-

It’s terrible and torturous and hot and wet and messy and nowhere near as gentle as it should be. You fuck her like you’re trying to forget the ghost in the room, or maybe like you’re trying to summon her back to life, start the seance, make a spirit board out of her body. Hands sliding over her sharp ribs, concave stomach, pulling someone else’s postmortem from the sharp protrusion of bone. You sink your teeth into that perfect shoulder like you can taste whoever did it before you. Blood and sweat and soil over a grave. Indents of a phantom’s incisors. Wonyoung makes a horrible choked sound in the back of her throat. She pulls you off her shoulder, takes your hand, brings it up past her tummy and little tits and unbruised neck. Drags your palm over her face. Presses your thumb into her cheekbone. You dwarf her, you do. You could smother her. You could do something you can never take back. 

“Hit me,” Wonyoung rasps out. 

“No.” She’s dripping around your cock. “No.” 

“You want to. You - you blame me.” The words come out in fitful little gasps. Halting like the stutter of your hips and the wet pulse of her cunt, like she’s trying to push you out, like she’s trying to keep you inside her forever, to replace whatever’s gone missing, to fill an impossible void. “For not saving her.” She won’t break eye contact. She won’t blink. “You think - you - you think it was my fault.” 

“I don’t. I don’t.” 

“You’re right, you know. It was my fault.”

“Wonyoung, shut up, stop talking-” 

“Just hit me. I deserve it.” You can’t stand it. You can’t stand her. Big doll eyes and little doll mouth open and red and wet like a wound. “Hit me. Hit me, hit me, hit me-” 

You’re shaking when you wrench yourself out and away from her, lurching back, leaving her body there on the bed, teeth marks in her shoulder, slick down her thighs, heaving for air. You clutch your arms to your chest like a frightened child. You put your hands somewhere they could never hurt her. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say. Your voice sounds strange. You don’t know when you started crying. “And I’d never hurt you.” 

She stares up at you with true and desperate hate in her expression, unmoving, dark hair spread out beneath her like a burial ground. So pale and brittle and cold and cadaverous. She could be the dead girl in the room, the eternal haunting. She could be the beautiful thing they’re about to bury in the dirt.

“You’re a fucking coward,” Wonyoung says. And then she begins to sob.

-

She puts her black dress back on and you get in the driver’s seat of your car. You go to the funeral together. You don’t speak. You stand all the way in the back and see Yujin in her casket and watch her parents fall apart. 

Wonyoung reaches out and takes your hand, and doesn’t let it go for a very long time.

-

A comprehensive list of everything that happened on the day An Yujin died:

1. Wonyoung and Yujin got into a fight. 

2. It was the summer after graduation and you had driven down to their hometown to go to their birthday party. It was just Wonyoung’s birthday, technically, but they always celebrated their birthdays together - they’d done it since they turned thirteen and fourteen, one right after the other. They used to show you pictures, their two little faces and one birthday cake, Yujin’s dimples and Wonyoung’s doll eyes all lit up by candles. Except this year, just before the party, they’d apparently gotten into this huge fight. No one knew what it was about, just that it was bad enough to make them spend their entire birthday party on opposite sides of the room, staunchly ignoring each other. A big deal. But you knew they’d be okay, obviously. You were their best friend and had seen more of them together than anyone at this party so you were confident being the voice of reason. They’ll be fine, you kept telling everyone. They’ll make up. They can’t stay mad at each other forever. You were certain of this because at some point during college you’d once caught Wonyoung stumbling out of her dorm on the verge of tears, wearing Yujin’s shirt with bite marks on her shoulder, Yujin shouting something taunting and catty and cruel after her, and you realized in that moment that Yujin had probably broken Wonyoung’s heart a million times over, much worse than she’d ever broken yours. Even then they were always okay. Always. Give it an hour. Give it a day. Look, come on, guys, you said, tomorrow is Yujin’s birthday. They’re always together. They’ll always be together. They’ll be alright. 

3. That night, as you were leaving the party, Wonyoung pulled you aside and said to you, quietly: We’ll fix it in the morning.

4. That night, as you were leaving the party, Yujin wrapped you in a hug and kissed your cheek sloppily and said: Ugh, get off of me, loser. Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t miss me too much. Well, maybe miss me a little. Oh, shut up. You love me. Bye. 

-

Now, three years to the day since the girl you both loved died:

It’s her twenty-fifth birthday, so Wonyoung smokes her cigarettes out the passenger side window of your car and lets you take her home. You talk about the messes you’ve made of your lives. You slip off her black dress and kiss her sharp shoulder. You’re real sweet to her, when you fuck her. So sweet that after you make her cum Wonyoung looks up at you with tears in her eyes and says: “I wish that you’d just hurt me.”

“I know,” you say, quietly. “But I won’t.”

And when she kisses you, you think she knows you meant it when you said you never will. 

-

In the morning, you pick up a cake and flowers and drive out to the cemetery.

Wonyoung leans down and kisses the headstone. “Happy birthday,” she whispers.

You sit in the grass by the grave and share thick slices of cake. Wonyoung takes large, gluttonous bites and spits each of them out into a napkin instead of swallowing. Your stomach curdles in revolt. You think of her cigarettes. You think that Jang Wonyoung is always kind of killing herself, a slow and excruciating descent into being the girl in the open casket with a golden bracelet that you’ll never be able to forget. You could say something poetic and poignant about this cemetery, about the agony of burying her body beside the girl you both loved, about not being able to lose her, too. You can’t leave me, you could tell her. You can’t go where she went. You’re my best friend. You’re my last safe place. I need you here with me. 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” you say, instead. 

Wonyoung smiles, shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah, well,” she says, playing along. She remembers. She always remembers. There’s frosting on her chin. “Aren’t we all?”

You think of wiping the frosting off with your thumb. You think of doing a lot of things. You smile back at her and hope it’s enough. 

-

(One last significant memory, just for the road: 

It’s your sophomore year of college. You and Wonyoung are together at a party. You’re both mad at Yujin; you can’t remember why. But she’s in some guy’s lap on the couch and you and Wonyoung are both drunk and miserable in the corner and pretending not to stare at her. You’re ignoring each other, mostly. Except then there’s this moment where Wonyoung takes a step and stumbles in her stupid prim Mary Jane heels and you reach out and place a hand on her back to steady her. It’d be totally fine except for the fact that her shirt’s cropped and her hair’s up and your fingers graze bare skin, the notches in her spine. Electric and instantaneous. Wonyoung’s posture snaps impossibly straighter.

“Sorry,” you say. But Wonyoung puts a dainty finger to your elbow and keeps you there. 

“You and me,” she says. 

“What?”

Wonyoung turns to you. In her heels she almost matches you in height. She’s not looking at your face so much as your throat, studying the work of muscle as you swallow. You’re not looking at anything but the lip gloss on her mouth. 

“You and me,” she says, except this time you understand her entirely. “She’d lose it. Because she thinks we belong to her.” 

“Right,” you say. The obvious goes unsaid: We do belong to her. “Okay. So-” 

You don’t pull her close so much as you fall together, a clumsy chain reaction of movements. Your hands and that tiny waist. Her wrists draped around your neck. Bracelet pressed against your skin, an exact match to the one on the girl across the room, watching you. 

Wonyoung whispers, “Kiss me.” 

So you do. 

It’s a curious, tentative thing. Like it’s the first time either of you two have ever kissed anyone. Shy, awkward, careful, exploratory. Sweet. You never thought she’d be so sweet. Probably because you’ve spent the last year and a half with you two at each other’s throats half the time, you facing down her ice-princess voice and pout and perpetually rolling eyes. Near six feet tall and bulletproof, this one. Except now you’re cupping her little face in your hands and feeling her tremble against your mouth and she’s nothing like you thought she was. She’s just a girl. She’s just so small. Everyone who’d ever touched her has probably hurt her in one way or another, on purpose or by accident. Even - well. You won’t know this until later but Yujin will be furious about this, in that manic, vicious, smiling way of hers; she’ll take shots at you for weeks before she cools off. Say a lot of things about being left behind, used and disposed of. Oh, she’ll say, grinning and dimpled, voice serrated, I get it; you’re tired of me, bored of me. I’ll leave you two alone, then. Have fun. No, I understand: you guys don’t need me anymore. And you and Wonyoung will know she’s being unfair and immature and manipulative and reassure her anyway - that’s just what you do when you love somebody. An Yujin, you’ll tell her, over and over. You know we’ll always need you. 

But for now, there’s only this. Her lip gloss and your mouth. Perfume sweet like summer fruit. Fragile cheekbones beneath your thumbs that could shatter as easy as glass. 

Wonyoung pulls back, and says: “That was weird.” 

You don’t say a word. You stare at those big doll eyes. The breathless rise and fall of her chest. For the first and last time in your life, you think: I could love you, if you’d let me. 

“Extremely weird,” you say, after a long moment. 

She nods once, licks her lips, leaves your arms. And then you never talk about it again.)

-

Sprawled on the grass in the afternoon light, Wonyoung tells you she doesn’t need you to drive her back from the cemetery. “I’ll walk,” she says. “My place is close enough. And it’s a nice day.”

You stand. Across Yujin’s grave sits a vase of sunflowers, their faces all turned towards the sky. “You’ll be okay?” 

The sun shines so brightly that you have to shield your eyes as you look down at her. It’s the first day of September. Soon the turning leaves and the wind and the fog and the rain will creep in and steal what’s left of the summer. Everything changes, eventually; everyone leaves and dies and moves on. But for now the girl you thought you could never love sits in the sunlight with the ghost you thought you always would, just like they did when they were kids, twelve and thirteen, eighteen and nineteen, twenty-five and twenty-one forever. It’s sort of funny. Sometimes the link between you and Wonyoung feels less like handcuffs and more like a lifeline. Sometimes you can still hear Yujin’s voice saying: If I’m going, you’re going. But against all odds you’re still here. For however long it lasts. You’re here. 

Wonyoung smiles. “Probably not,” she says. “But I’ll live.” 

-

<3