#Wasn't going to post but I really needed to speak with someone about this

[gldrushh]

MY KINK IS KARMA | | KTH (m)

"Your boyfriend is wimpish, toothsome when he needs to be, self-sacrificing and you would've liked a hero to spend a breezy simple life with but proves to be he's not everything he excuses himself as, proves that he's selling down the river. His boss, whereas, is none of these things but worse, in a compelling-compelling way."

➵ PAIRING Idol!Taehyung x fem!reader

➵ GENRE Idol au, enemies to lovers (?), boy obssesed, smut

➵ W.C 50k (this was supposed to be pure porn sigh..)

➵ WARNINGS kim taehyung or he who shall not be named (yes he's a warning), loser boyfriend, neglecting, oc gets stood up multiple times, consuming alcohol, lots of it, loser boyfriend is taehyung’s manager, oc hates his ass, like unadulterated loathing,murder fantasies,he's chill and smug like that, also obssesed,mature language, chaotic girl group, jk pulls a jackson wang, the whole gang is here, fangirling, yoongi is short :p,mentions of throwing up, mentions of cheating, crying, slow build up, sexual tension, banter, obsessed! taehyung, smoking, sharing a cigarette, buff! tae, flirting, tae speaks french, props to his duolingo membership <3, revenge scheme, oc is out to get, explicit content, dirty talking, brat oc, brat tamer tae ayee, lil spanking here and there, praise kink, size difference, fingering,cum tasting, finger sucking, edging, oral (f! Receiving), face riding, multiple orgasms, dom!tae, mirror sex, he likes to make her watch, big dick! Tae, penetrative sex, protected sex, and that's a wrap I think :D

➵ A/N: SORRY SO SORRY i promise it wasnt in my plans to ghost you!! I was going to release this one shot on the day tae and joon got back AHAHSJAHS but I got a little shy about this fic and I still kinda am. Now about this fic, I didn’t used to a big fan of idol aus, maybe because I thought there wasn't much artistic freedom in that universe but guess what? There's free fucking will and I used it to make this big self indulgent baby 😼😼 probably should have added that as a warning because it's self gratifying as it gets girls 😔🙏 writing some parts of it made me really think twice about posting it or not because it's certainly not the work I could be proud off or something that reaches up to a caliber I have set up in my self loathing mind but it also made me giggle OH did it 🤭😜 like trust me when I say I had to take a minute to myself whenever it came to writing Taehyung’s dialouge or his mannerisms. That's a man OBSSESED and it may not come across in big neon letters because I love me some subtle infatuation and I really really hope I did the trope justice. Speaking of tropes, I know I tagged this as enemies to lovers but it's mostly one sided hatred so don't come at me for that and please don't take it too seriously haha <3 the last section is unedited becuz i'd literally jump of a clif if I have to edit any more 😓💗 love you, have a good time reading and pls tell me what did you think of it?? Should I be making more of this vibe? Feedback is always always appreciated!!

| MASTERLIST | WATTPAD | AO3 |

Wax is made of organic compounds you wouldn't be able to name with a gun to your head but what you would tell was that, it also contained your wearing patience that made a mocking sound with every drip: the candle had burned halfway down, and he still wasn’t there.

You didn’t need to check the shining silver wrapped around your wrist. Your wineglass had already gathered precipitation twice over, the bottom of the flute damp with waiting. The feiriness of the flame casted shadows against the wineglass, all rippled red and wet. It almost looks romantic. If someone were sitting across from you. If he were sitting across from you. The waiter had stopped pretending not to notice and now gave you the kind of pitiful glances reserved for women with romantic delusions or no sense of time.

But you had time. That was the whole point of tonight.

The above-named waiter had smiled like he was in on something private when he lit the match and said, ���Celebrating?” And you’d smiled back, a little flustered, and said, Yeah. I guess I am.

You don’t feel like celebrating now.

You swirl the warm wine in your hands that you don't even like anyway, but you make a face that looks like you’re on the verge of tasting something rich, something worth all this waiting, when in truth it’s a defense mechanism of some sort. Something to do with your hands that should have been held and kissed. Too dry. You judge ruefully. You only picked it because he likes it.

Even when it's supposed to be about you. Tonight is about you. A rare, like rare-rare personal triumph that came in the form of an offer letter with your name printed in ink that precieved graver than it should. It will the inception of a title bump. A salary hike that would finally fill the remaining fifteen percent of a jar you had named: trip to greece. A right set of circumstances you had earned after weeks of late nights, caffeine abuse, and grinding until your bones felt hollow. You’d spent the whole morning grinning into your toothbrush, rehearsing the announcement. The breed of joy you can’t help but choreograph when it was about a milestone as big as that after you’d finally closed that deal. Got your name attached to something worth bragging about. He said you’d celebrate. Said he’d be there to toast to your achievement with the same kind of urgency he reserved for phone calls from idols. Even picked the place — God, he picked the place.

But now you’re sitting in it alone, dodging glances and wondering if you should’ve worn something less “I’m someone’s girlfriend” and more “I’m the whole fucking meal.”

Because while you may feel like a whole meal most of the times. It's a very casual number of times you feel like a girlfriend. What isn't a casual number is when you check your phone and it flashes right back at you. 8:37 PM.

He was forty minutes late.

And you could swear you had checked your phone fifty times in that length, even had memorized what you saw in the fifty times, you did: one new email with zero new messages. No calls. Your phone’s screen is a galaxy of just unanswered calls. Four, five, six if you count the one that went straight to voicemail.

You don’t, but you remember the sound. The robotic please try again later feels more honest than he’s been in days.

You try again because someone has to do the trying after all.

Calling: Hajoonie 🩷🩷

Ring. Ring. It drones again and again and again.. You tap on the angry red button with force more than needed because if you'd have to hear to that sound any more, you'd spare yourself of the theatrics and just smash it on the ground of this expensive restaurant.

You focus on what's in front of you, rather than what's not. Check the menu even though you’ve already ordered, the way people do when they’re trying not to look lonely. You fiddle with the edge of your napkin, press the clean one over your phone screen, a random thing, really, but that's what dolorous people do when they are trying not to look dolorous.

Theres a twinkle of panic when you start to run out of them, after counting the petals of the rose flower, situated in a vase, as expensive as the nails you got done. Should you do a re-over? Maybe you will get a different number than thirty two this time. Maybe you didn’t got it right the first time? You're just about to, when your phone buzzes, once.

Finally. You were two minutes away from someone tearing up over how pathetic you look.

You hold it in your hands, gentler this time, with more care, and when you read the caller id, your heart jolts, thought it's not in the way when he first said said the l word to you, or when he got you the purse you've been eyeing with hopeless eyes from his first paycheck. Not in the least, actually, it's

not any kind of relief- recognition, mayhap. Comes after a stable three year love affair. More like the way you feel when your foot misses a step but your brain already knew it would.

You snap it up. “Where the hell are you, Joon?”

"Y/N, I— God, I’m so sorry," he exhaled, the background noise already too loud, a obtuse, chaotic bustle you knew too well. "Something came up with the boys— with Taehyung. I swear I tried to get out of it, but it's really important, I—"

Your perfectly manicured red nails dig into the soft fabric of the napkin. “What?”

"He—uh, it’s kind of urgent. I have to be there.”

Your eyes shut slowly, lashes trembling. “Are you serious right now?” you whispered, voice razor-sharp despite the volume. “You promised. You looked me in the eye this morning and promised you’d be here.”

“I know, I did, and I meant it,” he babbled. “But I—I’m so fucking sorry, babe, they really need me. It’s not a normal night. there’s a situation with the sound tech, and he’s panicking, and— It's a whole thing."

A whole thing.

You want to laugh. You almost do. But it comes out as a sharp exhale instead, as you open your eyes and look around the restaurant. You view as a paranoia mode of a camera would: The couples toasting. The waiter avoiding your table. The candle welling wax made up of your ended endurance, putting up the act of as if it’s weeping for you.

You lean back in the chair, press your fingers to your temple. “Of course. Of fucking course it is.”

“Babe, please don’t be like that. I wanted to be there. You know I did.”

You’re about to bite back, when exactly did you stop being a priority and start being a placeholder,  even if you know the answer, the exact date, heavens, when you hear what is the most aggravating sound.

"Joon-sshi."

That voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice.

Deep as if a hollow well would be when you say something ridiculous for it to echo back. Leveled enough that it could iron a wrinkled shirt, hot and fast. Fucking smug because it has ever right to (or so he thinks). His voice, slicing through the call like a machete that is unapologetic about whatever comes in it's way. The vocal equivalent of an expensive whiskey poured over a fire nobody asked to be set.

It pearls casual bidding, cushioned but sharp, sharp enough that it doesn’t ask for diligence. It assumes it like a ceo expecting standing ovation just because he entered the room. You hear it in variety shows, in fan compilations, in your hallway on rushed mornings when you’re trying to get a goodbye kiss and he’s halfway down the stairs already while you were busy tying your shoes and praying for a civil goodbye.

You knew it so well that you didn’t even need to see his face to imagine the annoyance etched into it. The burnished voice that was built to be beautiful and custom made just to madden you in the same breath belonged to one man and one man only, Kim Stupid Taehyung. A name that boiled your blood. A man that spiked your nerves as if you had swallowed down a live wire.

“Seriously? I told you I need that list now. We’re behind.”

And just like that, your boyfriend’s voice is smaller. Scrambled, submissive in that way he only ever got around him. “Shit—he’s calling. I’ll text you later, okay? I’m so sorry—please don’t be mad.”

Something bitter amplified in your mouth. And it's not the wine anymore. It has never been the wine.

You don’t get the chance to say anything. You couldn’t if you wanted to. If you would have opened your mouth, you would have screamed. Something like "You and your Kim Taehyung can go choke on his tech list!"

Heat crawled up your throat, all the way to your temples. People around you blurred as your thoughts tunneled into a familiar black hole.

Kim Taehyung.

Of course.

It was always Kim Taehyung.

You hate Kim Taehyung.

There’s no real logic to it, not when you’re being honest with yourself. But there it is, this raw little wound that carried a little infection with and turned it into something worse.You don’t hate him because he’s famous.You don’t hate him because he’s talented, or loud or has enough money to make it up for it and more.

You don’t know him enough for that, not really, never seen him person or had his gnawing charisma touch you through a distance even, you only know his voice; that empty headed, unwitting, greatly vexing voice. Prechance his schedule too for godsake. How he needed too many people to straighten his tie, hold his venti iced caramel macchiato, but made with oat milk instead of regular milk, added an extra shot of espresso for that kick and drizzle some extra caramel on top. And not to forget, a pump of vanilla syrup blended in with ice held down to keep it from getting too watered down. He probably needed your boyfriend for that too. He needed him for many things, always at his beck and call because that’s what this job is about, isn't it? Passionate art requires finding the vibe and running after it, at even four in the morning apparently. The endless excuses gone round and round his name like satellites. Passionate art, your ass. You hate him with the kind of bitterness that has layers: resentment stacked on frustration stacked on exhaustion. You hate the way he takes up space in your life without ever having to be in the room.

He had this way of swallowing Hajoon’s time like it belonged to him. Ever since your boyfriend became Kim Taehyung’s manager, you'd been in a three-person relationship, except the third wheel was a global superstar with a schedule more sacred than God’s while you're just another fleeting name in the schedule that gets crossed out in red ink.

This wasn’t the first time that had happened. Not even the tenth (you're keeping count). It was just the latest and every single number that adds up, also adds to your loathing.

You could still remember last spring, standing outside a theatre in the rain, makeup running and heels killing you, only to get a last-minute text: “Taehyung’s rehearsal ran late. So sorry. Tomorrow?”

Or the time he’d invited your boyfriend on a “quick trip” to Jeju for a shoot that turned into a five-day disappearance — radio silent that included no texts, no calls of even informing you whether he's dead or alive. And when they’d finally returned, he said that Taehyung had said that time flies when you're working. You’ve listened to him make excuses in every register of apology, from bashful to exhausted to just plain numb.

And now, here you are. Sitting alone in a restaurant with his favorite wine and cold fries.

You close your eyes. You breathe once, twice. Your phone is still in your hand, thumb ghosting over the last call.You don’t even consider reasoning or finishing the fries, only lift a hand to signal for the check.

Because you’re done.

You’re done letting this job, this man, this life play second fiddle to someone else’s. Especially his. Not tonight. Fuck that.

As the waiter walks off, polite and wordless, you pull your phone back up and open the group chat: Witches Who Wine, a name born in blood pact and bottomless mimosas. You’d earlier declined. The one that’s been buzzing with drunken selfies and glitter emojis since seven.

Earlier, you sent a regretful “Raincheck, girls. Girlfriend duties.”

It had felt responsible at the time. Sweet, even. Embracing that you were choosing stability over chaos, embracing you were the kind of woman who got celebrated over dinner and candlelight by a man who couldn’t stop looking at her.

Now, you typed:

“Hajoon bailed. Plans back on. Where are we drinking, ladies??"

The replies came fast like an avalanche.

[LARA]: WHAT?! HE BAILED?

[JIA]: noooooo. again???

[SAFIYA]: girl drop his ass we have shots lined up and glitter everywhere

[LARA]: WHERE IS HE I JUST WANNA TALK. with my fists.

[JIA]: You told him it was your celebration night, right?? You reminded him??

You blink at that last one, because, yes. Of course you did. You reminded him last night, this morning, this afternoon when he sent you a thumbs-up emoji and a “Can’t wait, babe.”

He could at least have the decency to cancel for himself. But no.

He let the one that wears silk shirts and smirks like he knows he has a leash around your boyfriend while he watches him obey do the honors.

[JIA]: just come over. we’re already tipsy. safiya just tried to kiss the bartender.

[SAFIYA]: he flinched.

[LARA]: so did we.

Your friends, for all their dramatics, mean well. But they’ve got the wrong villain.

Your boyfriend isn’t the real problem. Well he is technically. But he’s also predictable. Spineless. Hiding his light under a bushel and sugar-mouthed and easily tugged in whatever direction the golden boy points.

[LARA]: Don’t think, just get here. We already ordered that ugly sangria you love.

[JIA]: You owe us shots too. Plural. We saved you a booth and a sparkly crown.

[LARA]: Also your tits look amazing in that brown top you were gonna wear tonight. You're wearing it, right?

[JIA]: Wait i thought it was green

[SAFIYA]: No it’s brown she wore it to my birthday and made my cousin stutter

[LARA]: EXACTLY.

You tip the last of the wine into your mouth, it still tastes like disappointment, but the buzz that follows is warm and insistent. Insistent that you go and have the time of your life.

You type:

"Yes. Yes I got the brown top on which made safiya's cousin sutter. Lipstick’s still perfect too. Be there in ten 💋"

You have friends. You have heels. You have a face that looks fantastic under bar lights. You’ll go out. You’ll drink. You’ll laugh too loudly. You’ll just dance until your muscles ache and your chest is lighter.

You are not an afterthought.

The club smells like citrus and hidrosis and possibility.

A little dictatorial perhaps, granted you smell it the moment you step in. Temperature bandaging around your knees, bass thudding in your ribs like someone knocking to be let in. Altaria is packed, bodies glittering under pulsing lights, and your friends are already halfway drunk, half-sticky with sangria and stubborn lip gloss, wedged into a booth that should only seat four.

They scream when they see you.

A harmony of “Girl!” and “Oh my god!” and “Look at you!” rings out across the booth like gospel.

Lara practically climbs over Safiya to hug you, arms flung tight around your shoulders, perfume and tequila catching in your nose. “Oh the audacity of that man-” she gasps, pulling back to stare at you like you've just announced a felony. “You look like that and he bailed?”

“Please let me key his car,” Jia adds, sliding a pink drink across the table toward you. “I’m serious. I’ll even Google how to spell something dramatic.”

Safiya wiggles a tiny plastic crown between her fingers, slipping it onto your head. “To your promotion. Raise your glass.”

You do. You have to. They clink theirs against yours, and the moment presses in, frames you in and the joint giggling, the element, the tiny sting behind your eyes that you refuse to let spill out. You don’t wanna come off as pitiful on the night where you should be anything but, when you're surrounded by glitter and noise and people who love you so loudly.It burns like validation.

And for a while, it works.

It fades and fades and fades until it works.

Pulls you into their chaos, that's just compulsory for sisterhood. And you should be unable to picture the word without mentioning the thousand attempts at blurry phone selfies just to get one aesthetic one, the dancing to decade-old pop hits, the game where you all list your worst kiss and Jia wins when she describes a guy who meowed mid-makeout. You laugh at lara’s drunken flirting with the server (he is flustered and trembling and clearly gay, not catching on the hint that she's for the girls too, which makes it even funnier).

You drink too much too fast. You’re halfway between giddy and feral, clutching a fourth drink and a fifth reason to forget.

Lara’s on your left, knee pressed against yours. She smells like oranges and expensive perfume and she’s too beautiful to be comforting but she tries anyway. Her glitter eyeliner is slightly smudged and it suits her. Jia is across from you, chewing the straw in her sangria like it personally offended her. Safiya is already halfway gone, resuming her story about how she almost hooked up with a bartender but forgot she was still wearing her Invisalign.

You tip your head back and knock back another shot. The ice clinks against your teeth like a tiny applause.

"God," you mutter, licking lime from the side of your hand, "I should’ve just come out with you from the start."

“Should’ve dumped that man two months ago,” lara says, her voice equal parts affectionate and judgmental. “Seriously. He’s like rice cakes, bland and barely functional.”

“You know,” Jia starts, leaning in like she’s revealing state secrets, “you really could just… break up with him.”

The table becomes deathly still. The music doesn't. It's some pounding club remix of a song you once loved but now just feels like a headache with a bassline.

You blink. And then something clicks loose in your jaw. It's not like it has never been suggested or your boyfriend’s name hasn't been paired with a loads of "You should leave him" but it has been a while since you had so much to drink.

“Oh my god,” you say, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s not. “You guys don’t get it. It’s not just Joon.”

Lara raises a brow. “Please don’t say ‘it’s me.’ We know that's far from the truth and we’re not letting you do this drama tonight or ever."

You slam your shot glass down a little too hard. “It’s him." The way you say him is a snarl adorned in lipstick. "Kim stupid Taehyung."

“Ohhh,” Safiya says like she’s watching a fuse light.

Lara points up a finger like a child asking permission to speak. "I take back what I said about your boyfriend." Your brows shoot up. "That he's boring. I think him working under south Korea's pride and honor is really interesting."

Jia leans back. "Really interesting. His boss is really interesting."

Safiya stirs the ice in her glass with the straw. "Shame Hajoon never lets us meet him. Or the hotter one with dimples."

You throw your napkin at her. "His boss is cockblocking our relationship. Ending it, if anything, actually. He’s in everything. I swear he’s got some kind of sixth sense. Any time I have plans with Joon? Suddenly it’s, ‘Tae needs this, Tae’s freaking out, Tae forgot his fucking sunglasses and now we’re all gonna die.’ And Hajoon just goes like some errand boy."

“You know what it’s like?” you say, gesturing with your hands, already a little wild. “Its embarrasing. So embarrassing. It’s like dating a guy who’s secretly married to someone else. But the other person is tall, hot, famous. And so, so self important. I swear to god, he thinks the sun rises and sets on his profile.”

Jia whistles. “I mean… it is Taehyung.”

You whirl on her. “Don’t.”

She lifts her hands, placating. “Sorry. Go off.”

And oh, you do. Glass clutched like a lifeline, tiara threatening to fall off your head. Grandeur already on the floor so there's nothing left to loose.

“Everyone loves him, right? He’s so talented, he’s so artistic, he has depth, blah blah blah. Well guess what? He also has no fucking respect for boundaries. He doesn't give a shit that he has my boyfriend enslaved or maybe hypnotized. I don't know."

“He is kind of hypnotic,” lara mutters into her drink.

You turn to her sharply. You don't care that he's carved from marble and dipped in Versace. He has ruined everything. “Lara. You're supposed to be on my side."

“I am,” she grins, clinking your glass. “I just also have eyes.”

You groan, slouching down in your seat. “God. I hate him. I hate that he’s in every conversation. I hate that I know his voice better than my boyfriend’s now. I hate his stupid face and how it's everywhere and his stupid, stupid…”

You trail off, realizing your mouth is still open, mid-sentence. The girls are watching you. Smiling like they know something you don’t. Which is insulting, really. You are the wronged party here. You are the woman left alone in a restaurant with a melting candle and cold fries. You are the girlfriend with lipstick wasted on an empty seat. You are-

“…I hate him,” you finish weakly.

“Sure you do,” lara says softly, dragging a finger through the salt on the rim of her margarita. “So much that you’re obsessed.”

Your head snaps toward her. “No—what? No. No, no, no.”

Jia’s already snorting into her glass, Safiya is ducking like she’s dodging a flying object.

You glare at all of them. “It’s not that. I’m not obsessed.”

“Okay,” lara says, suspiciously agreeable, sipping slowly.

Jia leans forward on her elbows. “You said his name like twenty-three times in the last five minutes, though. I counted.”

You sputter. “It’s not—it’s not like that. I don’t want him. I want my boyfriend back. Like he was before he started working for he who I shall not name. We were good. Normal. He remembered birthdays. He texted back. We had sex that didn’t get rescheduled for a backup dancer rehearsal!”

"Your boyfriend who's only interesting because of who he works for. That’s cute,” lara says, deadpan. “But also… lies. There's no way you both are not thinking about Mr cheekbones in the bedroom. Hajoon is not enough to spice it up."

You gape. “Excuse me?"

“Just hypothetically,” Safiya chirps.

"You guys are disgusting."

“And you’re in denial,” lara says, raising her glass.

You huff, cheeks burning. It’s the alcohol, probably. Or the lights. Or the fact that there are times when you think about him. You don't count how many. It doesn't matter if you've hated him the whole time, right?

"Fine. It's more of a murder fantasy." You mutter.

"Where he has you pinned down?" Jia asks innocently. "Beause same."

You gasp, mortified. “NO. Stop it.”

They erupt in laughter, the whole booth shaking with it, and you cover your face with your hands.

This is a mistake. Coming out. Drinking. Talking about him. Because it brings your dignity to an end and to a conclusion that you don't wanna give the benefit of doubt. That Maybe they’re right. Maybe there’s a line between hate and something else, and maybe you’ve been tap dancing across it for months.

But you don’t want to think about that.

So you think about smothering him with one of his own stupid silk scarves.

And since you'd let these sadistic thoughts in, in the first place. You let them go a little wild too. Imaginably, in public too.

Smashing a pie in his face.

Yes. A cream pie. Banana, maybe. A flavor he’d probably have strong opinions about. Somewhat humiliating. A lot whole sticky. Maybe he’s in the middle of giving a Very Serious Interview, saying something about creative control or the burden of artistry or whatever poetic bullshit he spills like he invented suffering, and then BAM! Pie ik his full face.

He would blink slow with his mouth open. Meringue on his perfect lashes.

You’d stand there, triumphant, arms crossed. Maybe you’d say something cool like “This is for every fucking dinner you’ve stolen from me, you time-sucking peacock.” then walk away while never breaking eye contact because you'd want him to see and acknowledge.

Or — okay — maybe it’s more violent sometimes.

Like pushing him into a koi pond.

You don’t even know where the koi pond came from, but it’s there. Lush garden surrounds and the tranquil museum courtyard envelops. And he’s wearing something expensive — linen, probably. Designer as you and everyone else would except yet it would be something that makes everyone turn and stare, and just as he says something snide and smug, you grab him by that overpriced lapel and shove.

Right in.

He flails with a loud splash for special effects.

You feel so good in this vision. Calm. Peaceful. Like a war general watching her final enemy fall.

You desire.

It’s laundry day.

Which is to say, it’s a day off. Your day offs come in a diversity. Last Sunday...fuck you can't remember. This sunday, howbeit, smells of detergent and damp cotton and a little bit like lemon because you spilled your candle while reaching for a sock behind the couch. It's a type of array where the floor is scattered with warm, wrinkled heaps of your own productivity and you’ve convinced yourself that folding things is a spiritual exercise.

Your playlist is somewhere between defiant and nostalgic. Beyoncé yelling about self-respect, then Norah Jones gently reminding you that you are, in fact, lonely. It’s a whiplash thing.

You’re cross-legged on the floor,in your baggy home shorts, knees to chest, tugging a fitted sheet into some approximation of a square. It’s a long weekend. Or a short one. You’re not sure anymore. They all blur together.

So well that you don't even notice when the door creaks open. Or you just pretend you don’t. That you don't see him.

Hajoon. The absentee boyfriend. Today’s featured guest star in: Please Forgive Me, Baby.

He has come to embody the role, he has come prepared with flowers. Of course he has flowers. They’re not even the cheap kind this time. Tulips, you think. Or maybe he googled “I fucked up” and picked the first bouquet suggestion.

You don't get up, neither do you look up. You keep folding. Badly.

“Hey,” he says.

You hum in reply. Not a mean hum. But not a friendly one either. Something between I acknowledge your existence and say another word and I’ll cut the sleeves of your shirts in a criss-cross way.

He hovers. Shifts his weight like a nervous intern. “I’m really, really sorry,” he starts. “I know I messed up. I was an idiot. I should’ve been there.”

“But you weren’t.”

“No.”

You fold a towel like it owes you money.He comes over, kneels across from you, places a careful hand on your ankle. And you think that only if he had thought of this carefulness before, he'd here with flowers just because. But your thoughts and you, sometimes don't align, so you don’t move either.

“I should’ve picked you over—” he catches himself, clears his throat. “Over work. I just… I got caught up again. I didn’t mean to bail. Especially not that night. I know how much it meant.”

"Did you?"

He winces like it physically hurt. “Okay. You're furious. I deserved that.”

You look back at the dryer. The silence stretches like gum. He sighs.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me right now,” Hajoon says. “Just let me make it up to you.”

"And how are you gonna do that? What if it comes between your errands?"

He flinches. That’s new. Usually, he deflects. Laughs a little. This time, he just takes it.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. Please just listen to me."

You raise an eyebrow but don’t reply.

“There’s… there’s an event this weekend.” He shifts, awkward, like he’s not sure if this is the right time to mention it. “It’s a listening party. For the new album. Jungkook’s, you know him? The youngest one? He's hosting it at the studio loft, but it’s like..fully catered, private, some press, but mostly just close circle people. And I was invited.”

You blink at him. “Okay?”

He swallows. “With a plus one.”

You look at him, one brow raised yet again. “And you want me to be your arm candy?”

“I want you to come with me,” he says. “To celebrate something with me for once. I want to show you off. Properly.” He traces circles on your calf. "Will you let me do that, babe? Let me make up?"

Your first instinct is to say no. Out of spite. Out of principle. Because this entire idol-shaped job has eaten half your relationship and still wants dessert.

But…

You’ve never been to one of their parties before. Hell not even to his workplace. So this whole showing off thing feels flat to you. You turn this over in your head like a coin. Glint. Weight. Intent. But the rumors you've heard are tempting. Oh, they are Glamorous. Lavish. Free champagne. Rooftop views. Gold-plated hors d’oeuvres that you pretend to understand. You’re not a fan of the world — but you do like a little spectacle. You do like heels and dresses and glittering places where people look at you like you matter.

And because you’ve spent so long hearing about this world from the sidelines that part of you wants to see if it’s really as ridiculous as it sounds. Maybe sip something from a crystal glass and pretend you don’t know what it cost.

Still, you have to play it cool.

“Can my friends come?”

He blinks. “What?”

“My friends,” you repeat, looking him dead in the eye. “Lara, Jia, Safiya. I’m not going in without my pack. And they like the group. It’d be a big deal for them.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure he has that power to pull that, but then nods. “Uh—yeah. I mean, yeah. If they’re okay with signing NDAs.”

You bite back a grin. He said yes. Of course he said yes. Guilty people, and your boyfriend was one hell of a guilty man, would scrape dirty off a three thousand square feet lawn with a spoon if the desire to purify themselves of that is strong enough.

You'd like to belive that for him, it is too when you finally look up at him, arching a brow.

“I’ll think about it.”

He sags like you just handed him oxygen.

“Still mad,” you say. But your voice is softer now. Less ice, more mossy.

“I know.”

You glance back at him, tilt your head.

“But you’re making up for it.”

His whole face brightens, like a kid who just found out the punishment’s being lifted. He doesn’t move to touch you.

“Don’t fuck it up,” you say, and toss him a clean shirt from the basket.

He catches it with a grin. You let him lean in and kiss your temple. You let it feel a little like forgiveness.

You have habitually, always been on to prefer night time over mornings. Early mornings are nice too because they closely similar to the segregation of the dark sky, where sun and moon blink at each other. Doesn’t beats the former though.

It's a flurry of neon flash, on Saturdays. Colorful star-like-lights taking over the whole of the city, on the rest of weekdays.

Tonight, it's too much. You knew it would be. You just didn’t know how much.

The elevator doors part like a curtain and you step into a room that looks less like an event and more like a fever dream manifested by someone with too much money and too little sense of restraint.

The ceiling’s strung with Edison bulbs shaped like teardrops. They flicker warm, flattering light across every sleek surface and high cheekbone. The floor’s a herringbone wood polished to a shine that threatens to reflect your thoughts if you look down too long. Exposed brick walls, brutalist furniture, and vinyl booths arranged like museum exhibits. You espy that it's a look of modern minimalism that only the rich can afford to make look careless.

It smells like vanilla, white musk, and champagne mist. If the words: luxury and aloofness and contracts had a smell, it would be this. And something underneath it all. Cologne, sweat, the heat of nerves just under the skin.

There’s no red carpet, but there may as well be.

Everyone’s dressed like they knew they’d be photographed, magical silhouettes and glittering details, statement pieces skimmed over delectable nonchalance. Too many people are wearing sunglasses indoors. There’s ambient bass threading through the room, sultry and self-assured, just like the man whose music it celebrates.

You don’t know Jungkook, but you get him from this space. From the custom scent diffusers, the soft glow of film cameras on tripods, the tray-passed hors d’oeuvres so tiny they feel like a joke.

You’re in a black slip dress that hugs just enough and what it doesn’t is draped in the denim jacket you grabbed at the last second. Your friends flank you like bodyguards, looking like different kind of unaware.

Lara’s in a blood-red two-piece with her hair slicked back, a look she went for when she was trying to get laid. Safiya’s practically see-through in a mesh blouse and sequined pants, halfway to an afterparty already. Jia’s in glitter boots and capturing every moment like she’s the official documentarian of your reckoning.

And Hajoon, dressed in a tailored jacket and that rare sheepish smile, keeps glancing at you like he’s waiting to see if this counts as absoulation or just probation.

You haven’t decided yet.

He’s been clinging to your side all night. Part guilt. Part presumption. Like he wants the whole room to see you and know you're with him. And you let him because a small, treacherous part of you likes being a prize sometimes. Especially in rooms where the stakes are stupid high and nothing is real except the flash of a camera and the clink of ice in a glass.

“Come on,” he says, fingers brushing your lower back. “Let me introduce you.”

You nod once, you'd like to meet the people who are a group of what'd you just made up in your head; sold their souls to stand in the shadow of multiple stars, (no harm meant) you can pretend. You can be charming. Just long enough.

He leads you through a maze of press assistants and studio people. A woman in chunky boots talks to a man with purple eyebrows about lighting design. Someone else passes with a tray of glasses shaped like perfume bottles.

You pass a silky curtain you’re pretty sure is hiding a private recording booth, a whole lighting rig hanging above it like a halo.

The first people you meet are benign.

“This is Chul,” he says, gesturing toward a guy in a sweater vest with half a headset tucked under his jaw. “Props coordinator. Always bailing me out when I forget which box the custom mic sleeves are in.”

Chul offers a friendly wave, eyes darting between you and the champagne like he’s calculating the weight of the room.

“And that’s Seojin,” Hajoon continues. “She handles most of the press logistics.”

Seojin is tall, thin, glossy. Her smile is tight but not unfriendly. She appraises your outfit once and seems satisfied. She doesn’t comment on your presence — merely nods at Hajoon’s introduction only becausw it's a formality. As if she already expected someone like you would appear eventually.

She turns away before you can thank her.

Next is a short man with a clipboard and hair dyed a pale green. Hajoon barely gets to say his name, Sangwoo, you think , before he’s muttering something about timing and the rental van arriving without the riser extensions.

It’s strange. The people here don’t talk the way your coworkers talk. There’s no chatter about lunch or traffic or the weekend. Everyone looks at everyone like they owe each other something, everyone talks with everyone; coded. Shorthand for a world you’re not quite part of.

Your boyfriend, though levitates like a local and you'd expect nothing else. He's a man here who knows which hands to shake and which not to, whose shoulder to touch and who to call sunbae. It’s like watching him speak another language. One he never teaches you.

There’s Minae, who runs digital content, and who immediately compliments your dress before asking if you’re single in front of your boyfriend. She’s clearly three drinks in already, her lashes tipping dangerously close to her cheeks every time she blinks. When she says that you're too pretty for this one, lara with her all too overwhelming charm slides in with an: "am I pretty too?" The rest of you resist the urge to facepalm. Minae on the other and very contrary hand, chuckles a breathless chuckle. All her focus on the brunette with stars in her eyes.

Though all of this, you too focus. On how somehow, somewhat, this isn't all too bad.

It’s flashy. Frenetic. A little unhinged in a way you kind of like. There’s too much perfume and everyone talks like they’re mid-episode on a show you haven’t watched, but you’re starting to get the monotony of it.

A little like clockwork, a sound of tick-tick you didn’t have a liking to but tolerated for the sake of peppiness of it all, spoke to you on the first date, alone. Might you add, that you had left a little bit of impression too. He couldn't speak a full coherent sentence when you saw the first time, had him stopped in his tracks and all.

So it's a suprise when hajoon does that thing again. Literally halts. Dead in his tracks.

In front of a woman whos tall- statuesque, really. That low-key brand of Gorgeous, you don't mind admitting to yourself. Sharp collarbones, sharper eyeliner, a pantsuit tailored within an inch of its life, it could've been stitched to her bones. Her lanyard reads “logistics,” but it may as well say “don’t fuck with me.” in big bold letters. Maybe it's your habit of trying to put people in a drawer that squares them in limited or weirdly specific characters (you know it's a bad one) but she has the air of a girl who once stole your charger in college and never gave it back, but made you feel like the asshole for asking. Jesus. You've got stop.

“Y/N, this is Bora." Hajoon says, voice going smooth at the edges, that press-conference tone he saves for moments when he’s trying to impress. "She runs most of our on-site coordination. Couldn’t function without her.”

Bora turns.

She smiles. With full teeth. All of them perfect. Friendly enough to pass inspection, but you’ve seen that smile before. It’s the version that lives on corporate brochures and social media bios. The smile worn by girls who never lose their temper, because they’re too busy winning and taking what they want, when they want. Her eyes catch on yours and hold.

She steps forward. Extends her hand. Her nails are immaculate — almond-shaped and the color of blush wine. You shake it out of reflex.

"Bora, this is Y/N. My girlfriend."

“Oh,” she says with a laugh, low and sugar-sweet. “So this is the girl who finally gets him to show up on time.”

Hajoon chuckles. “That’s her.” Her tone is warm and she doesn't bother laughing at her own joke. Was that a joke? Okay. Okay.

You nod, lips parting into a smile that feels functional. You don’t trust her. You don’t know why, but you don’t.

Her? You? You think it over and over again but heart flicks only once. And it tells you that it’s nothing. Hearts are trusting.

She lingers a second too long. Her eyes slide over you, not , but curiously. Like she’s trying to find the catch. The why. The how.

You know girls like her. They remember everything. And she’s definitely remembering you. Her eyes flick over your shoulder, over your friends, back to Hajoon. The corner of her mouth lifts, just scantily. You can't pinpoint if she’s thinking something you wouldn’t like or break into tears over.

She gives you the time and benefit of dount when she lingers too long. She laughs when she doesn’t need to. She doesn’t touch Hajoon, but she doesn’t need to. It’s in the way she angles her body, the way he doesn’t quite meet your eyes when she jokes again, calling him “sir” sarcastically. The way he chuckles and mutters, “You’re the one who runs the place, not me.”

She waves him off like it’s an old joke. Something only they get.

And then, because maybe she knows you’re watching too closely, she looks at you. Her smile softens. Reveals pity. Some people just arrive with a sense of prelude.

You hate that most of all.

Before you can pin down the nauseating twist in your gut, Hajoon’s already guiding you away. His fingers skim the small of your back again like punctuation.

“She’s just intense,” he whispers. “Work mode. Don’t worry.”

Which is the worst thing to say if you want someone not to worry.

And something about the curve of her mouth does bothers you. You don't know why. Just that you clock it. Quietly. Internally. The way you clock exits and weak wine.

The girls show up just in time to interrupt.

Lara practically materializes at your elbow. “This is what you’ve been hiding?” she whispers. “Christ. It’s like Versailles had a baby with Spotify.”

Jia appears next. “I think I just saw a marble ice sculpture of Jungkook’s face.”

“It’s real,” Safiya confirms. “I licked it.”

You bury a laugh in your glass.

A commotion near the back of the room makes a sound.

Having said that, a commotion is not the right word to describe when it debuts, they don’t enter like a movie cast all at once, no spotlight and chorus as you would have expected.

You spot the man of the hour halfway across the room, posted near a soundboard station with one hand around a glass and the other curled into a pocket. Black shirt, unbuttoned just enough, loose on the shoulders, as if he got dressed by thinking about air. The tattoos swirl out from under his sleeves like ink in water. He’s listening to someone speak but his gaze is darting.

Hoseok's mid-laugh when you see him, sunglasses on top of his head, leaning sideways into someone else’s story. He moves like he’s music itself, like tempo runs under his skin.

Jimin’s close behind, ghosting between clusters of people. He’s silver and silk, all fluidity and elegance, nodding to guests with a smile just shy of wicked. He’s so beautiful that makes your brain short-circuit for a second, he's what you’ve just seen something your nervous system wasn’t designed for.

Namjoon takes the longest to notice. Or maybe he’s just the most subtle. He’s in conversation with someone in a crisp gray blazer, gesturing with one hand, thoughtful and deliberate. He laughs at something, rubs the back of his neck, and then turns. You catch his face fully for the first time.

They’re not together in a pack like you'd have expected. They extent to a limitless, shimmering sky.

And then Hajoon is pulling you forward

“The boys are over here,” he says before you can even turn. “I can bring you guys over.”

Your friends, already half-buzzed and vibrating with filtered excitement, light up because for them, they’ve just been offered a VIP pass to heaven.

“No way,” Jia hisses.

“You’re joking,” lara breathes.

Safiya grabs your wrist like it’s a lifeline while mouthing oh my god oh my god as if prayer might help, and Jia is trying to fix her hair mid-step.

They hover behind you as Hajoon brings you over. The boys are — unfortunately —stupidly attractive in real life. Now when you get a clear look of Namjoon, he looks like he walked out of a cologne ad that rivals the oldest's version. Hoseok’s already grinning like he knows a secret. Yoongi barely nods but it feels like a bow.

They greet you like you’re someone, which is probably part of the charm. Idol magic.

“This is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Hajoon says. “And these are her friends- lara, Jia.." He pauses, glances at you awkwardly for a brief second like he's asking for help or bracing for the impact of some kind of punishment from you because there's no way he forgot your friend's name. Best friend's name. Idiot.

"Safiya." You jump in before her face can fall. "He's terrible with names."

The girls mumble variations of hi and holy shit and we’re fine, thank you, so fine.

Namjoon asks how you’re enjoying the night. Hoseok compliments Mina’s outfit. Jungkook flushes a hint of pink when a collective congratulations for his album is spoken out loud and safiya looks like she might actually combust.

And you smile, gracious and composed. Atleast you try. You can see the faint shimmer of Jungkook’s under-eye highlight. You can smell Jimin’s cologne.

It’s a lot. But you manage.

"Hajoon-sshi, never shuts up about you.”

You smile again, because what else do you do when one of the most famous men in the country is shaking your hand with dimples that could murder with, double- barreled friendliness that makes you want to tell him your secrets. “I’m sure he exaggerates.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Definitely not. You're the one who made him cry when he forgot your anniversary, right?"

“Jimin-sshi.” Hajoon groans, face red.

You blink. “He told you that?”

Hoseok laughs. “We heard it. He was inconsolable.”

You catch Hajoon’s eye. He smiles, sheepish.

And just like that, something inside you thaws. Invaraibly by a degree.

“It’s really nice to meet you all,” you say, because it’s the right thing to say, and you are currently functioning entirely on instinct and adrenaline.

"Really nice." One of the girls add.

Seokjin beams. “You too. Hajoon’s one of our favorites, by the way. He’s a total lifesaver."

“He also has terrible snack taste,” Yoongi says. “But we’ve forgiven him.”

Laughter rises up, light and easy. For a moment, you almost forget your nerves. Because they’re funny. And not the over the board funny, It comes off easy to them, kindness comes off easy.

Jia is flushed. “Congratulations, by the way,” she blurts to Jungkook. “On the album. It’s insane."

He blushes. Blushes. “Thank you. Please enjoy yourself."

Safiya looks ready to melt through the floor.

Eventually, the moment fades. Doesn’t last long. Nothing golden does.The boys wander off in pairs, pulled away by studioheads and stylists and producers. The girls flock back to your side, still breathless.

“Did you see Seokjin's outfit?” Jia hisses. "I saw nothing else but that."

“I didn’t even blink,” Safiya says. “I’m too stunned.”

Lara sips her drink. “Yoongi is shorter than I thought, but it’s working for him. It’s all working for him.”

You’re still processing.

The wine’s working too, and the lights are low, and there’s a strange feeling in your ribs like you’ve walked into someone else’s movie. Feels as if you’re not just in the room, you’re part of the pixels that make up the ambience.

It's overwhelming. You're not sure how one can make a living out of this, of being tbis marshallsd, of being this seen, this on all the time. . How one can breathe, even. You can barely maintain eye contact with the barista when your name’s misspelled on a cup; how do they manage this?

You couldn't have been here for a more than a hour and you already feel floaty. Flaccid, that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but definitely not normal either. As if your limbs are operating on a delay, still trying to recalibrate from being in the blast radius of status, beauty, and whatever volatile charge comes from standing too close to a reality that was never meant to include you. Your brain fumbles, rewinding the scene with all the clumsy finesse of a dropped tape recorder, replaying glances, tones, shifts in posture that must’ve meant more than they let on.

You let out a breath but even that feels too loud so lean your weight against the cocktail table. It's draped in something black and ravishingly silk.

You sip your drink. Smile to yourself when you catch lara around the corner hanging off around the content manager you met just minutes ago. She’s high on proximity, her pupils blown wide with it. Safiya’s comparing the shade of Jungkook’s lip tint to a fruit that doesn’t grow in your hemisphere. Jia looks like she just lost her religion and found it again.

This is good. You're having a pleasant time. Your friends are having a pleasant time.

Until something twitches at the edge of your memory. Was it memory? was it an observation?

That creeping thought finally pierces through the buzz. Wait.

Six.

There were six.

You count again, lips moving. An uncanny whisper of movement. You don’t know how you missed it.

Except... maybe you do.

Maybe you didn’t miss it at all. Maybe you muted it. Maybe you folded it into the background noise the second it reached your ears. Much like static. Very much like self-preservation. Developed selecting hearing for a moment there because there was a name too.

There was a name.

Something one of them said. Something just under the music, a passing remark folded into a compliment meant for Hajoon. You try to scrape it back. Rewind the moment. Seokjin had been speaking, something about Hajoon being essential. Someone else chimed in. You think it was Namjoon, or maybe Jungkook, saying:

“Good pick on Taehyung's part. He's got a good eye.”

That’s it.

And it registers now, belated and prickly. You’d tuned it out. Of course you did. It’s laughable, really. The way your body chose to keep the peace when the moment someone says his name, your brain switches off. You name it muscle memory. But it could also be survival instinct. And the primal knowledge that a name can curdle a whole night if you let it. While your mind filed away the omission.

The face you’ve been dreading. The one you’ve cursed in your sleep. The reason you almost didn’t show up tonight at all.

And he wasn’t here. And all the stars were alligned. And all was right in the universe.

You look around for confirmation.

He wasn’t in the group you met. He wasn’t hovering nearby. You were secure in your belief that a collection gasps of he just walked in would have followed too. You would’ve felt it; that particular flavor of atmospheric change he brings with him, whetted and exact. You’d have known, the shift in barometric pressure, the interference that clings to your neurons and doesn’t let go. The voice you know too well, molten steel with knive sharpened. The name that tastes of vinegar every time you say it, and you say it often. So you'd know.

He really wasn’t here. Which tracks. Of course, he’d skip his own friend’s party. Or maybe he’s late. Maybe he’s allergic to punctuality like he is to personal boundaries. For people like him time bends differently since they clearly don't have respect of it. Or maybe he’s already come and gone, and the universe just spared you the fallout.

You exhale, long. Unpacking a suitcase full of tension you didn’t know you were carrying. Somewhere deep in your chest, a locked muscle unclenches and thanks you for the mercy.

Hajoon slides in beside you again, glass of champagne hovering near his mouth, eyes all sparkle and hope, gets him one inch closer back into your good graces through this whole ordeal that is a grand, glittery olive branch.

You lean into his side, casual. "Didn’t see...your tae yet?" You ask, because you can’t not. It comes out breezy. Offhand.

He glances down, surprised by the question before he looks around, like he half-expected to find him behind a ficus.

“Taehyung?” he echoes.

You nod. Yes, he who shall not be named.

“Off-duty tonight, apparently. Said he wasn’t sure if he’d make it. Probably laying low.” He says. "You know how he is."

You hum. You don’t. Not really. But you’ve spent enough time seething in his shadow to make up your own conclusions.

Off duty. Right. Still, your eyes scan the room one more time, just in case. A surprisingly wise decision on his part. He only spared himself from the embarrasment in his own bandmates party. So you plan to keep your peace and your boyfriend tonight too.

Alas, you can only have it all before someone — some twenty-something in black denim and a lanyard swinging like a pendulum — approaches with a slightly panicked look and Hajoon’s name half-formed on his lips.

“Hyung,” the kid pants, half-doubled over with his hands on his thighs, hair damp and sticking to his temples. “Sorry—sound crew’s losing their shit over the back-lounge mic feed. Something about the press audio not syncing right. They said they tried to ping you—five times, I think."

The words fall out in a rush, tripping over each other, frantic and full of a bad conscience. He says five, but you can tell by the way he won’t meet Hajoon’s eyes that it’s probably more. Potentially ten. Potentially enough to take your boyfriend away.

Hajoon exhales through his nose. The sound is barely audible, but it echoes anyway, through the bones of the moment, through the space you occupy beside him. You don’t need to look up to know he’s already halfway annoyed. Guilty? His irritation blooms in the shift of his weight, in the flex of his knuckles behind your back, as though weighing whether to pull away entirely or hold ground. Feasibly both.

“Right now?” he asks, like there might be another option. Asks it like the rhetorical density of someone already calculating the cost of interruption.

The runner hesitates, eyes darting toward the corridor behind him where shadows of movement flicker and vanish. “They’re melting down.”

Hajoon hesitates. It almost seems like it's for dramatic effect. You can feel it on him, the feigned reluctance. Feel him preparing the apology, not the words themselves, but the posture of them. It hovers at the corners of his mouth, teeth pressing into thought, mouth pulled thin. There’s no remorse in it, nonethless, the apology is curling at the corners of his mouth before it’s fully formed.

“I can come right back,” he says. “Fifteen minutes. Maybe less.”

You almost roll your eyes. Not because you think he's lying but because fifteen minutes turns into forty. Forty turns into never mind, just go home without me.

And maybe a few days ago, you would’ve folded your arms and dared him to choose. Another moment to keep score. You don’t do that tonight. You don’t call him out. You give him a soft shrug. A little smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Go.”

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your temple, a flutter thing, gone before you can even decide how you feel about it. “I owe you.”

You hum. “Mhm. Keep the tab open.”

And then he’s gone, flesh peeled from the frame of the moment. Grooved into the mass of bodies, ingested whole by noise and colored light. One blink too slow and his back is already someone else's, indistinct and moving. The crowd does not opposes him, shoulders belonging to glittering bodies and bad decisions open for him without hesitation. His absence walks away before you get the chance to apperceive it properly. Before it earns its configuration.

He moves through crowds with that easy-breath peridiocity that suggests he belongs more to movement than to restfulness. More to them than to you.

And just like that, you’re solo again.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unattached.

Empty-handed and bare-shouldered- Unsupervised.

Everything around you surges forward, and you remain perfectly still, there’s nothing in your throat but salt and silence.You edge toward the periphery, toes brushing the spill line of the room. Where the light flickers but doesn’t touch. Where the music swells and bruises the walls but doesn’t crawl into your skin. You imagine what you must look like from above, drifting toward the rim, toward the places where no one dares to notice anything too tenous. While your group of girls (havoc I sequins) are scattered like confetti.

Jia is dancing now — on the actual dance floor, in a sea of glitter and swaying silhouettes. Her boots flash under the lights. She throws her head back laughing, some guy in a turtleneck and too much confidence attempting to keep up with her steps.

Safiya is talking to someone near the catering section — maybe flirting, maybe arguing. It’s hard to tell with her. One hand’s on her hip and the other is spearing a cherry tomato off a toothpick like it insulted her mother.

Lara, as always, is missing. You scan the crowd for a glimpse of red but instead catch her exiting a side hallway, shoulder-to-shoulder with Minae, the digital content manager from earlier. They’re laughing, low and conspiratorial, and Mina’s got that subtle half-smirk she wears when she’s decided to keep something to herself. You let her be.

There’s something freeing about the anonymity here. The lights are low, and the music is louder now, bass thudding like a second heartbeat in your chest. You drift along the perimeter, your heels clicking a slow rhythm over polished tile. You accept another drink from a server. It bumps up fizzy. It turns up pink. Something you don’t have to name. You don’t ask what’s in it. That’s part of the fun. Not knowing. Not caring. (Some of the time, it is. And you say that with all precautions took care of.)

Eventually, your path leads you to the lounge side of the floor. Past the floral arch near the DJ. Past the velvet ropes draped over low-lit staircases. Past a corner where someone famous is pretending not to be famous while arguing about streaming rights. It’s less crowded here. The velvet couches are sunken and soft, little groups curled into them like petals around a flame.

The crowd thins out here. The sound mellows.

It’s cooler, too. A reduced amount of throat-choking cologne, fewer elbows in your side. The air smells feebly of melting ice and broken promises, probably vodka, possibly floor cleaner. You cradle your glass against your lips and take a sip. Sweet, cold, suspicious. The taste clings to the roof of your mouth in that way syrups do when they’ve got pharmaceutical derangement of power lust. You swallow anyway. At this point, hydration is hydration.

You have no plans to dance, you're not feeling it. There’s a part of you that still hasn’t forgiven your shoes for existing, and the beat impressions an accusation rather than an invitation. You're satisfied with it nestling somewhere inside your thorax, warming you the way wine does, gradually, dishonestly.

You stare ahead, trying to look occupied but vaguely important. It's a difficult balance, one most people fumble by the first hour. Your eyebrows lift occasionally, your mouth hovers near a smile. You even nod once at no one. Masterclass. Topper, you could've been, if someone didn't turn up in your sideways and made you want to run in circles until the loss of face wore off.

“You’re not with the label, are you?”

You turn, eyes adjusting to the source. He stands there, taller than expected, with that soft-focus face they breed in casting rooms. Brushed-back hair, that only exists in idol genetics or drama leads undone tie, an earring catching the light like it’s been waiting all night to be noticed. A smile so polite it might actually be genuine. Friendly within reason that isn’t threatening, yet somehow still feels practiced. For all you know, he came with the furniture. For all you know, he’s been here the whole time, waiting for a line.

You're a woman with theories waiting to spill out but you're also a woman with many talents so you oversee them all at once while also managing to utter out. “Sorry?”

He chuckles, mouth tugging upwards. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant—I haven’t seen you before.”

“It did,” you agree, but your tone is light. You’re not mad. You’re just surprised. No one’s talked to you tonight that wasn’t paid to or pretending not to know your boyfriend. A bold choice. A choice you're thinking you admire.

“I just meant,” he says, still smiling, “I haven’t seen you before.”

You angle your head, enough to let your earrings swing forward. Small weights on delicate hinges. “Do you make it a habit to keep track of everyone?”

He laughs again. This time, less apologetic. “No. Just the interesting ones.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a line?”

He shrugs with a grin so flashy, it could classify as something you would note aside and overanalyze till you've reached to one reoccurring culmination that you need better hobies than overthinking. A heathly one, most preferably. “Only if it’s working.”

You sip your drink. It’s not. But it’s a valiant effort, and in this economy, effort counts for something.

He pretends to look wounded. One hand on his heart, the other cradling his glass like it’s the only constant in his life. Winces. “Harsh.”

You allow the moment to hang, loose and golden, like fairy lights that haven’t short-circuited yet. “Y/N.”

He sticks out his hand. “Sangmin.”

You shake it, out of politeness, out of boredom, out of habit. His grip is good. Palm is warm and fingers are steady. No limpness, no clamminess. The bar’s low, and he clears it.

He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Y/N-who’s-not-with-the-label.”

You glance sideways, scanning for cameras or people pretending not to eavesdrop. “And you are?”

“Former trainee. Now an occasional singer. Sometimes dancer. Full-time mascot, depending on who you ask.” he says as if narrating a bed-time story.

That draws a laugh out of you before you can stop it. “That’s oddly honest.”

He leans against the railing beside you, drink in hand. “Honesty’s underrated.”

You nod. "True, that."

The conversation drifts into easy banter. He asks how you’re liking the party. You say it’s beautiful. He agrees. You say it’s loud. He says it’s always loud. He tells you a story about tripping on a camera wire during a rehearsal and breaking someone’s ankle. You raise your brows. “Their ankle?” He winces. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.”

And the truth of it is; it’s nice. He’s nice. Funny, even. Bothersomely so. The ease of it, of his voice that has a soft-spoken allure that slips out between sips of whatever he’s drinking, the way his sentences land on the floor between you like coins: unsubstanial, eye-catching and never heavy enought to bruise. A clever theif would take great advantage of that because his smile doesn’t ask anything of you. His eyes don’t crawl. And that should be comforting, but in some twisted, tired corner of your chest, it feels worse. Because this could be something. He could be something and that sounds inviting, when you give regard to the attention he gives you, where you don’t have to earn by vanishing parts of yourself.

It would take almost nothing to tilt this into flirtation. You would work a little on your smile and reshape your unit of speech just right, take a sip longer than imperative. Could sink into the clearance he’s offering without ramification, owing to the fact that men like him never ask, they come with tidy intentions and open palms. They don't come with an entourage or an aftertaste.

But your blood doesn’t reach for him, so you don’t. Because you’re not here for that.

Because your boyfriend, who hasn't looked at you properly in days, is still somewhere inside this building, elbows in cables, lungs full of static, cursing at machinery with the conviction of a prophet. The air around him probably smells like copper and stubbornness. You can picture his shoulders already, hunched and wired, chasing perfection with shaking hands and a deadline no one asked him to meet. He’s the reason you’ve spent the last hour smiling politely at people who might never know your name properly and won’t say it. And even if he deserves to be punished for it, for dozens of things, for all of it, you won’t be the knife. You won’t be the thing that you are inherently not.

So you smile. But you dull it with your eyes. You sip your drink, but only because your hands need something to do. You let Sangmin speak — witty, harmless, charming Sangmin — and you nod at the appropriate beats, but your solidity stays pressed into your heels.

You stay where you are.

You say. “My boyfriend,” without flinching. “He works with the group.” When he leans a little closer, elbows resting on the edge of the lounge railing. “So if you’re not with the label, and you’re not a reporter, and you’re not secretly here to pitch a demo... who are you here with?”

You’re not the type to go looking for trouble.

Even if it’s standing beside you in a perfect shirt, making you laugh like nothing matters.

You crave for a distraction from that and it comes in the fashion of a text message.

Your phone buzzes with a little tremor in your hand, screen lighting up like a jolt against the warm, dim haze of the lounge.

You glance down with the mildest sigh, thumb swiping across the screen with practiced detachment, only to freeze at the message lighting it up. Shit. That wasn't the distraction you meant.

[safiya:] emergency. jia’s throwing up in the bathroom. she drank something w dairy i think. help?

The screen lights up in your hand, and at first, the words don’t register. They stall for a second, indefinite at the corners, stubborn in the glow of your phone screen, smearing into background noise. Blame it on the cocktail fogging your bloodstream, or the hundred moving pieces around you: tinsels catching in fake candlelight, voices climbing on top of each other, the sound of a laugh that isn’t yours clamorously too close to your ear. Ends when, reality seizes, Glitter loses its glint. Music overlays inward. The dalliance hanging between you and Sangmin deflates mid-air. Safiya’s words, your friend’s, aren’t long, but they’re enough to lance through whatever artificial calm the evening had built around your shoulders.

You barely finish reading when you mutter, “Shit.” It escapes before you can pack it down.

Sangmin straightens slightly beside you. “Everything okay?” He’s attentive now. Alert even when there's no need him to be. His voice has edged out of flirty and into rigorous.

You force a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere. “Friend emergency.Like a real one.”

“You want help finding them?” His expression shifts, subtle but immediate. He offers help without posturing.

“No,” you say quickly, already stepping back. “Thanks, though. You’ve been… really sweet.”

“Anytime,” he says. A tilt of his glass like a farewell salute. Jeez. You’d laugh if your pulse wasn’t in your throat.

You murmur something like a goodbye, barely audible over the bass, before ducking through the crowd with narrowed eyes and a racing heart. Body tense and forward-leaning, pace picking up without warning. Your heels slap the floor, too fast for elegance, too slow for panic, caught somewhere in that in-between speed people only use when they’re chasing clarity. You’re dodging limbs and cocktail glasses, highlighter-streaked shoulders and half-spilled secrets, all of it flexuring away from you in waves. It’s a cartoon version of what it was ten minutes ago, voices rubbery, lights too sharp, music melting at the confines.

The hallway feels longer now. Louder. The clicks come faster. The party’s music muffles and distorts as you turn a corner and push through a crowd, moving like someone with a mission,which you are. You pass a stylist laughing too loud, a guy adjusting his bowtie in a mirror, someone accidentally spilling champagne that smells too floral. All of it, noise.

All of you, instinct. Blisters when your phone buzzes again. This is messier. This is what did she say? and how bad is it? and god, how far did she get before she texted?

[safiya:] we’re in the second-floor bathroom. back hallway. jia’s on the floor.

Of course it had to be dairy. Jia’s lactose intolerance is the stuff of group lore. And of course she’d think the mousse was vegan just because it was “foamier.”

You find the stairwell, a close-mouthed back corridor lit by cooler lights. As soon as the party noise dulls behind the wall, your adrenaline kicks in sharper.

The second-floor bathroom isn’t hard to find. The door is cracked, music muffled behind layers of expensive soundproofing. You knock once and slip inside.

“Hey,” you call, already tugging your jacket off.

Safiya’s crouched by the sink, holding Jia’s hair back. Jia herself is hunched over the toilet, looking pale and miserable, makeup streaked and dignity somewhere down the drain.

“Oh, babe,” you say softly, dropping beside them. “You okay?”

Jia mumbles something that might’ve been, “Never eating dessert again.”

“She’s burning up,” Safiya says, brows furrowed. “And I can’t get lara to pick up. Her phone’s on DND.”

“She left with that content manager woman,” you mutter, digging into your bag for a napkin or some tissues. “Minae? The one with the bob and the designer clipboard?”

“God, I knew it,” Safiya huffs. "It's like she gets off being reckless."

You dab gently at Jia’s forehead. She’s sweating now, shaky and miserable but not in danger. Not thus far. Her breath’s steady. Her eyes flutter.

“Think she just needs to get it all out,” Safiya murmurs. “But I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“I’ll kill whoever made that mousse,” you mutter, brushing a hand down Jia’s back. “Or at least file a passive-aggressive complaint.”

You glance around, noting the neatly folded hand towels, the stack of fancy soaps, the porcelain sink that looks like it cost more than your rent. The absurdity of handling real shit in such an unreal place; it grates and comforts at the same time.

“Okay,” you murmur, trying to steady your own voice. “Stay with her a sec. I’ll go get water or ginger ale if they have any.”

"O-okay." She nods, shoulders relaxing.

You slip out of the bathroom like you’re walking through water.

The passage feels dissolvent now, air dense with all the words you didn’t say. You push a palm over your forehead, feel the warmth building under your skin, and wonder if it’s sympathy sickness or just frustration curling low in your gut. The worst part is you can’t blame Jia. Not really. She’s the soft one and you say that with documented proof of that one time when cried at a commercial and she still believes in horoscopes.

Your heels echo through the corridor as you walk towards the hallway spits you into another corner of the venue, this one unfamiliar, all wood-paneled doors and golden sconce lighting, like the architectural equivalent of whispering. Everything feels a little inarticulate here. Like you’ve slipped behind the curtain of the night and crashed in its quiet, unsupervised heart.

The party tucks beneath you now, flattened into a low, quaking throb that doesn’t so much speak as it vibrates, deep in the hollow between bone and breath. The music no longer reaches your ears in any clean, decipherable way. It’s washed-out, guttural, absorbed by walls and fabric and distance, reduced to a genesis that hitches itself to your chest and rides every exhale, as if a secret.

You don’t know where the catering crew disappeared to. Whether they’ve set up shop in a closet-sized prep station behind some satin curtain or if there’s a staff kitchen buried somewhere in the maze of corridors, guarded by stress and stainless steel. You don’t know if there’s a vending machine kinetic in it's opertion, in a forgotten corner, stocked with warm soda and crackers designed to outlive civilization. You don’t know, and at this point, you don’t really care. steady hands, firm jaw, no time for collapse. The crisis manager, the de facto medic, the girl who always knows what to grab when someone’s bleeding metaphorically or otherwise, is here now, and she’s got the wheel in a death grip.The part of you that runs crisis control has surfaced in and refuses to log out.

You spot someone near the elevator, clipboard in hand, wearing the haunted eyes of someone paid too little to care too much, and you slide into their eyeline before they can disappear into usefulness. “Sorry,” you say, swallowing the rest of your breath before it breaks apart. “Do you know where I can find bottled water? Or soda? It’s for someone upstairs.”

They blink at you, startled, as if you’ve spoken a spell in a language reserved for emergencies. They were expecting a headset, maybe. Most definitely from an official. Instead they got a girl in heels and unfinished mascara, looking halfway between guest and ghost. “Uh—check the prep station near the west corner? Just past the photo booth. There’s always extra stuff stored back there.”

You thank them before they can ask who you are. Your heels resume their mindless candace. Though defining it mindless would be a contradiction on it's own.

Because the longer you’re away from the bathroom, the more you start thinking. You don’t want to- this is supposed to be simple but your thoughts mutate away from the simple task of fetching a drink. Keep a friend alive, make sure she’s breathing through whatever hell clawed its way up her throat. Return. The distance from the bathroom grows, and with it, the space for your mind to spiral. Your brain won’t shut up, now. Won’t let you have that peace cause its so inconveniently wired for emotional noise, keeps dragging you somewhere else.

Hajoon still hasn’t followed up. You’d texted him, told him where you were. You told him emergency triage, and if that wasn’t enough to get his feet moving, what is?

You turn the next corner, pass a cluster of interns half-hunched over a light panel, then veer off toward a hallway marked “STAFF ONLY.” The rope is halfway slipped already, forgotten or ignored. You lift it with one hand and step through, no hesitation. There’s a kind of freedom in crossing boundaries that no one’s watching.

The floor changes under your shoes, softer now, something ductile or carpeted, dulled at the edges.

The hallway branches once. Then again. Everything here smells faintly of cleaning supplies and flowers that died too expensive. You keep left. You pass a storage room door half-cracked open.

There’s a linen cart parked haphazardly against the wall, as though someone meant to wheel it somewhere and then simply forgot how to follow through. Its wheels are crooked, one half-swallowed by the seam in the tile. Cloth napkins spill from the top shelf, un creased in places, crumpled in others, some folded with care, others balled up like someone gave up mid-shift. The cart smells unclearly of starch and lemon polish, though the scent is old now, faded. It shouldn’t register as anything important. It’s background, set dressing. But your steps hesitate all the same. Something in your gut makes you pause- it's not dread that mimics one of the many classic horror, not instinct either. It's marginally a pause. What it is, is one of those micro-moments when your brain forgets what the next step is supposed to feel like, and in that blank space, everything else happens.

You wouldn't have noticed, except you hear it. It's suprising that you hear it at all. Not at first obviously. Even-handedly a sound that feels like it shouldn’t be there, the sound being the slightest rustle of movement. You're still taken aback from the fact that you heard it before you even sum up what's in front.

There’s a door ahead of you, it’s half-open. Few and far between to be an invitation, but enough to make you wonder whether it was meant to be closed at all. Light spills through the narrow gap and pools on the floor in a long diagonal, slicing the hallway in half. It has that fluorescent, salubrious tint that makes everything beneath it look more exhausted than it already is. It paints a harsh stripe across the tile, across the napkins that have spilled out and frozen mid-collapse.

It should be nothing.

Keyword: Should be.

But your stomach twists because it not nothing. You hear it before your eyes have caught up to the chassis of it, voice seeping through the thin air, delicate in tone but heavy in intention, that unnervingly lacquered pitch women use when they want to sound wounded while making do with the peaked ends. Too close to a whine to be professional and too retiring to be a whisper held between teeth.You know that voice. From an hour ago and a handshake held too long.

“—don’t know why you brought her.”

You stiffen calcifies, muscles wrapped in an invisible brace of knowing before thought has the chance to intervene. Notwithstanding as it dawns upon you. There is no alarm in your blood, only a slow, curling recoil, a heatless burn under the structure of your bones, only happens when your body recognizes a truth faster than your brain allows. And in that second, divulgence feasts on it, on this limited space which inhabits, too much light and too many truths.

Inside, there’s a shuffle of feet. You assume Hajoon’s feet because his voice is right behind. Tired it sounds.You know the articulation of Hajoon’s steps by heart. You’ve counted them. On staircases. Sidewalks. Your apartment floor. It’s him. It’s absolutely him. And this is definitely a moment you were never meant to witness, unlike those ones.

“Bora, come on.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

The thought spirals like a siren in your head, acute and shrill, but your limbs won’t respond. Your name—well, her edited version of it—still floats between the syllables like a ghost. It hovers in the stale air, waiting to be dissected. Examined. Embalmed. It follows that, Hajoon is right there, sufficiently beyond the narrow slit of the door, sufficiently close enough to see if you lean another inch. The thought loops inside you, blinking red, warning you off like a flashing exit sign in a building that’s about to go under.

You shouldn’t stand on the edge of a threshold holding your breath like a child in a horror film. But your feet carry you the last few steps anyway. You stop at the edge of the door. Your body does what it always does: disobeys in the ways that matter. You drift those last few steps forward, against reason, against self-respect, against your own better judgment, which has never won a single fight with your curiosity. You stop before the door, which is, predictably, ajar. Drawn by a magnetism you hate yourself for responding to, step into the slice of light spilling out, allowing you permission. You lean, carefully, slowly, not with intent to spy, but because gravity is a cruel thing when verity is involved.

But you can’t not hear. Some truths calcify on impact.

“You knew I had to,” Hajoon’s voice replies.There’s strain there, but no outrage. “You knew she was coming.”

“No, I knew you invited her. That’s different.”

Something inside you hollows, it's not a feeling of being stabbed but more like a scoop. It happens when someone’s hand just reaches in and takes a part of your stomach out. The distinct sensation of absence, of a piece of yourself being removed so gently you might’ve missed.

And then she replies, and her tone slips even further into something sugary and rehearsed, a voice performing vulnerability without ever being touched by it. “Is she really worth this whole scene? You don’t even look at me anymore.”

Your breath catches in your throat as Bora’s shadow moves. Her heels click lazily against the tile; catlike, the gait of someone who knows they won’t be interrupted. She enters the sliver of your view, the sleek line of her calf, the shimmering hem of her dress, the glint of earrings swinging arrogantly near her throat. You hear the brush of her hand against fabric and you know exactly what part of him she’s touching. You imagine the press of her palm over his chest, the lean of her body into his. It all happens in your boyfriend’s silence. And in that silence, a occurence too hefty to explain.

Your heartbeat rises in your ears. Hajoon doesn’t say anything. That’s what terrifies you. Guts you. The relevation that this isn’t new. This isn’t some messy misunderstanding begotten in champagne and ambient lighting. This isn’t just some bad timing and worse boundaries.

She knows how close she can stand. He knows not to push her away. Her encroachment and his compliance is perfection.

You don’t realize when your hand finds the doorframe, only that it’s there now, clutching the edge with a grip so tight your knuckles pale, fingers curled in as though the wood might be the only thing keeping you upright the floor. Your weight has shifted forward, barely perceptible, but enough to feel how precarious your body has become. There’s a dizziness curling at the corners of your vision, the faint, reeling you until, the floor doesn’t just spin outright but diagonals the whole hallway, sluggish and silent, until every step forward feels steeped of jeopardy.

Her voice floats closer, closer than it should be, caramel-coated and too aware of itself, dripping with old secrets cladded up as affection. “You never used to hesitate,”Bora says, purring the words confidently. Comes from years of being let terribly close, terribly often. “Remember that night in Jeju?”

Your stomach turns with such violence that your throat tightens to contain it, not quite because of the place but because of the specificity. You hate how specific it is. How casually it falls from her mouth like it was theirs, like it still is. And you’re the stranger here, the interloper. Your mind flinches against the image, desperate to resist its outline, but it sculpts itself out anyway. Sand underfoot, spending nights which rewrote everything you had spent years wasting your ink on.

“I remember, baby.” Hajoon murmurs. Three words form bruises under your skin, one by one, swelling inward, He never called you baby in years of your relationship. In that soft voice, to be exact, immensly soft to belong to anything except regret or concede, and yet there’s no regret in the accentuation.

You want to laugh. Hardly because it’s funny, nothing about this is funny, but because the absurdity of the pain has reached a point of detachment, the way your mind sometimes offers humor when the body is close to collapse. You want to cry, too.And part of you wants to throw the door wide open, break the performance into pieces, shove the truth into the light and force him to look you in the face while it burns. But your body refuses to do any of it. You remain exactly where you are, stuck in a moment too excruciating to interrupt, a bystander in your own devastation. You’re the frame that flickers on screen before the plot pivots.

You press your knuckles against your mouth, the skin there soft from earlier, now dented under pressure. The contact is painful on purpose, in the best interest of you because you need the grounding. You need the reminder that you’re real. That this moment, for all its cruelty, is happening, and you are standing inside it.

Inside, Bora sighs, and the sound is so pleased with itself you almost swerve. “You shouldn’t have brought her if you didn’t want me to do this.”

There’s no reply. And the silence, this time, is deafening. Deeply, fatally familiar.

You hear a shuffle, drag of fabric, potentially a foot dragging closer to another, following the sound of movement you don’t want to identify, a insufflation exhaled that sounds mightly satisfied, getting intimate, too sure of its position and of this delicious game. You don’t want to imagine what’s happening in that pause. You don’t want to wonder how the bated breath you hold hostage anyways, speaks like your brain, atrocious in its survival instincts, paints the picture anyway, and your body responds with a sickened tightness that has nowhere to go.

Your breath catches so sharply in your throat you think it might scratch you from the inside. You feel stupid. You feel stupid.

You told yourself this was just you overthinking, that Hajoon was tired all of the time and started to perpare for the older times when you will be older too and he'll get worse but you'll be there. Distracted, mayhaps. Pulled a hundred directions by this event. You gave him excuses. You always did — so eager, so stupidly loyal — gave him that room.

And the part that stings the most, makes you want to claw his betraying heart out, is that he let you, let you build that little myth Took advanted of the room of uncertainty you gave him. Gods, gave him so much room to disappoint you. Over and over. Until all he had to do to keep you was nothing.

Padded every missed text with understanding. Gulped down every late night, every unexplained absence with that stupid stupid smile. You rationalized his silences, handed them over with thought too. Made up for them in your head. Built a cushion out of benefit-of-the-doubt and laid down in it, eyes closed, telling yourself it wasn’t what it looked like, because you loved him. Because you chose him. Because love, as you were told, is supposed to be work.

From both fucking sides. It didn't function so when you alone did the work and never asked if he was doing it too.

And now you’re here. In this hallway. Listening to the soft undoing of your entire relationship through a half-open door and the giggle of a woman who never saw you as a threat.

The humiliation feels cinematic,doesn’t come all at once, but ponderous; seeping, viscous, with the heft of something that’s been waiting a long time to be acknowledged. It rivulets into you with the same progression as dread, thick and sticky as honey spilled across cold tile, where every inch it spreads becomes harder to scrub clean. Fills your ribs, then slips deeper, into the squishy discomfort of your sternum, and you know without needing to be told that this is a hurt that's gonna stay, will make a home.

Your body already knows what your mouth isn’t brave enough to say. You were so oblivious.

You think back to every red flag you plucked from the air and re-dyed white, into a color you could live with. The nights he came home later than he said he would, the smell on his collar (not yours, never yours) smelling faintly of something exceedingly floral to be your detergent. The half-sentence that rarely ended with an i love you, even when you had made it very clear on the early on stages of your relationship that you liked being told that you were loved, that too often. You think about all the things you chalked up to stress, to work. Every thing everyone around told you to reconsider, tried to warn you in gentle silences and wary glances, their voices cautious with pity, never saying the thing outright but circling it like buzzards. Because they knew probably. They knew.

You were the only one who refused to sit with the pattern of it. You just didn’t want to listen. Because to listen, to truly listen, would’ve meant accepting what you’ve always suspected in the nooks and crooks of your gut. Because if you listened, you’d have to admit it.That maybe it wasn’t just his job or a global popstar keeping Hajoon from you. Maybe Hajoon wanted to be kept.

You feel sick.

And suddenly your body revolts against the thought, stomach tightening as odium coils innermore and flourishes beneath your abdomen. Your mouth goes dry, the taste in it metallic and sour, and you swallow down the spasm, in hopes that it might buy you a few more seconds of composure. Your molars ache, clenched so tightly together that your jaw begins to pulse. You suddenly remember the first night he told you he loved you, how his voice cracked as if the words startled him too, you didn't even dare think about, or how that maybe he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Was that a lie too?

Or did he mean it then?

Does it even matter now?

But those questions come with their own claws. So you don’t answer them. You don’t try, press the heel of your hand to your eye before the tears can fall, as if you could shove the tears back into their ducts through sheer will alone, refusing to let them fall here. You will not cry in this hallway. You will not give this place that power. So you don’t cry. You don’t let your anger catch fire and drive you through the door with fists full of questions.

But you think about it.

Lords, do you think about it.

You think about how it would feel to crack the illusion open, to make them both look at you, really look. You picture it in flashes- your fingers curled in Bora’s silken collar, dragging her back two steps just to see if her voice stays as sweet when it trembles. You imagine staring Hajoon dead in the eye and asking him if this is worth it, if she’s worth it, if it was all just a game to see how far he could bend your bones before they snapped.

You want to interrupt. You want to step inside that room and let the breath you’ve been holding slice through the air like glass.

You want it to be loud. Messy. Unforgettable. But your body won’t let you, again.

You’re still standing in the same spot, though you aren’t entirely sure how. Breath shallow, limbs made of rust, you feel distant from your own being,every joint stiff and unreliable, as though they were never made for movement. Your fingers are locked around the thin strap of your clutch, knuckles aching from the strain, but still, you can’t let go. Your knees buzz with a numbness that teeters too close to collapse, and you know, without testing it, that if you tried to walk away too quickly, you’d falter, legs would fold in on themselves, dragging your self-esteem down with you.

As if it hasn't already fallen so far, in the narrowest depths, probably making it's way to the seventh circle of hell, every time your mind plays it on a loop. The select few parts run on and on, and the implications that came with when Hajoon didn’t refute her. While you were left in the hallway, on the other side of the door, invisible.

And it’s in that invisibility that you forget yourself entirely. Forget why you’re here, what you’re holding, what you promised. The scene overtakes you, pushes you out of your own context. You are not the friend on a mission to fetch water for her shaking best friend anymore. You are not the responsible one, the stable one, the friend who had her life sorted out, the moment she was out of college with a fixtures on her side, all the time and not one who's witnessing the slow infidelity of your relationship in a quiet, candlelit corridor. Except the reminder comes. Sounds like ting. And reads like urgency and concern all at once.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, a single jolt. But it ricochets through you like thunder, breaks away the trance.

You blink hard, pull yourself out of the daze like yanking the string of a broken marionette. Your fingers fumble against the screen.You don’t know how long you’ve been gone, only that it’s been long enough for concern to find you.

[safiya: everything okay? what's taking so long??]

The words feel like someone cracking a window open in a burning house.

And in that small, merciful moment, you remember the things that matter, try not to waste away at people who shouldn't have in the first place. If you would have, it wouldn't have taken you so long to remember who you are.

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat feels alive, not figurative, a snarling beast with claws scraping against your insides, trying to claw its way out through the thinnest part of your chest. The taste of it is sharp, astringent, nauseating and it's as overwhelming as a broken heart.

You shift and move.

It’s a small step- barely a shuffle- but the sound paraphrases in the tight space.

Inside, everything falls placid.

Like prey sensing danger.

You hear the soft scrape of a heel. A breath catching follows up that results in the slow, cautious creak of movement. They heard you. It's the only answer that makes sense in a moment that has your mind in pieces. They heard you, and for the first time, you’re no longer invisible.

Panic rises like heat in your throat, replacing the cluster. Your body kicks into survival mode, muscle memory taking the wheel with foot on the pedal, before they can come out. Before they can see your face. The car kicks into ignition and it turns. So do you. Fast.

You move like a current, wind-slipped and sharp. Your heels barely touch the tile. One foot, then the next, then the next. You duck around the corner just as the storage door creaks open behind you.

You don’t look back.

You can’t afford to.

Because if you see them now- if you see him- you’re not sure what will survive the encounter.Your pride, your restraint, the tight seal you’ve managed to hold around your devastation, all of it would shatter. And you are not ready to fall vulnerable in front of them.

Your pulse races like it’s sprinting ahead of you, trying to outrun the shame.Your heart races, anything but in beats, but in gallops, hurrying and zooming, trying to put as much distance as it can between you and what you heard, what you saw, what you now have to carry.

You press one hand flat to the wall, desperate for contact with something unmoving, presumably cool, the tiles are cool. You lean into them with the full weight of your trembling shoulders and try to slow the shaking in your chest. You don’t know how long you stay like that, listening, waiting, cursing the damn universe, back to the corner, ears straining for footsteps that never come.

But no footsteps follow. No voices chase you.

Maybe they think it was nothing.

Or worse, maybe they know exactly what it was.

You straighten, finally. Shake out your shoulders like you’re resetting them on your frame. Willing the bones to don’t feel foreign inside your skin. You glance down at your phone again. Safiya’s message blinks back at you like a lighthouse in fog.

You type back:

[omw.]

It’s all you can manage.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the first tear hits the corner of your lip, warm and sharp like betrayal distilled.

You scrub the tear away with the back of your hand, rough and rushed, by its nature friction alone could erase what you saw, as though maybe if you wiped hard enough, the memory would peel with it, lift off the surface of your mind and dissolve somewhere into the air behind you. The sting lingers, anyway, heartbreak nests where it should. And somewhere down the corridor, from a place your feet no longer remember how to reach, laughter drifts upwards. It wafts through cause it has every right to, unaffected and unbothered, the fluky soundtrack of people who haven’t had their insides rearranged by the sound of someone else's name spoken too tenderly. The absurdity of it settles in your chest like lead, that the world is still turning.

You push open a random door at the end of the lobby and exhale like you’ve been holding it for a year. A folding table sits near the back wall, crowded with plastic water bottles and packets of mints, and behind it, a server looks up, startled but not alarmed, the way people do when they’ve seen enough parties to know when to mind their business.

You blink. “Water, please?” you say. Your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He hands one over without question. You nod in return, a stiff, graceless gesture meant to approximate gratitude, and clutch the bottle so tightly that the plastic creaks in your grip.

You feel the crispy cold of the bottle in your hand. It sweats against your palm, a sharp contrast to the flush still radiating from your face. You feel the chill of it in your bones, grateful for the shock. Pain, at least, is something you know how to hold.The world around you feels loud again, even though you’re moving through a quieter section of the venue. The dull thud of bass somewhere beneath your feet. The muffled laughter of strangers who proude the sound of the clink of glassware. Every sound scratches.

Your feet start moving before your brain catches up.

First one foot, then the other, and then your body begins to catch on, muscles remembering the purpose even if your mind hasn’t fully returned to it. Left. Then right. Then forward again.

Back to the place where your friends are waiting. Where your absence must be starting to bloom into concern. Back to the bathroom, where Jia is still hunched over porcelain and Safiya is probably pacing, biting her lip, thinking you’ve gotten lost in this maze of flashing lights and secrets.

The steps are small. Practiced. But your body is still off-kilter, like the force field has shifted slightly out of sync. The party’s glow pulses in the walls around you, muffled and amber hues, but you feel none of it. Each step feels disconnected from the last, like your legs are acting on instruction rather than instinct.You are aware, in the strangest way, that you are walking. That you are moving through space. That you are passing through light and shadow. You feel everything and nothing. You could be gliding. You could be drowning. You’re not sure which would be more forbearing.

Nonethles, you try to hold onto the task. Just give them the water. That’s all you have to do. Just get to the bathroom. Just—

But the walk is long. And your mind won’t cooperate. It's franternizing in a way that plays everything that happened back there again and again. That sing-song tone that was viscous, tunes in and out, how it still manages to cut through the unbearable, monstrous silence.

You were good.

You’d always prided yourself on being composed. Reasonable. You weren’t the jealous type. You weren’t the skeptical possessive girlfriend. You’d never demanded keys or passwords or explanations. Love, in your definition, if was true, it needed no surveillance. Needed not to feel like a rope wrapped around a neck, except it did now.

And the person who held the end of it was the one you told yourself to trust. Told yourself it was the job. That the industry was brutal, demanding, parasitic. That he was a victim of it too, just trying to survive in its current. You gave him space, understanding, flexibility. You let him treat you like an supplementary information because you believed it would pay off. That this, tonight, was the beginning of him showing you off.

And he was infact. Just not to the right audience. God knows not to the right audience. The abashment of sits high in your throat, making it feel lodged yet again. The discomfort of it (or so you'd like to belive) manifests itself in a new wave of tears. They’re not falling gracefully now, they sting, angry and sudden, pooling along your lashes before you can wipe them. Still you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand again.

When you do, you become aware of how your eyes are rimmed with betrayal and your hands are shaking and your entire face feels cracked like porcelain that’s been dropped once, twice, too many times.

You round the corner to the hallway where the second-floor restroom is. You can hear feeble voices inside that start to come off as not so softened. Makes you pause just outside the frame. Look at yourself in the polished reflection of the fire extinguisher box in case your own hand failed you but that has been one of the many things that has not. Eyes glassy. Nose red. Lipstick worn off at the corners. You look like someone who’s unraveling. Methodically, even.

You can’t walk in like this.

Jia is in the feels, Safiya is perceptive. One look and they’ll know something’s wrong. And once that happens, the dam will break and you’ll start crying in front of them. And you'll cry ugly.

And right now, you can’t. You just- can’t.

Just as you're about to turn away, a woman in a slate-blue dress steps up beside you. Mid-thirties, elegant. One of the guests, you assumed. She gives you a polite smile, one hand reaching for the door.

You step in front of her before you’ve even decided to speak.

“Sorry—excuse me.”

She stops, brows raised in mild surprise.

You hold the water out, trying to steady your voice. “Could you… would you mind giving this to the two girls in there?One’s in a pink dress. One’s holding her hair back. They’re my friends—I just need to step outside for some air.”

The woman blinks once, then nods, smile softening into understanding.

“Of course.”

You hand her the bottle and add, “Please tell them I’ll be right back. I just—yeah. I’ll be back.”

She gives you a look. The kin of one where women give each other a type of laconic solidarity when they recognize something. Two words starting with the same letter. The thin line in between. Then she disappears inside, and you’re left alone again in the corridor. Alone again, the hallway exhales with you. Shallow, breathy, reluctant to hold what it’s just seen. The silence afterward is dense, thick with ghosts of hands and things not taken back. And you-still holding yourself like glass, too fine for touch-let it all soak in.

Your body wants quiet. Soundlessness is subjective, seclusion is primary. Somewhere you can let your face drop out of its composure, somewhere you can drop the mask of the girl who’s just fine.

You think about going home. But the apartment that basically gives off the odour of a once lasted relationship with a shoe rack that holds heels and loafers despite how it was shaped just for boots, a kitchen that never for once stopped smelling like raspberry jelly will make you all the more disordered. Speaking of ill, you also just can't leave your friends with no explanation at all. Disappearing for an hour or so is one thing, leaving entirely is another.

So you extract the idea from your mind whole. And since intuition has been the reason behind some very important unveiling, you chose to follow it once again. This time you distinguish it as a palace of carved panels and red rope that seems increasingly untethered from the celebration it’s supposed to contain. You follow the curl of tawny sconces as they dim behind you. You don’t have a direction, not by any means. Merely this straight urge to be elsewhere. Away from mirrors and pity and the way your voice will shatter if anyone dares to ask what happened.

The air changes again- the assuage of walkway giving way to the softer allay of space. You blink, slow, and find yourself facing tall double doors cracked just enough to tease a sliver of moonlight. You follow it like a moth and press a hand to the cool wood and ease it open when you've reached.

The balcony is mostly empty (or so you think). It's mostly meant for people who duck into here when their dates say too much, or when the music says too little. You don’t belong here for those reasons. But for a second, you let yourself pretend you do. Pretend is all that you can do, after all. Pretend is all one can do when no place reaches out like it's own.

You step out into the night.

The breeze is soft, carrying the perfume of late-blooming things that represent the late of march and early on days of may. There’s a railing with ornate curls, and a small potted tree beside it. You lean against the edge like a ghost at a masquerade, hidden in plain sight. Far from a invisible ghost, righteously misplaced.

The skyline shimmers in the distance. City lights doing their best impression of stars. Because the sky is unkind tonight. Clear and full of stars. One of those nights that dares you to feel small.

You close your eyes.

It should hurt less than it does. You should be angry, you think. Fury has a vibration, a tempo, that is not entirely senseless, that you could move to. But all you have is this ache. This underdone, expanding bruise of disbelief. That Hajoon, your Hajoon, the one who texted you goodnight from studio floors and once cried during the middle of your anniversary dinner because you surprised him with a scrapbook - that Hajoon had someone else’s lipgloss on his cheek.

And he let you walk into that party wearing your best, heart in hand, eyes wide and bright like you weren’t already being laughed at. The fact alone that he could ever be this savage measures up higher than the mere word spurning. Your fingers tighten around the railing.

You breathe. In. Out. In again.

He cheated on you.

You say it in your head, then again. Try it out. Grant it to parrot.

He. Cheated. On you.

How long? you think. It can’t have started tonight. The intimacy you saw take place takes time. That comfort is and that silence intertwines complexly.The way he let her talk over you like you weren’t even there. It takes a history. You sniff, furious.You want to rip out whatever pages it's sanctioned in. You want to punch someon-

— and the scuff of a footfall to your left startles you mid-thought, cracking clean through the violence of it. You breathe in too sharply and choke on the tail end of it, a hiccup caught mid-throat. The sound escapes before you can swallow it back, a soft, broken thing that snags in the night air.

You flinch, just barely, but it’s enough to pull you upright, palms peeling away from the ornate railing. The sound was soft; softer than it should be for how it lands in your chest. Impalpable, but undeniable. The categorical gospel is not the wind, nor is the sway of branches or the groan of old fixtures. It's plainly in a presence. A presence that exples in a dramatic, public way.

You turn your head.

In the first instance, it’s just a silhouette. Broad shoulders caught in a slant of moonlight, leaned casually against the far railing where the wall curves into the night. You hadn’t seen him when you first stepped out- he’s tucked into the darkness like he belongs there. You blame the sleek sweep of a jacket that gleams ink-black where the light touches and vanishes where it doesn’t. Depthless black, that's the kind of shade it is. He’s fidgetless against the opposite end of the balcony, arms folded, head tilted just enough that you know he’s looking out — not at you, seasonably. The night swallows him in patches, makes him blur into the dark, view as a conundrum, lets him melt into the obscurity. Only the gleam of a metal clasp or maybe the faint shimmer of a watch betrays the shape of him at all.

Your breath halts for a different reason now. This time in mortification. How long has he been there? How much did he hear of your inner voice that would sometimes refuse to stay just inside?

You should have known. Of course someone else would be here. This party is a haven for the overexposed, the adored and overworked — balconies are harbours, and privacy is a drug. You suppose you’re not the only one tonight with a reason to step away from too much attention.

You clear your throat, subtly, and swipe at your cheeks once more with the back of your hand, hoping whatever disaster your makeup has become is at least concealable under the night’s forgiving ink. You press yourself a little more into the corner, make yourself smaller.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, voice cracked and low-pitched but unmistakably sheepish. “I didn’t mean to… disturb you. I didn’t know someone was here.” you gesture vaguely toward the door as if it explains your presence, your unraveling, your trespass.

You’re already turning, embarrassment washing over you, warm and prickly, when you hear that voice. That empty headed, unwitting, greatly-

Oh come on!

Dwindling deep. Familiar in that unmistakable way, because it's the voice that’s been replayed in the background of your vehemence for months. Velour worn sharp.

“It's alright.”

There’s a haitus his mouth decides upon, and so does the surroundings with him like even the night is startled into inaction.

Your breath catches, shallow. Your backbone straightens, sharp.

He turns as if on cue.

It does not take place pointedly. An appropriate response that would be startled. No, not even that. But slow, like the metanoia of a thought that’s been brewing for too long. His face is in shadow, but the movement reveals the slope of his jaw, the lazy fall of dark hair over his brow. You can’t see the details, not in this light. But something about his presence is sharp in your periphery, like recognition trying to claw its way forward but tripping on the haze.

You retreat a step. Not far away, but enough.

"Stay." He adds, a beat slower that turns the night warm around him than it was a second ago.

He says it like it’s not a big deal, offering courtesy. But the sound of his voice reaches somewhere in you that you didn’t know was flammable. It scrapes gruffly, like a match. He hasn’t moved from his spot. Still standing there, half-shrouded. Watching, maybe. Or not. You can’t tell. But the certainty in his tone, unbothered, solid, undoes you in a different way.

You know that voice.

You don’t want to know that voice. But you do.

He who shall not be named. Of all people. Of all fucking anyone.

You don’t turn yet. You stare ahead, blinking hard, gathering yourself. That name has been the thread you tugged every time you felt distance growing between you and Hajoon before the awakening dropped upon you that he was actually not.

And now he’s here. On the balcony. With you.

Your throat bobs awkwardly, unsure what to say. Maybe you misheard. Maybe you’re imagining things because he was not supposed to be here. Your brain is playing cruel little games because tonight’s already stitched together from surreal fabric.

If it was any other time, hell had it been any minute before the past half hour, you'd have applauded the timing. Would have marched over to Kim Taehyung and said everything you wanted to.

Would have looked him square in the eye and asked if it felt good, demanding Hajoon’s time, his energy, his apologies, until there was none left for you. Would have told him, with teeth bared behind a smile, that he was the reason you ate cold fries alone on your own celebratory dinner.

You would have let it out. All of it. The slow rot of resentment you watered like a houseplant. The tantrum you tucked neatly beneath your tongue every time Hajoon said “Taehyung needs me.” You would have unspooled every sentence you rehearsed in the dark, every imagined confrontation sharpened over sleepless nights.

But this isn’t then.

This is now. And now you know the truth.

He didn’t bend Hajoon’s lynchpin until he broke. He didn’t whisper temptation or rearrange the tiles of loyalty under Hajoon’s feet. He didn’t need to because Hajoon walked willingly.

And you were too busy blaming the him to see it.

Now, stripped of that blame, that convenient villainy, you’re left with nothing but the naked awkwardness of this moment. The rage you’d once felt toward him feels foolish now. Juvenile. Like screaming at the moon for letting the tide pull you under. It doesn’t quite hold the shape it used to. You don’t know what to do with it. And so you stand there, stiff in the corner of the balcony, unable to move toward him, but unable to leave.

He hasn’t said another word. Hasn’t even looked at you again. He just exhales again. Smoke blooming from between his lips like it’s part of the night.

That’s when you notice the cigarette. You hadn’t clocked it before, but now you see the faint cherry glow at his side, the way it illuminates the curl of his fingers, the slow draw of breath. It looks romantic on him, of course it does. Doubles some tragic French film character leaning against the edge of ruin, too well-dressed to decipher publicly.

And as much you loved to make joke of comments under candid clips of this man that raved about some aura of his, you found yourself then just barely, just quick enough to pass as you scoot under the luminescence, catch a better glimpse of him.

His jaw is too sharp for comfort. His hair, mussed just enough to seem accidental, shimmers like ink under the silvered light. His lips (you don’t even know why you notice) are plush and parted. And his eyes, when they finally flick toward you, are darker than the night behind him. Flippant. Sleepy. Unfathomable.

He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t look away either.

You want to look away. You do. But it’s magnetic, the stupid made up ambience around him. Easy in a way that demands nothing and everything. He’s not performing. He’s not even curious. Seems diserepctful but at the same time it makes you understand how someone like Hajoon could crumble under it. Why people orbit men like this and call it the law of nature. You’d scoffed at it before. Scoffed every time Hajoon said he just gets so intense sometimes, you know? like Taehyung was weather instead of a man.

Yet, you're not sure how understanding the possibility of it makes any difference to you. Makes any sense.

But how the hell do you share space with someone who’s been mythologized in your mind for so long?

Because now you’re sure. You know it’s him. You could draw the line of his nose from memory. The corner of his lip. You’ve seen this face on billboards, in moving gifs, in phone screens where your ex-boyfriend kept scrolling even during dinner.

Except now he’s real. Not flattened into pixels. Breathing the same air as you. You blink hard. Try to focus. To reroute your brain back into safer waters. But all it gives you is a memory.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to him, is it?

It comes uninvited. Like most things do.

Back when Hajoon had just started as his manager. Everything was new then. Boundaries blurry. You still thought the industry was glamorous, not exhausting. You remember being home, hair wrapped in a towel, half a sheet mask on your face when your phone that was running a tutorial video paused on a frame. You'd have turned it back on if it wasn't for the name popping up on your screen at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. You had picked up without hesitation.

Except it wasn’t Hajoon.

"Good evening. This is Taehyung. Can you send a picture of the contract folder on Hajoon-sshi's desk? He forgot it."

You blinked at the screen, furrowed your brow.

"Sure, Taehyung. 😂 Joon your impersonation game is trash and that's tough considering you're trying to speak like the man you work for. At least commit to the bit."

The message pinged back too quick for someone pretending to be a important, busy man.

"It's actually me. Taehyung. Hajoon-sshi's busy with some stuff."

You laughed. Alone in your bathroom. Holding a spoonful of some face oil and scrolling up and down the chat.

"And I'm the CEO of Mars. Let me know if you need a crater named after you."

You had awaited hajoon finally breaking out whatever character's in.

"You're funny. Send the photo."

This wasn’t the tone a boyfriend of sixteen months should be talking in, you had thought. Unaware as ever. If only you had learned how that unawareness will end for you.

"If it’s really you, Kim Taehyung, send a selfie holding a spoon."

You hadn’t expected a reply.

But a few minutes later there it was. There it came.

A dimly lit photo that was non debatable who it captured. Grainy in a way that none of his chronicled, edited ones were. Sleepy-eyed. Hair in disarray. Wearing a black hoodie and holding a spoon between his fingers with the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen.

You stared at the image longer than you’d admit. Tried not to cringe too much at the cataloged annoyance. And then you sent the damn contract.

"Told you. I commit."

You didn’t respond. You told yourself he was probably just weird. Probably forgot all about you two minutes later. He never brought it up again. Neither did you. But sometimes, the memory flickered. A weird little moment stitched into your timeline, half-unreal.

And maybe he doesn’t remember you. Maybe that moment was just a Tuesday to him. You'd love to take advantage of that before it gets any more lumbering here. You tuck your arms around yourself and inhale the smoke-laced air stretched thin across the span of a few meters and commodity that has you topid. Hovering at a cautious distance, two steps too far to be friendly and one step too close to be indifferent.

You didn't realize acting indifferent was something that Kim Taehyung had a copyright on until he moves again. Abundantly. A loosening of limbs, the slow unfurling of someone at ease in their own myth.

“I don’t bite,” he says, voice low, drowsy. Just on the edge of humor, like he’s saying it more for himself than for you. His head tips toward you, not quite looking. Still, he flicks the ash from his cigarette with a lazy hand, like he’s bored of his own invitation.

You swear it’s the wind at first. The words fold into the air too smoothly.

You know you should just offer a polite smile. A nod. Some kind of noncommittal noise that maintains distance. But your mouth, as always, has other plans.“Mm,” you murmur, under your breath, not even meaning for him to hear, “I doubt that.”

You don’t think he’s listening. But he is.

You catch it - just fairly - in the slight turn of his head, the way one corner of his mouth curves, slow and serpentine. twitch of lip, more ghost than grin. The kind of smile you don’t see so much as sense. Felt more in your knees than your chest.

Great. Now you’re giving him lines.

Then - like it’s a casual thing, like it costs him nothing - he speaks again. Doesn’t even glance at you this time. Tilts his head, exhales another cloud of smoke, and lets it wander up into the sky.

“Come closer.”

Um hello? What did he just say to you? Did he actually demand of you?

Though the words are simple; not barked; not begged, they still alter an insolence capillary of yours. You hesitate, the word itself making a heat rise under your collarbones. A place it had no buisness eliciting a reaction in.

Your body moves before your brain signs off. Not by a great deal, but enough to close the distance between polite and probing. The necessary for the chill in the night to fade from your arms. Proportionality to fall under the scent of his cigarette, sharp and spicy and soaked in something faintly herbal, like bergamot and smoke and warm resin.

But you catch yourself before you go further. Straighten your spine. Scupper your voice.

“I’m not doing what you tell me,” you say, and the words are sharp, snapped like a twig underfoot. “Just so we’re clear.”

That almost-smile on his mouth doesn’t move, but it changes. And to your horror, it even deepens. Grows snobbish in a way that’s unapparent but impossible to miss. It’s pompous. Infuriatingly so. That elusive tilt of his lips that makes you want to shove him and ask what’s so funny and maybe push him off the damn balcony just to see if the smirk stays midair.

He leans a little more into the curve of shadow, gaze flicking sideways. Meticulously near enough to make your pulse skitter. “I didn’t think you would,” he says, and the amusement in his voice is unmistakable now. “You don’t strike me as particularly obedient.”

You stare. You hate that your throat goes dry. Because that's a totally normal thing to say to a stranger when you've got a face like that, isn't it? "Excuse me?"

He takes another drag from the cigarette, watching the embers burn down like a timer. The tip glows in his fingers — elegant fingers, of course they are, long and unhurried in how they cradle the smoke. The ash hovers before fluttering down like snow against the stone.

“What do I strike you as, then?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

It’s too much of a question. It slips past your lips like a dare that has been sent rolling on a slippery path you didn’t mean to voice. But it’s out there now, and you can’t take it back. Idiot.

Taehyung doesn't answer right away. He just exhales smoke and thought at the same time, head tilted still back toward the sky as if the answer might be hidden between the tapestry of the stars. You find he’s giving the question the time it doesn’t deserve. It’s flamboyant. It’s aggravating. And, worse, it’s effective.

Your arms remain crossed, body drawn in like a bow pulled taut. You don't regret handing your denim to Jia but you wish the night was colder so the goosebumps could be blamed on temperature, not tension. But the breeze is tepid now. Brushed in his voice, his perfume, his stupid legendary presence that has no right smelling as expensive and ancient and fucking grounded as it does.

Finally, his gaze shifts.

And this time, he does look at you. Fully. Directly.

A slow turn of his head, the sweep of his eyes over your face with the exasperation of how he would read the fine print of something he’s already decided on. “What do you strike me as?” he repeats, softly. Then clicks his tongue once, like he’s disappointed with you for even asking. "Are you sure you wanna know?"

The words are quiet. But his voice darkens at the question. Your stomach twists, and you don’t know if it’s indignation or intrigue. You’re fairly certain it’s both. And before it permeates into a shabbier feeling that'll have you clutching your torso, you put out your blundering silence as a response that he takes willingly, haughtily so.

His mouth twitches again. Not quite a smile this time. Closer to mischief. He shrugs one shoulder, loose and languid, eyes still trailing somewhere over the skyline, this conversation’s just a side project evidently.

Whatever. If the unnerving diagonal beside you can go back to doing what he painfully seems most interested in, so can you.

The railing is back beneath your palms, familiar now, some dumb metaphor made real — edges cold, aloof chill biting. The edge of your heel nudges against a loose leaf caught in the wind. It flutters once, twice, then gives up and sinks to the floor. You almost envy it. The city is still sprawled in the distance, impersonal to your cognizing. Behind you, the door stays shut. Back there, you envisage, is too bright, too loud, too full of people who might ask what’s wrong and not wait for the right silence before answering for you. Out here, you only share oxygen with a man who has ruined half your calendar and all your curated patience.

Unbothered, broad-shouldered, draped in the kind of serenity that only belongs to cats and men who’ve never been told no. Taehyung’s jacket gleams where it catches the low light- some brand you’ll never afford and he probably didn’t pay for. His posture is too facile.

The rubescent of his cigarette hisses as he draws in again — as if every drag is advised, intented, abrasive. That mouth was made for sin or sermons. Hard to tell which one he’d preach first.

You glance over once. Quickly. Then regret it instantly.

He’s watching you. In a way he did after you threw your sharpest tone at him, just stood there — barefaced and unflinchinb —like he’d seen this particular performance from you before. Maybe in another life. Maybe in a dream.

The silence between you drones with electricity. It's not awkward, exactly. It’s too thick to be awkward. Too charged. Like the aftermath of lightning —  you don’t know if the flash already hit or if it’s coming, if this is clement or consequence.

Then, casually, the cigarette hand lifts again. He turns it between his fingers once, then holds it out across the space between you, his gaze flat and unreadable, offered to you with the same ease most people use to pass napkins.

"You smoke?"

The question cuts through the quiet like it’s been waiting there the whole time.

You scoff. "I don't smoke." Neither do you pick up addictions from strange men who talk like their only motive is to distress the already distressed women they corner in alone balconies.

“That’s a shame,” he says, still not retracting the offer. "You look like you need it."

You arch a brow. "I look like I need a way to a slow, tragic death?"

He exhales through his nose — amused. "No. You look like you need a distraction." Takes a pause before adding. "Do you not?"

You glance at the cigarette. Then at his mouth.

Unfortunate, really. That his lips have the audacity to look generous. He holds your gaze too easily for someone who’s done nothing but irritate you with a single smirk and a face blessed by nepotism from the gods. Your jaw ticks and to the degree that you'd like to believe it's from that or the persistence offer, you're sorely knowing of that's its a reaction that is spawned from how tempting it is, the silence that falls after his question. Not the offer itself — smoke never tasted good, no matter how poetic the film girls made it look — but the inaction. His inaction, in particular, that abrades against the raw wall of your morale. You hate that you’re thinking about it. Thinking about it too hard, the same way you think about late-night texts that go unanswered, or how many people have probably touched the door handle before you in a public restroom.

You turn your gaze back to the city. Your hand curls around the railing again. It digs in, sharper this time. Enough that the metal edge presses a whisper of hurt into your palm. Nothing lasts long against the pressure of being watched the way he watches — quietly, without ego, as if he’s already understood what you’re going to do.

Do you need a distraction?

Yes. Obviously.

But admitting is a type of yielding. Humans are never actually normal with such a thing, let alone letting yourself yeild in front of him — this man hewed out of tailored arrogance is a threat to your vanity. You’ve already had one of those tonight, and it ended with you biting down tears in a hallway, handing water bottles to strangers so your friends wouldn’t see your hands shake.

This, withal, would be an indulgence. A petty little rebellion. The kind of thing someone else would do in a story you’d never admit reading. Smoking with Kim Taehyung on a balcony where your relationship ended a quiet death only an hour ago. You want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. You want to laugh so hard your ribs bruise from the inside.

But coversely, you stand there. Wound up. Too mindful.

And the longer you don’t move, the more you feel him waiting.

You steal a glance again. His arm hasn’t wavered, cigarette still extended, ember glowing low. There’s no impatience in him, and you only ever see that kind in people who already know the outcome. Kim Taehyung is a man who waits, who already lives in your answer and is just killing time in the silence before you catch up. Curious. Present. Patient in a way that suggests he’s memorizing the shape of your hesitation just to store it somewhere for later.

You sigh. A long, tight sound dragged up from the soles of your feet.

You take two steps toward him. The space closes, distance evaporating between you like heat on pavement. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t gloat — decently watches, that same unreadable interest rolling low behind his lashes.

You stop just shy of arm’s reach. With a single curl of your fingers, you take the cigarette from his hand.

His fingers brush yours for half a breath. Warm, dry, real and your dorsum locks up at the contact, pitter patter quick behind your teeth. You pretend it didn’t happen. You pretend very hard. The cigarette tastes bitter at the filter when you lift it to your lips. Not that you care. You’re not here for the flavor. You’re here because the world is ending and strikes as being only your world ending.

You inhale. Lightly.

It’s awful. Burnt and earthy. Makes your throat feel like someone wrung it out like a sponge. You cough once, quietly, turn your head away in ignominy, try to act like it was atmospheric and not your body rebelling against poor choices.

You make out the smile before you see it. It bobs up on the side of your face like a shadow. Bastard.

You exhale through your nose, eyes narrowed. "You're so charming. Does it always lets get you away from this habit of yours?"

"Mhm. What habit?"

He’s watching you, still. Closer now. Still tall, still shrouded in that stupid expensive shiny material. But something’s mutated. He looks less carved from figment and more human in the face — detail where there was once only silhouette. The curve of his mouth. The sleep in his eyes. The line of his jaw you could draw with a knife.

"Of having things your way. Is that not a habit? Do you not always get what you want?" You take another drag.

And maybe you’re imagining it — probably you are — but for once there's not a single trace of beguilement on his face or in his poorly lit stare that simmers. Drops to your mouth where your lips are wrapped around the cancer stick. He sees.

"Not always."

The filter burns a little hotter than it should between your fingers, but you don’t drop it. That would make a sound. You keep it pressed neatly against the edge of your breath and lean into the railing again. This time you don’t grip it. You let your arms rest there, loose, voluntary. It’s easier this way, to gather yourself in the flicker of things you cannot control.

“Not always?” you echo, casually, but it punches from your chest more bitter than intended. “Color me shocked.”

His hum lands soft against the back of your neck, something dulled and sun-warmed, but it still finds a grit. Tilts his chin toward the night like he’s listening to something in the silence that you can’t hear. Not a man in thought; no, that would be too benevolent. A man in leisure.

There’s no wasted effort, no shuffle or twitch. You’ve known performers, fidgeters, people who need to fill silences with breath or comment just to feel present. Taehyung is none of those. You swallow once. Your voice is back in your mouth, restless. He doesn’t match the versions of him that live in tabloids, in the pruned PR clips, in the way Hajoon used to talk about him with the slight awe of someone who’d just walked past a lion that winked. There’s nothing lofty about him. Not even in his smile, the rimple of the skin strecting around his eyes when they drift toward the line where the sky dominates over the buildings, The city’s to offer stars, and you can tell he’s still searching for them. He tilts his face up to the night, slow and unhurried, jaw catching a flicker of sallow from the railing light. There’s no revelation in his expression about what exactly he is looking for.

“It’s a lovely night,” he says finally, in that impromptu manner men do when they’re either lying or about to advance into nonsense. "Clear enough to see the Pleiades, if you know where to look.” his voice summoned.

The what?

You can't deny that there's a keeness he awakes in you, when he says that, speaking a language of his own. But you also can't deny that you have no interest enabling that, some things (Some men) require the right headspace and yours is certainly far from right. You're not some child, and you can do just fine without knowing about astronomical facts, so you don’t even nod along, as though you know what he's talking about and you've already found a pattern in the sky.

At the lack of your reaction, he does what wouldn't have predicted, because what even is your attention worth to a star (that he looks up) like him. He could sent a message to a group chat of people living and dying to keep him happy: hey who's up for some solar system facts? And atleast, four people would turn and listen with their head on their folded hands, whilst looking at him at like he had made the excellent geometries of the sky. You really wouldn't have seen him pressing from a long mile.

"Humor me and ask me what is that."

You are left with two options, one being add up another reason of fuming internally over this highfaluating wanna-be, assuming that you actually don't know what this is, while he does. Okay, he's not wrong on that but where's the graciousness when's it's needed? To save yourself for being any more miserable, you go with the second, suction smoke into your lungs and ask. "What is that?"

He lifts up a finger and starts to move it around randomly, until you notice he's not, he's actually following a cluster of stars with the tip of his index finger. “The Seven Sisters. Stars, technically. They don't always show, so we're lucky we are under the brightest star." You look up too and indeed, it shines bright. You're not sure about the lucky part. "Old story says they only appear on nights where something coffined comes to surface.”

You glance at him sidelong, cigarette perched neatly between your lips. You doubt if thats one of his fanclub astrology facts or he read that off a matchbox.

“It’s just superstition,” he says as if had the ability to read your thoughts. All the holy things above and beyond, you hope not. "When you need a direction on those nights. You can always look up."

The delivery is suspiciously straight-faced. You can’t tell if it’s sincerity dressed up as a joke or the other way around, but it sits in the air between you like something well-planned.

You exhale, slow through your nose. The filter tastes a little more bitter than before, or maybe your mouth does. “Are you fucking with me?”

His eyes don’t move from the sky, but the border of his expression ameliorates with amusement. The skin that was wrinkled, now crinkles up, and that's all. You’re puzzled, left in mystery if his motive was to annoy you. Confused over the decision of whether you should elbow in response too, twist the moment until it gives. But you don’t. Because the truth is, whatever it was, whether it was a myth or a dig or a gentle offering, you understood it. Quite possibly, needed it too. Either way, you don’t ask him to explain.

You resort to the secret third option of saying something you don’t mean to say. Your mouth opens before your sense of judgment can lace its shoes and declare your words thinly veiled as cavalier.

“I know an old superstition too,” you start, flicking ash off the edge of your cigarette, “that if two people share a smoke, they have to share a secret too.”

You don’t know where it comes from. Probably not a saying at all.Maybe something you read on a forum in college or saw scrawled on a dirty napkin in a bar bathroom. Probably from a place full of bullshit. God you are full of bullshit. But it slips out with the careless elegance of someone who isn’t bracing for repercussion.

Taehyung turns his body this time. Slow, one shoulder first, the leather of his jacket catching the light in a blink. His brows lift, just barely. He’s interested, but not performatively so. The barest cock of his head that's sharpened with intrigue makes you doubt. Wonder. You’re not sure why your heart climbs two rungs higher in your throat.

“A secret,” he repeats, as if trying the word on his tongue. “Do people actually do that? Are you fucking with me?" The wind presses his jacket against the lines of his ribs. His fingers tap once, twice, against the railing, deliberate. He smells like silk and smoke and the kind of cologne that’s expensive enough not to brag about itself.

You upraise your head, eyes fixed on a point in the city that doesn’t matter. "Apparently."

You puff out your cheeks and let the smoke linger there a second too long before exhaling through your nose. "And I'm not fucking with you." You say the terminal with an discomposing defensiveness.

The architecture of interest wraps around silence. You wait, not because you're impatient, but because you want to see what silence does to him.

He exhales, long and easy. “Alright,” he says, flicking the slag from his nail like he’s dusting off a layer of thought. “Go ahead.”

You glance over. “What?”

“Share yours.”

Your throat tightens around nothing. “That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” you say, a little firmer. “The person who offers the cigarette doesn’t get to demand first blood.”

He grins. Oh this real bastard. “Mm. You should’ve thought of that before you lied about the saying.”

“I didn’t lie. I… embellished it up a little.”

His tongue presses briefly into his cheek. “Same thing, my darling."

The term lands heavier than it should. Unrehearsed. Wrong accent for condescension. You don’t bother correcting him. If anything, you portray as if you didn’t even hear him.

He tilts his head again, finally turning to look at you in full now. His expression is maddeningly unreadable. Eyebrows slightly lifted, but not mocking. Just open. He waits in a way that says: I have all night. Go on. Impress me. Surprise me. Burn me, if you want.

You scowl, faintly. The smoke makes your next breath hitch as it burns at the edges.A secret, he said. You shouldn’t have offered the opening. You thought you’d like the power in it, holding something sharp and choosing not to use it. But it only leaves your mouth dry and your head stupidly full.

Your mind claws through options.

Your secret would be too easy, yet too big at the same time. It sits on your tongue, hot and twitching. It thrashes to be named; this ugly thing. You could spit it out between your teeth and watch the whole balcony tilt with it. Splinter the mood and makes everyone start looking for an exit, even if their feet don’t move. It’s a secret with teeth and a jawline. It smells like cheap floral perfume and sounds like a whimper through a half-open storage door.

You could say it. You could torch the air between you both with it. My boyfriend cheated on me tonight. In the storage room. With someone I shook hands with. Maybe even while you were living in a delusion, or shaking hands with people who thought they mattered. And you don’t even know if he'll even care. If none of this would matter to him and it’s just your heart doing its pathetic little dance in a one-woman tragedy.

You could lie. God knows you’ve gotten good at that lately. You could say you hate cucumbers or that you still sleep with the bathroom light on.

But standing next to him, lying feels too pedestrian. You glance over at him, hoping his sufferance will start to look smug enough to punch. But no. He’s too relaxed for that. One wrist draped over the edge of the railing, the other hanging low beside his thigh, fingers marked with the last memory of the cigarette you just burned through together. He’s not even close enough to touch, but you swear if you breathed wrong, he’d hear it shift in your ribs.

Unfair. Unrelenting. Utterly exhausting.

You rake your teeth over your bottom lip and break the silence with something that tastes harmless. It isn’t, really, but it plays that way.

“I’m not your fan.”

His eyes flinch. Like a tick behind his lashes he forgot to tame.

You glance sidelong, watching his profile for the reaction, any reaction. The way someone checks the rearview after running a red light. “That’s my secret. Or one of them. I guess.” It’s barely louder than a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a bottle uncorked too fast. Immediate relief followed by a slow fizz of regret.

The pause that follows is the longest one yet.

You regret it. You don’t. You regret it again.

“I know.”

Huh.

The words are smooth. Soft, but pointed. As if you’ve confirmed something he’s always known but was waiting to see if you’d admit. You don’t know if you were excepting a bite to them, a sleek reveal of a bruised ego but what you were not was that slow, coiled calm that has no business feeling sexy in someone’s mouth.

Was it that obvious? Were you that obvious? You wait for elaboration on that but nothing comes.You watch his profile, the ridiculous slope of his nose, the glint of metal at his ear, you bracket for the assured curve of his lips but then again: nothing. He doesn’t clarify, doesn’t call you out, doesn’t accuse.

You can’t tell if he’s messing with you or if he means it — if he remembered your voice from a year-old phone call, if he recognized your silence tonight, if he sighted your stare in the reflection of the goddamn glass doors.

That sounds unreasonable so you don’t entertain the idea any more. "I'm not saying I hate you or anything." You add after a respite, withstanding, out of sheer principle. "In case you start thinking I'm some undercover journalist who's out to get you by making you slip up some horrible secret and ruin your career." You falter and your pupils dilate in some sort of enlightenment.

"Wait.. that does sound legitimate.." You breathe and he chuckles, chasmic. Straight from the core of his chest. Pretty.

You flush, hand tightening around the cigarette. "What I mean to say is that I mean no offense."

"None taken." That's all he gives you.

Another non-answer that sounds just close enough to a hum to pass for approval. It makes your eye twitch. The bluster in it is staggering. Like he’s heard every variation of insult and adoration and now catalogues them by scent.

“So you’re not bothered?” you ask.

“No.” For a second, the look in his eyes could melt paint from a canvas. “Should I be?”

You hesitate. You don’t know why you hesitate.

"No." You nearly choke on how dishonest it isn’t. You don’t want him to be bothered. You don’t want him to care.

And yet — there’s a morbid thrill in seeing if he will.

You angle yourself slightly toward him, careful not to break whatever tension is braided in the space between your bodies. The heat of him remains, even with a whole arm’s length untouched. You need the tilt of something else. So you pivot, words tumbling faster than thought.

“So,” you say, voice stripped bare. “Your turn.”

His brows lift, slow and unsurprised.

“For the secret,” you add, not giving him the chance to weasel out.

He considers. You can see it — the slight furrow at the edge of his brow, the twitch of his jaw, the progression of thought moving unhurried behind his eyes. The line of his mouth doesn’t change, but the solidity of it shifts.

“I need time,” he says at last, tapping the back of his fingers against the railing like it’s a piano.

“No time,” you counter, before he can wax poetic or poeticize wax or whatever the hell he’s about to do. “Actually, I’ll help. I’ll guess.”

“You’ll guess my secret.”

“Exactly. To speed things up.”

He sighs. Appealed, again, in that maddeningly low-key way that reads more indulgence than exasperation.

You straighten slightly, clear your throat. “You’ve got six toes on one foot.”

Taehyung shifts, and you hear the soft rustle of his jacket as he moves. One hand disappears into his pocket.You wonder if anything he does is ever clumsy. You want to see it. But to all appearances, no.

"You talk to plants. You whisper to them, atleast for the sake of dignity. Apologize when you forget to water them. You have at least one fiddle leaf fig in your apartment that’s seen you cry in a silk robe.”

He says nothing, which is infuriating in its own right. So, to punish him, you keep talking.

You tap your chin. “You cry when you're watching a Pixar movie."

As if to egg you on, he remains mum.

"You secretly hate the fame."

Oof.

“Okay..you’re secretly married to an heiress in Monaco but only out of obligation because her father saved your family from a blood feud—wait, is this why you smoke? To cope?”

You chance a glance at him then.

He’s still quiet, one brow slightly lifted, his mouth doing that thing again — where it thinks about smiling but chooses restraint instead. He hasn’t said a word. Just stands there, gaze unwavering, letting you dig your own grave with a shovel he probably forged.

"That's a hell lot of gusses. Are you sure you're not a fan?" He finally says. Dragged through just enough baritone to sound stuffy without needing help.

Not even close. But you lapse anyway, roll your eyes and resist the urge to melt into the railing beside you. You’ve been standing here too long, you think. Under this particular constellation of stars and scrutiny. Talking too much. Giving too much. Your mouth, again, has outpaced your sense.

"I'll pace myself." You mutter under your breath. His laugh is soft and bothersomely warm that sits like a pat on the head you didn’t ask for.

"Well?” you prompt, arms crossed now. Your cigarette’s been flicked away into the night, but the heat of it lingers at your fingertips. “Are you going to give me a real on--"

He cuts you off and offers. “I’ve been learning French.”

You blink.

That’s it? That’s the secret? You nearly threw your soul onto the balcony floor, and he came back with learning a forigen langauge?

You don’t hide your disbelief. You don’t even try. “That’s your big, mysterious secret?”

He shrugs. One-shoulder, elegant, unconcerned. “You wanted one.”

“French?” you repeat, deadpan. “Oh fuck off. That’s what you went with? That’s what you’re hiding from the world?”

His lip twitches and he whispers in a exaggerated manner. "You're the only one who knows."

Your face torsions into a grimace.

"See? That's why I didn't told anyone." The hand from his pocket slips out and he runs it over his jaw. There’s a ardency in his voice now, stretched and prearranged. “Because of that face you’re making.”

“What face?”

“The one that says I’m pretentious.”

“That’s because you are pretentious,” you say, eyes narrowed. “Learning French for fun?”

“Not for fun,” he corrects. "It's work. For Paris. I’ve got a event there next month.”

You groan in the quiet that returns,balmy and teeming.The metropolis hums below, ignorant of your little corner modeled out of smoke and shared breath.

You glance at him, brows pinched. “Say something in French, then.”

His head tilts, just slightly. “Huh?”

You square your stance, chin lifting, voice dipped in faux detachment. “Prove it, I mean.”

He blinks, slow. “Prove what.”

“That you’re not full of shit, Jesus."

His gaze slides across the space between you. Perhaps he was offened that you asked him to believe his nonsense. And you don’t believe that was anything but. A made up lie about how he has a hairless cat named Nietzsche and that would have charmed you more ‘I’ve been Duolingo-ing French in the dark.’

Then again, he had no reason to say something that would have entertained you. Why would he? You're no one. Not even his dedicated enthusiast that he feels bound to in some way. So, you beyond a shadow a doubt, don't expect him to even attempt.

“Je pense à toi plus souvent que je ne le devrais.”

Let alone say that many of words. They sky in ample, partly because of the tone, the tempo. Partly for the way it leaves his mouth already inflamed with meaning. The vowels roll soft in the back of his throat, mutilated just a little and for a brief, stupid moment, you forget you’ve just spent the last two hours being publicly, privately humiliated.

You blink, slow. “Wow. Okay. You're not lying but..?"

“But what?”

“What did that mean?”

The current tightens. Scarcely from the wind, in no manner from cold, but with pause. A single moment suspended by silence, thick and humming. You expect him to laugh, to shrug it off, to hand you back your question with a lopsided grin and a conveniently vague answer. You excepted a big headed translation of what he said, probably praised how beautiful his sternum is in the language of the romancers.

But the expectation that arrives is staining the moment. It thickens between you like honey slow-dripped over the edge of a knife. Definitely not the kind you can breathe through. You count five seconds. Then seven. Then forget to keep counting because definitely not when he eventunally moves. One slow step forward, a flux that cuts the space between your bodies down to a corruption.

Simply folds himself into your periphery. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t need to. The heat of him arrives before the shadow does. You can feel the slope of his body, the broadness of it, the made to measure frame of someone who was never taught to shrink. It sure does makes you do so.

You stand there with your neck craned, still leaning against the railing, still biting the inside of your cheek, still trying to remember what the fuck he just said. You told him to prove it. You hadn’t told him to make a meal out of it. But here you are, jaw locked and throat dry.

You lock eyes with him, by a nose. He’s taller up close — of course he is.He leans in a touch, eyes cutting toward the stub of a cigarette still between your fingers. Or what’s left of it. The lipstick ring, half-smudged, stares back up at you in a little flash of chagrin.

Before you can toss it — he reaches.

Two fingers, unhurried, brushing yours again as he plucks it from your hand. His skin grazes yours and you swear your breath stutters like a faulty wire. It’s warm. Calloused in the way expensive hands aren’t supposed to be.

He lifts the cigarette and turns it slowly, inspecting the end. The smear of your lipstick, the last traces of you still on it.He twirls it once between thumb and forefinger, then glances at you. “You said I have a habit,” he says. His voice is calm, low, threaded with that warm rust he never bothers polishing.

You say nothing. Your throat has turned treacherous.

He tucks it between his lips. Listlessly. Takes his time. Drags in smoke, hollow and full. Then he exhales through his nose.

“I’m starting to think you have one too.”

You narrow your eyes, jaw tight. “What.”

His next words come darker. A commodity less said than laid down in front of you.

“A habit of asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

Your breath hits you crooked. You press your lips together, try to will sensation back into your legs. The silence stretches between you again, full of heat and that despicable prescience that he hasn’t broken it, because he doesn’t need to.Your mouth stays shut. It's not used to being without an opinion. He’s taken that from you too, somehow. The only sound you make is a shaky exhale, quiet enough to be mistaken for wind.

Your gaze follows his to his wrist, where his watch glints faintly beneath the low light, that watch you’d mocked internally for being too shiny, too sumptuous-looking, too aware of its own importance. You don’t know what he reads in the time, but he makes a soft sound, a breath, maybe a sigh, latterly he shrugs. The shoulders of his jacket shift, roll, and then, before your body can react, he’s pulling his arms free.

That black, unbothered thing of a jacket, the one that smelled like amber and ash and subtle conceit. He holds it for a second in his hands, then swings it gently, stupidly, over your shoulders.

Your first instinct is to shove it off, slap his hand away, say something defensive that hides how everything in you is currently rioting.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice splintered at the ends.

You don’t know what’s more disorienting. The unexpected gesture or the sheer weight of it. The jacket is heavy, still warm from his body, lined with something smooth that smells criminally luxurious, smoke and vetiver and a note you can’t name but feel in your knees. It swallows you instantly, hangs too wide over your frame, sleeves grazing knuckles you didn’t realize were clenched.

You stiffen, hands raised as if the fabric might detonate.

“No—no, I’m fine,” you protest, reaching to return it, but his hand catches your wrist, gently. Not holding you there, just… halting the motion. His fingers barely curve around your skin.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman." he says, eyes soft but voice gravel-edged. "I am a gentleman, actually."

You almost snort, but your throat tightens too fast for it to come out fully. Good thing, you decide. Otherwise, you would’nt have trusted yourself not to speak up on the think pieces, The fan-written fever dreams about how Taehyung held a door open once and that made him the reincarnation of chivalry itself.

Kim Taehyung, the article said, is a gentleman — he's out to get your poor heart because Kim Taehyung is the refined man of our modern times who asks before he touches, and never forgets a name.

You’d rolled your eyes so hard they clicked. You’d said aloud, to no one in particular, yeah, I bet. And yet here you are. Swaddled in the evidence.

Before you can launch into your next indignation, he speaks again — this time with a glint, a grin that blooms crooked at the edges and threatens to bring down whatever composure you’ve reassembled prior to disappearing away back to the glow.

“It was nice finally meeting you, ceo of Mars."

A/N: it does not end here!! tumblrs just shit and got me with its word limit but I will not be stopped and you can keep reading from here <3

[thinkerer24]

Mary on a Cross

Young, sweet, inexperienced Johnny x Big, Bad divorced!Simon

Or, They both realise some things about themselves.

@gerdddds !!! This was SO much fun to write (I think you can guess because it started as a blurb but became so long 😭😭)

Also I suck at writing the accents like some people do, so just- imagine them speaking in their respective accents lmao

SMUT 18+

Simon was tired. His eyes felt heavy in his skull and a certain gritty sensation burnt behind his eyelid that no amount of squinting was getting rid of. Normally, Price's commanding voice kept him and his team in order, oriented them in the right direction, but tonight it just felt like grating in his ear. His foot tapped impatiently on the floor of the conference room, the post mission briefing seeming to last longer than the actual mission itself. He checked the clock above Price's head.

9.34 pm.

He couldn't wait to hit the bar just outside the base and drown himself in vodka (yes, he was a vodka guy secretly at heart; don't tell Price).

John signalled the end of the meeting and Simon almost leapt out of his seat to flee the room, attendance signatures be damned. He's a lieutenant for god's sake, not a child, he could-

"Boss! Wait for me!"

Simon is a very patient man, too. At least, he'd like to think so. But he doesn't know why every deity and every spirit was making it very very difficult for him to maintain his cool today. Did he piss someone off? Is this all that karma hitting back at him?

"Yes, McTavish, what do you want?"

The spritely young man jogged to keep up with Simon, who hadn't stopped walking, by the way, and looked a bit too excited for someone who'd just come back from a grueling ten-day mission in the middle of bumfuck Siberia.

"Are you going to Joe's? I can come with, if that's okay? I really really really need to get pissed, I don't think I've ever craved alcohol in my cells before but fucks sake I-"

"Fuck me, Soap, do ye ever stop yapping?"

Johnny just grinned wider, unfazed by his senior's gruff behaviour. "Sorry, LT. Lead the way."

Simon decided he couldn't really shake him off that easy and was too tired to argue otherwise, so he just wordlessly got in his truck. He turned to see Johnny right at his heel, climbing beside him with a jump. Eager pup, Simon mused.

He knows if he were a few years, hell even a decade younger, he'd have shown the youngin a night he wouldn't have forgotten. His sexual prowess was a bit overbearing to old lovers, men and women alike, a fact his ex husband both loved and hated. He was known to last hours in bed; in a relentless pursuit of pleasure and pain, until his partners were breathless and sore. One of his exes was once rushed to the hospital, too, on account of certain, let's say, sex injuries, that had the entire ER blushing under their masks. It was safe to say he wasn't allowed to touch her for an entire month.

Now, sitting in the dim lighting of the bar in a greasy countertop right next to the ancient stereo, he stares at Johnny and maps his features in his brain. He'd never noticed the scar on his top lip that almost disappeared when he smiled, or that he had flecks of green dusted in those blue irises. He's rambling about some video game he's eager to try out, Simon couldn't be arsed really, but he realises that Johnny's brows tick upwards whenever he gets too excited and he makes the funniest face when he's being sarcastic about something the game developers have said.

"You got a bird waitin on you, boy?" Simon interrupts him, taking a long swig of his beer.

He'd never seen a grown man blush such a deep shade of red so quick.

Cute.

"Uh, no LT. Don't reckon I got the time, you know? The missions are just too stressful, and training usually takes up most of my day, ya know? I mean, some of these girls, LT, I wouldn't even know what to say, like, hey, I'm super tired most days because I'm in a super secret special ops force and My team gets sent to highly confidential locations regularly and oh, I could die too but no big deal, see ya soon, keep dinner ready for me? My hand does fine, thank you very much."

He's rambling now, clearly tipsy, and Simon quirks an eyebrow. "Who's talking about a relationship, Johnny? You could pick up literally anyone you want at this joint- shag 'em and leave 'em? Ever heard of no strings attached?"

Johnny ducks his head and Simon realises he's hit a nerve. Unlucky for Soap, Simon relishes in making boys like him squirm.

"I- I don't know how to say this but, eh fuck it, LT-- I haven't really fucked anyone, Like, ever? I know- I know what you're gonna say, boss, but I don't wanna hear it, okay; it just- never happened, yaknow? Fuck, I really do sound like a bumbling virgin but, fuck, LT, I-"

Simon decided to put the kid out of his misery and leaned forward to put his hands between Johnny's legs and grip at the stool he was sitting on. He effortlessly slid him closer and Johnny squeaked in surprise but instantly shut up as Simon bracketed his thighs with his own and placed one large palm on his jeans, frighteningly close to his bulge.

"It's okay, kid. Stop overthinking."

The heat from Simon's palm burnt a hole through his jeans and Johnny felt a bit lightheaded. He raised his hand and slowly traced the gold wedding band on Simon's ring finger. It felt like both a reminder of his experience and a taunt- he belongs to someone else.

"He left me a year ago," Simon says softly, making Johnny shift in his seat. "Wasn't exactly- husband material, you could say."

This was the first time Johnny had ever heard about his lieutenant's private life, and also, maybe, the first time Johnny was silent for so long. He stared into Simon's eyes, eagerly swallowing every word that left his scarred lips.

"I couldn't sleep for months. The Paris job almost killed me, and Parker couldn't take it anymore. He'd begged me to retire, take a desk job, anything. I refused. Said we needed the money. I woke up the next morning with his side of the bed empty and a note that said his lawyers would contact me soon. No goodbye."

Johnny raised his palm and cupped the side of Simon's cheek. He just stared back with an intensity that made something stir low in his belly.

"I want to take you back to my house. Strip you of all your clothes, and lay you in my bed. Dismantle your thoughts until all your pretty brain can think about is me. I want you to go limp in my arms and beg me to stop. Do you want that, kid?"

Johnny could feel himself nodding desperately, mouth agape, before his mind could even catch up to his actions. He swallowed roughly, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Is this really happening?

"W-wait. Simon, Simon."

Simon was half dragging him out of the bar already but he slowed down to look at him. "What, pup? Something wrong?"

Pup. The word made his dick twitch in his pants but Johnny braved through, " Simon, are you sure? Like, absolutely sure?"

Simon scoffed. Poor boy doesn't know what he's getting into.

He tugs him further and leads him into the truck, wordlessly getting into the drivers seat. "I meant what I said. I'll make it good for you, kid, I promise. Is this what you want? Think about it, we've got the whole ride back."

Johnny nods and looks at his side profile as he drives them to his house. He wants this. He's tired of avoiding all physical contact because of the stupid voice in his brain- "you're not smart enough, you're not wanted, no one wants you, no one could want you". He knows Simon can make that go away, he can feel it in his bones. He knows his LT will take care of him. He feels braver than before and inches his fingers slowly over Simon's regulation khakis, almost palming his bulge.

"Behave."

One word, and Johnny freezes. He'd always been the perfect soldier, hanging onto his LTs voice. Not surprising that it would be the same outside the battlefield, too.

They reached the barracks in record time, Johnny almost breaking the seatbelt buckle in his eagerness. They reach Simon's door and Simon leads Johnny into the room. He's been here several times before but now? It feels like he's a newborn fawn stumbling into the world for the first time. He tries to be sexy and turns to look at Simon but he bumps his toe into the center table and curses, before deciding to just, sit his ass on the sofa and let Simon take the lead.

Simon observes the entire thing with a glint in his eyes, desire stirring low in his belly. He closes the gap between them and sits on the floor in between Johnny's open legs. He places both hands on his thighs, leans up close to his face, and he can almost see Soap's neurons short circuit at his proximity.

"You don't have to do this, lad. No hard feelings".

Johnny whines low in his throat and grabs Simon by the nape of his neck. He jerks forward and clumsily presses his lips onto Simon's, and they both groan at how right it feels. Simon lets him lead the pace, explore what feels good and what doesn't. His tongue wearily circles his own and Simon sucks on it gently, making Johnny gasp. His hands run themselves into that goddamn mohawk, scraping at the buzz cut and massaging the scalp there. Johnny all but melts under the watchful care of Simon, and almost forgets what he was actually here for. Well, until Simon used one hand to press into the bulge that's straining against his pants and Johnny gasps.

"Go to the bedroom, kid. Take off your clothes and wait for me, yeah? Can you do that?"

Johnny nods eagerly and all but sprints to the single bedroom, making Simon scoff out a laugh. He enters the bare room and frantically takes off his clothes, but something in the bedside table catches his eye.

A framed photo of Simon and another man, in front of the Sydney Opera House. Both had matching grins, and Simon looked a good ten years younger. They were wrapped in a tight embrace and looking at the camera like nothing else mattered, because it didn't. They had each other and everything would be okay.

"It's been quite some time, John." Simon's quiet voice seemed to echo in the tiny space and Johnny almost jumps. His broad biceps encircle around his waist completely and Simon rests his chin on Johnny's shoulder, inhaling at his neck. "Don't dwell on the past. I know I don't."

John turns around in his grasp and looks at him longingly. "I don't want to make this sappy, Lt, but I think I'm a bit scared".

Simon nods, as if he had already anticipated it. He knows, he always knows. He's his lieutenant, his leader, his friend. He'd know what he's thinking, what he's feeling before he even frames it in his head. Soap knows that, and he would leap from a cliff if it was what Simon wanted, only because he knows Simon would be on the other side to catch him.

"I want you to touch yourself for me. Can you do that? Can you show me how you make yourself feel good?"

Simon lays him down on the bed and kisses him so deeply it makes his breath stop in his chest. His tongue delves into Johnny's mouth as his hands grip his waist, his hips, palming everything he could get his hands on. He pulls away and a string of spit connects their lips. Johnny looks fucked out already and Simon feels his heart thud louder.

Johnny nods along with him, humming low in the back of his throat as he slips a hand over his dick- fuck, it was as hard as a rock already. He rubs the head with his palm as Simon drops his head low to watch his motions. Johnny continues pumping his hips into his closed fist, increasing the pace frantically and panics when he realises he's so, so close already. His precum was making the entire ordeal so sticky, and Simon's intense stare wasn't helping his case.

"Kid, slow down, come on, easy, baby. Yeah, that's it." Simon places his hand over Soap's and guides him into a slower, more languid pace. His head felt syrupy, his stomach cramping already with how hard he's clenched it. He doesn't think he'll last any longer when Simon bends down and licks his tip gingerly.

"Fuck, FUCK Si, I-" he grabs onto Simon's head with both hands and almost smothers him by shoving his entire length into his mouth. Simon doesn't even gag, that fucker, and starts sucking his cock, making it so sloppy, so loud, Johnny doesn't think he'll survive this. The sight is downright obscene- Drool drops down the side of his mouth and his lips form a tight suction as he bobs his head up and down and up and down and up -

"I think I'm comin- fuckfuckfuckfuck,"

Simon pushes him further into his throat just as he climaxes, and Johnny gets tears in his eyes at how well Simon's throat clenches his cockhead. He doesn't know how long he's coming for, but knows that Simon doesn't let up for one second, constantly licking and laving at his dick and working him through the orgasm right into the territory of sweet oversensitivity. He's about to push his head away when one of Simon's thick fingers circle his asshole, and Soap feels like he's ascended.

"Is this where you want me, little pup? Do you want me to stretch you open, fill you till you're leaking with my cum? You wanna cry tonight?"

Soap sobs in agreement, fisting the bedsheet and twisting his torso to escape the pleasure as Simon pops the lid of the lube and generously pours over his taint and shaft. He pumps a finger in cautiously, making Johnny's breath catch lightly, huffing out tiny breaths to regulate himself.

"Breathe, kid. That's it, you're doing so good for me. I'm gonna bend my fingers just so, yeah? Oh- oh, is that the spot? Yeah, baby? Is that your happy spot?"

Simon's fingers hook inside in a way that makes them hit his prostate so deliciously- Johnny screams and bows his entire body up off the bed. Simon has to use his other hand to keep him pinned down and chuckles, starting to pump even harder. His fingers stretch and fill him, making him pant like a dog in heat now. He thinks he's going to come again, but he's not sure that's anatomically possible.

"Si, please, I need you, oh, I need you inside me, I need your cock, pleasepleaseplease Simon, I can't come like this, I-"

"Okay, okay, baby, breathe, breathe, yeah, my good boy wants my cock? Huh? I'll give it to you, I'll give you anything, fuck."

He pours some extra lube over his dick while his other hand continues to fuck into Johnny's tight hole. He caresses his dick slowly, thoroughly coating every inch in the sticky lube and slowly notches himself right up against Soap's asshole.

Feeling the blunt head against himself makes Johnny zero in on the moment; as if everything's faded away and it's just him, and just Simon, and there's nothing in between. They don't need to say anything, don't need more reasons to delay, and Johnny nods once, his eyes tearing up slightly. Simon understands- he bends forward to interlace his hands with Soap's and kisses him so so sweetly as he pushes inside.

The moan that leaves Soap could only be described as pornographic, as he feels every inch, every ridge and every vein breach his virgin hole. He stutters into the kiss, almost babbling as Simon grits his teeth together and powers through the tight embrace.

"Holy shit, kid, you're so tight."

"You're so big, sir".

Simon grips the back of his neck tighter and slightly massages the skin there, making Soap melt and relax a bit further. The last inch was the most difficult, Simon's girth found it almost impossible to make his rim stretch further, the sight of it so perverse it made Simon's mouth water.

"Let me on top, sir. I can take it."

Simon didn't really have the energy or the will to argue and effortlessly switched positions such that Johnny was on top and his dick never even slipped out.

"Go easy, yeah? I don't want you to hurt yourself"

Johnny nods with newfound vigor and plants both his feet on the bed, giving Simon a show for the ages. He takes a deep breath and lets gravity do most of the work as he slams himself down the last inch, right upto the thick base of Simon's god like member.

"Holy fuck, kid. I told you to go easy." He admonishes, but there's no real bite in it.

Soap grins, and oh, there's my boy, Simon thinks, "Sorry Lt. I'll be, fuck, more careful".

He starts a decadent rhythm, making both of them roll their eyes and moan loudly, neighbours be damned. It feels like heaven, like coming home after a long day at work, like the first sip of water after a hangover.

He realises soon enough that bouncing on his cock feels better than the grinding, and this knowledge makes Simon grip onto his hips tighter to help him along. Soap has his head thrown back, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth and onto his chest, eyes rolled into his skull. Look so perfect, Simon thinks. My boy.

His pace gets harder and faster and Simon realises he's not going to last longer. "Come for me, Johnny. Paint me with your cum, baby."

His hips stutter as he releases a whorish moan, probably waking up the entire base as he climaxes all over Simon's chest, his belly, heck some even went up to his face. He holds onto Simon's arms that were around his hips and crashes his lips onto his. This sets Simon off as he pumps once, twice, and buries himself deep in his ass and comes hard. They're both shaking and groaning, the kiss sloppy with sweat and spit, and their orgasms melting into each other's.

After a long time, Johnny pulls apart and stares into Simon's eyes. Those big, beautiful eyes that made him feel like home. They were slightly dazed and not all coherent and Johnny just grins.

"Let's do that again, sir."

[tovaana]

Since AVA 11 I was thinking about two things: 1. How's Second going to react about Alan and Chosen past. 2. About Second's powers (I know the episode was about Victim but Second is my favorite- SUE ME 😭) and then- ¡PUM! I had the greatest idea. Hear me out:

So I've seen people headcanon that Second is afraid of his powers and- great angst love it 👍🏻, but I didnt really saw a reason for why he would be afraid. That is until know. Listen:

Alan, used to torture his creations, treat them like toys.

Victim, while not bad, he isnt doing what he is doing for something like justice or a greater good, he just wants revenge (understandable but still not good) and I'm pretty sure he is of the mentality of "the end justifies the means", I mean, he already rope innocents into the mess (Yellow and Second) so I think he has done unethical things and will continue to do so (I certainly dont think he is going to politely ask Second to bring Mitsi back)

Chosen, used to destroy and kill.

Dark, used to also destroy and kill.

Hurt people hurt people hurt people hurt pe-

AND NOW, mix the trope about the mc fearing to end up like his horrible ass dad and in this case ALSO his crazy ass brothers.

So now imagine...

——————————————————————–

You are your father's son and your brothers succesor.

That means you get incredibly strong destructive powers, which is super cool! You can bring and create life, fly and go super fast, you're strong and can shoot laser rays. And... you killed someone with them.

You didn't mean to tho, he killed your friends and was trying to kill you and you just felt so angry because how dare he- and... suddenly everything went black and when you woke up apparently you had killed that guy (it was your brother).

But it's not like it's going to happen again! You won't hurt someone, right...?

Except you would.

In fact, you have already hurt people. You hurt your friends. Like that time you beat up Blue and Yellow because of the pop up ads, or when you fought with Red in the desert, or that time when you killed Green because of a house.

You were angry and you hurt your friends.

What if you get angry and your powers activate and you hurt your friends? Kill them? What if they can't respawn and you can't bring them back? What then?

You couldn't control yourself and now they are gone and it's your fault.

°°°

You know you are a good stickman. You are kind and friendly and forgiving and loyal and many more good things. But it's not enough.

It will never be, because you are your father's son and the only thing he is apparently capable of doing is hurt people. It is on your code.

Your brothers have the same code running through them, and they are not good stickmans either. Hard as you try, you can't seem to remove yourself from them.

You tell yourself you are nothing like them but then you'll pass a mirror and see them or you'll get angry with your friends and see the fear in their eyes and you are hurting people just like they did.

And that's when you realise that you are just like them.

[sonderden]

Physically, I'm already lying down.

Emotionally, I feel like I need to find a soft spot and crumple dramatically to the ground and lay down for a few weeks.

[harrysfolklore]

still a little bitch - cs55

summary: yn piastri and carlos sainz don’t hate each other anymore, but she still calls him a little bitch. PART ONE word count: 9.1k + social media posts

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!!! THE LONG AWAITED PART TWO OF LITTLE BITCH!!! i’m going to be completely honest with you i’m beyond terrified of posting this. little bitch was overwhelmingly liked by all of you and i’m scared this won’t live up to it 😭 but i really really hope you like it. i’m not a fan of doing part two’s of fics but this one deserves it <33 buckle up for a ride or angst, some tears and a lot of little bitch calling. LOVE YOU ALL

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

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ynpiastri highlight of imola: LEO LECLERC

tagged: landonorris, oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc

view all 3,998 comments

username1 OMG LEO IS SO CUTE

username2 MISS THE SECOND PICTURE ???

username3 PIASTRI SIS HAS A BF?? OMG

alexandrasaintmleux My boy 😍😍

username4 what is carlos doing in the likes i thought they hated each other 😭

username5 HOW DOES OSCAR FEEL ABOUT HER BF I NEED TO KNOW

username6 not tagging the person in the second pic she’s such a piastri

landonorris You’re not slick at all my friend

↳ ynpiastri i literally never asked for your opinion

↳ username1 HEEELP

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If someone had told you a year ago that you would be making out with Carlos Sainz in his driver's room hours before the Monaco Grand Prix, you would've laughed in their faces and told them they were completely out of their mind.

Because why would you ever think of even breathing near the little bitch, right?

And yet, there you were. Your bodies pressed together as his lips explored your neck.

"Carlos," you murmured, your fingers tangling in his hair, "we shouldn't... someone could come in..."

He lifted his head, his brown eyes gleaming with desire. "Do you want me to stop, hermosa?"

"No," you admitted, "I don't want you to stop."

A satisfied smile played on his lips before he pressed them against yours again. His hands caressed your hips, pulling you even closer.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he whispered against your lips.

You couldn't help but smile. "The feeling's mutual, you little bitch."

He chuckled softly before speaking, "And to think that you hated me."

"I still do," you replied, but your tone lacked conviction. "It's just… I hate you a little less when you do that."

His lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear, making you shiver.

"Oh yeah?" he murmured, his hot breath against your skin. "And this?"

You let out a small moan, your nails digging slightly into his shoulders. "Maybe I hate you even less now."

He laughed softly, his hands sliding under your t-shirt. "You definitely don't hate me."

Almost a month had passed since that night in Carlos' car, and things between you two were amazing. You hadn't put a label on what you were yet, but you felt happier than ever.

You found yourselves seeking each other out more and more. But it wasn't just about the physical attraction or the tension of your bickering anymore. You discovered a side of Carlos you'd never seen before – his warmth, his humor, his vulnerability.

And you finally let your guard down and let him see that part of you, too.

The sarcastic remarks and playful insults were still there, but now they were tinged with affection rather than malice. Your friends had started to notice the change in your dynamic, especially Lando, who couldn't quite hide his knowing smirk whenever he saw you two together.

However, you decided to play it cool, not letting your friends know that there was something more between you and Carlos. They might be able to tell by now, but you still didn't want to admit it to them.

Which lead to secret rendezvous in hidden corners of the paddock become frequent occurrences. Like right now.

"As much as I'm enjoying this," you said as his lips still lingered on your neck and his hands roamed underneath your shirt, "I should go, someone's probably coming to get you shortly."

Carlos let out a soft groan of but nodded, slowly pulling away from you.

"You're right," he admitted, his hands reluctantly leaving your skin. "I wish we could stay like this, though. "

"I know," you smiled, reaching up to smooth his tousled hair. "But we can't risk getting caught, especially not today."

He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Tonight, then? After the race?"

"Assuming you don't crash into a wall, sure," you teased.

"Such faith in me," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll show you, hermosa. Watch me on that podium."

You were about to retort when a sharp knock on the door made you both freeze.

"Carlos? Five minutes until the briefing," came a voice from outside.

"Coming!" Carlos called back, "Looks like our time's up."

"I'll sneak out after you. Good luck out there, little bitch," you whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Gracias, mi amor," he murmured, the endearment slipping out naturally.

You paused for a moment, surprised by the warm feeling that spread through your chest at his words. But there was no time to dwell on it. With a final kiss on your lips, he was out of the room.

Your heart was pounding as you tried to casually make your way out of Carlos' room. You were so focused on appearing nonchalant that you almost walked right into Charles.

"YN?" he said, his eyebrows raised in surprise and a knowing smirk slowly spreading across his face. "What are you doing here?"

You felt your cheeks flush as you scrambled for an explanation. "Oh, Charles! Hi! I was just… uh… coming to wish you good luck on the race."

"In Carlos' room?" his smirk widened.

Your heart sank. Of course he'd noticed where you'd come from. You tried to keep your voice steady as you replied, "No, no… I just got a bit turned around. All these corridors look the same, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Charles said, clearly not buying it for a second. "Well, thanks for the good luck wishes. Though I'm not sure how sincere they are if you're sneaking out of my teammate's room."

You opened your mouth to protest, but the knowing look in Charles' eyes made you realize it was pointless. He'd figured it out.

You were surprised Alex haven't told him already, anyway.

"Relax, YN. Your secret's safe with me," he said with a wink. "Though you might want to fix your hair before you see your brother. It's a bit… disheveled."

You groaned, quickly running your fingers through your hair as Charles walked away, still chuckling. You tried to make the flush on your cheeks go away as you reached McLaren hospitality.

Carlos Sainz was driving you crazy in the best possible way.

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ynpiastri LECLERCCCCCC FINALLY WON AND PERFECT PODIUM TYSM MONACO 😩😩😭

tagged: oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc, carlossainz55, lilyzneimer

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username1 I NEVER SAID ANYTHING BAD ABOUT THE MONACO GP

username2 her friendship with charles is so underrated love them

landonorris I wish my best friend celebrated my podiums like that

↳ ynpiastri i wish my best friend got more podiums to celebrate

↳ username1 HELPPP 😭

username3 UM HELLO??? posted sainz, TAGGED HIM, said it’s a perfect podium and she’s not coming for his neck for the touch with oscar on track that made the race re start ????? WHAT IS GOING ON

↳ username2 OH I SEE

charles_leclerc Thank you for coming to Ferrari just to wish me good luck and not anything else, that was definitely what made me win 😉

↳ ynpiastri stfu

↳ alexandrasaintmleux 😂😂😂😂

↳ oscarpiastri I’m really confused right now

carlossainz55 ❤️

↳ username1 BITCH WTF

↳ username2 ENEMIES TO LOVERS ???

TWITTER

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The party at Jimmy'z was in full swing, the air electric with the excitement of Charles' Grand Prix victory. The club was packed with F1 drivers, team personnel, and celebrities, all riding the high of the race day adrenaline.

You stood near the bar, your fourth glass of champagne in hand, feeling pleasantly buzzed. The room spun slightly as you looked around, your gaze inevitably drawn to Carlos. He was across the room, laughing with Pierre and Charles, but his eyes kept finding you in the crowd.

Every time your eyes met, you felt a jolt of electricity. The memory of his touch from earlier in the day lingered on your skin, making you crave more. You watched as he excused himself from his conversation and made his way toward you, weaving through the crowd with effortless grace.

"Enjoying the party, hermosa?" he asked, his voice low and husky as he leaned in close.

You shivered at his proximity, the scent of his cologne making your head spin even more. "It's alright," you said, trying to sound nonchalant. "Could be better though."

Carlos's eyes darkened at your words. He glanced around quickly before leaning in even closer, his lips barely brushing your ear. "Meet me outside in five minutes."

Before you could respond, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd. Your heart raced as you waited, trying not to watch the clock too obviously. When five minutes had passed, you made your way outside, your steps slightly unsteady.

The cool night air was a relief after the stuffy club. You spotted Carlos in one of the alleyways behind Jimmy'z. He turned as you approached, a smile spreading across his face.

"Remember the last time we were here?" he asked, pulling you close.

You giggled, the alcohol making you bold. "Yeah, when you kissed me unprovoked."

"Unprovoked?" Carlos raised an eyebrow, his hands settling on your waist. "I was being provoked by how insanely gorgeous you looked. Still do, by the way," he leaned even closer. "And if I recall correctly, you enjoyed it a lot."

"Maybe I did," you giggled, drunkenness clear in your every move. "Should we do it again?"

Without overthinking, you closed the gap between you, pressing your lips to his in a bold, impulsive kiss. It was tentative at first, testing the waters, but then you felt Carlos smile against your lips, his hands tightening on your waist as he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss.

As the kiss intensified, you felt Carlos's hands slide from your waist to your lower back, pressing you even closer against him. The heat of his body contrasted with the cool night air, sending shivers down your spine. Your own hands moved up to tangle in his hair, earning a low groan from him that you felt more than heard.

Breaking apart for air, Carlos rested his forehead against yours, his breath coming in quick pants. "I'm crazy about you, Piastri," he murmured before leaning in for another kiss.

You were so lost in the moment that you didn't hear the footsteps of someone approaching.

"You freaking muppets! I knew it!"

You broke apart, startled, to see Lando standing there, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Lando!" you whined, burying your face in Carlos's chest. "Leave us alone!"

Carlos chuckled, his arms still around you. "How long have you known, cabron?"

"Please, you two are about as subtle as a neon sign," Lando smirked, crossing his arms. "Oh, this is too good. You two are so busted."

"Lando, please," Carlos started, but you cut him off.

"Go away, Lando!" you whined, clinging to Carlos. "We're busy."

Lando laughed, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. I'll leave you lovebirds alone. But we're definitely talking about this later!"

As Lando walked away, you turned back to Carlos, wrapping your arms around his neck, suddenly feeling very tired and more than a little drunk. "Take me home?" you asked, your words slurring slightly.

"Of course, mi amor," Carlos nodded, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll drive you to Oscar's."

"Nooo," you whined, clinging to him. "I want to stay with you tonight. Please?"

Carlos hesitated for a moment, clearly torn. "YN, you're pretty drunk. Are you sure that's a good idea?"

You nodded vigorously, then immediately regretted it as the world spun. "I'm sure. I just want to be with you. Please?"

"Alright, alright, you win. Let’s get you back to my place," he said gently, wrapping an arm around your waist to steady you.

You beamed at him, pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, little bitch."

The night might have been a blur, but one thing was crystal clear—you were falling hard for Carlos Sainz, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

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ynpiastri have you guys ever tried hangover pancakes ?

view all 4,173 comments

username1 OMG???

username2 SHE DOES HAVE A BF

lilyzneimer 👀👀👀

username3 BITCH THATS CARLOS SAINZ

↳ username1 nah there’s no way, they hate each other

charles_leclerc I did before you did

↳ ynpiastri don’t be jealous charlie 😚

landonorris BUSTED BUSTED

↳ ynpiastri bro get over it

↳ landonorris never

↳ username1 LET ME INNNNN

username4 people saying this is carlos sainz, do you guys not know their history or something

↳ username5 yeah but enemies to lovers is a real thing

oscarpiastri 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

↳ ynpiastri ily can you pick me up?

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You could practically hear your friend's and brother's laugh through the phone as you muted the conversation. Shaking your head, you grabbed your jacket and headed out to meet Carlos.

He was waiting for you outside, leaning against a lamppost with casual smile. The sight of him - dressed in jeans and a simple t-shirt, his hair slightly tousled by the breeze - made your heart skip a beat.

"There you are," he said, his face lighting up as you approached. "Ready to go?"

Without thinking twice about it, you wrapped your arms his shoulders and pulled him in for a kiss, taking him by surprise. Carlos' eyes widened but he quickly melted into it, his arms wrapping around your waist. When you finally pulled away, he was looking at you with a mix of delight and wonder.

"Well," he said, a bit breathlessly, "that's quite a hello. What was that for?"

You shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the blush creeping up your cheeks. "Do I need a reason to kiss you?"

"No, hermosa," he said, pulling you closer. "You never need a reason. You're allowed to kiss me whenever you want."

With a playful glint in your eye. You pulled him in and kissed him again.

God you were down bad, it's embarrassing.

"Dios mio," he murmured as you pulled away, "I could get used to this."

You laughed, linking your arm with his as you started walking. "Don't get too comfortable, little bitch. I still have a reputation to maintain."

Carlos chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Of course, Piastri. Whatever you say."

As you strolled through the streets of Montreal, you found yourself initiating more little touches - a squeeze of his hand, a kiss on the cheek, leaning into him as you walked. Each time, you noticed how Carlos's face would light up, how he'd pull you a little closer.

It occurred to you that maybe he'd been holding back, worried about pushing you too far or too fast.

For the past month, you'd been letting your guard down, bit by bit. Carlos had somehow managed to sneak past your defenses with his charm and the warmth that had been hidden beneath all that banter. You'd always prided yourself on being independent, on not letting anyone get too close. But with Carlos, things felt different, at least now they did.

Still, there were moments when doubt crept in, when old insecurities bubbled to the surface. What if this was all just a fling for him? What if you were reading too much into the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to treasure every kiss and touch? What if you eventually went back to your bitterness towards each other?

You hadn't put a label on whatever this was between you, and the ambiguity sometimes left you feeling unsteady, as if you were walking on a tightrope without a safety net.

But bringing it up to him felt intimidating.

"Whats on your mind?" Carlos asked once he noticed that you went quiet and your eyes were wandering.

You considered bringing up the subject, but decided to ignore the thought for now.

"Nothing," you replied with a small smile, squeezing his hand. "Just thinking about how Lando is going to have our heads for not wanting to hang out with him."

Carlos chuckled, shaking his head. "Lando will survive. He can’t have us all to himself all the time."

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As the Spanish Grand Prix weekend approached, you found yourself in Barcelona, exploring the city with Carlos in a way you never imagined possible.

The man who once irritated you beyond belief was now showing you his childhood spots, sharing stories of his youth with a boyish enthusiasm that made your heart flutter.

When you told Oscar about your plans to head to Barcelona early with Carlos, you braced yourself for the teasing that was sure to follow.

Your brother didn't disappoint, his eyes lighting up with mischief as he launched into a series of jokes about you "fraternizing with the enemy" and how you'd "finally succumbed to Sainz's charms." But beneath the banter, you could see the genuine happiness in Oscar's eyes.

After the laughter died down, he pulled you into a hug and told you he was glad you'd found someone who made you happy, even if it was "that Spanish menace."

He was the best brother you could've asked for.

"And this," Carlos said, gesturing to a small, unassuming restaurant tucked away in a narrow street, "is where you'll find the best paella in all of Barcelona. Maybe even in all of Spain."

"That's a bold claim, Sainz," you raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You better not be overselling it."

"Would I ever lie to you, Piastri?"

"Yes, absolutely," you retorted, but there was no bite to your words.

As you sat down to eat, the aroma of saffron and seafood filled the air. Carlos watched expectantly as you took your first bite, and you couldn't help but close your eyes in delight at the flavors.

"Okay, I'll admit it," you said, opening your eyes to see his triumphant smile. "This might actually be the best paella I've ever had."

"I told you!" he exclaimed, looking far too pleased with himself. "Never doubt a Spaniard when it comes to paella."

"Alright, you win this round," you rolled your eyes playfully, but couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips.

As you continued to enjoy the meal, a comfortable silence settled between you and Carlos. It was in these quiet moments that you found yourself marveling at how far you'd come - from barely tolerating each other to... whatever this was now.

"You know, I've been thinking," Carlos broke the silence, his voice softer than usual, "We've talked a lot about my childhood here in Spain, but I realize I don't know much about your early years in Australia."

You looked up from your plate, a bit surprised by the sudden change in topic. "Oh, well, what do you want to know?"

Carlos leaned forward, his elbows on the table, genuine curiosity in his warm brown eyes. "Everything. What was it like growing up there? What did little YN enjoy back then?”

You paused for a moment, caught off guard by Carlos's question. Your mind immediately went to your childhood memories with Oscar, and you found yourself launching into a familiar narrative.

"Well, growing up in Australia was quite an adventure, especially with Oscar around," you began, a fond smile playing on your lips, “Oscar's always been obsessed with anything that has wheels. Even as a toddler, he'd zoom around the house with his toy cars, making engine noises..."

As you launched into the story of Oscar's journey from go-karts to Formula 1, you found yourself getting carried away with the memories. You talked about the early morning drives to races, the smell of petrol and rubber that became a constant in your life, the way your parents juggled work and Oscar's growing career.

"...and then there was this one time, Oscar was about 14, and he'd just won a major championship. The interviewer asked him who his biggest inspiration was, and do you know what he said?" You paused, smiling at the memory.

Carlos shook his head, completely engrossed in your story.

"He said it was me. Can you believe that? His older sister who couldn't tell a thing about cars. I think I cried for an hour after that interview."

As you finished your tale, you noticed Carlos watching you with an unreadable expression. "What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

Carlos smiled softly, reaching across the table to take your hand.

"Hermosa," he said gently, "I asked about your childhood, and you've told me all about Oscar's racing career."

You blinked, realizing he was right. "Oh, I... I guess I got carried away. Sorry about that."

"No, no," Carlos squeezed your hand reassuringly. "I love hearing about Oscar, truly. But I want to know about you. What did you like growing up? What were your passions, your dreams?"

You blinked, suddenly realizing that you had automatically steered the conversation towards Oscar, as you had done countless times before when asked about your childhood. The fact that Carlos had redirected the focus back to you left you momentarily speechless.

"I... wow," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before."

"Really? But surely people must have been interested in your childhood too?"

You shrugged, feeling a sudden lump in your throat. "Not really. I mean, Oscar was always the star, you know? My pride and joy, the racing prodigy. People were always more interested in his story."

Carlos squeezed your hand gently. "Well, I'm interested in your story. Tell me about little YN Piastri, not just Oscar's sister."

You took a deep breath, feeling a lot of emotions you couldn't quite name. Carlos's genuine interest in your personal story touched something deep within you, a part of yourself you'd almost forgotten existed.

"Actually," you began, your voice soft as you delved into long-buried memories, "I was always drawn to art. Not just painting or drawing, but all forms of visual expression. I remember spending hours in our backyard, arranging leaves and flowers into patterns, or using chalk to create massive, colorful murals on our driveway."

"That sounds beautiful. Did you take classes?" Carlos leaned in, his eyes bright with interest.

"Not really. I wasn't great in school, to be honest. Sitting still, focusing on textbooks - it just wasn't my strong suit. But give me a blank canvas or a lump of clay, and I could lose myself for hours."

"So why didn't you pursue it?" Carlos asked gently.

You paused, considering Carlos's question. It was something you'd never really articulated before, even to yourself.

"I guess... I never saw it as something to pursue," you said slowly. "My focus was always on Oscar. From the moment he started showing promise in racing, I just naturally fell into the role of his protector, his support system."

You smiled softly, remembering those early days. "Oscar was so talented, but he was also just a kid with big dreams and even bigger pressures. I felt like it was my job to shield him from the worst of it, to be his safe haven. It wasn't a sacrifice, not really. It was a choice I made out of love. Oscar's success, his happiness - that became my passion."

"But what about your art?" Carlos pressed, his tone careful but curious.

You shrugged, a mix of emotions flickering across your face. "It just… faded into the background, I guess. There were always races to attend, equipment to pack. My sketchbooks got buried under stacks of racing magazines. My easel gathered dust in the corner of my room."

Carlos reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "YN , that's… that's incredibly selfless of you. But don't you miss it?"

You felt a wave of emotion wash over you at Carlos's question, his gentle touch grounding you.

"I do," you admitted softly, your eyes meeting his. "I've been Oscar's sister, his supporter, for so long. I'm not sure I remember how to be anything else."

"Oh, mi amor," Carlos said softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. "You're so much more than just Oscar's sister. You're YN - a woman with a beautiful heart and a determinate mind. Your love for Oscar is admirable, but it doesn't have to be the only thing that defines you," he paused, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, "I'm honored to be close to that woman. The one who sees beauty in leaves and flowers, who can lose herself in creating art, even when she forgets about it."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, a warmth spreading through your chest. But old habits die hard, and you found yourself deflecting with humor. "Wow, Sainz," you said, a teasing glint in your eye. "Are you always this sappy, or am I just special?"

Carlos's face broke into a grin, recognizing your playful tone. "Only for you, Piastri. I have a reputation to maintain, you know."

"Oh please," you rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. "Your reputation as what? A little bitch?"

Carlos' face broke into a wide grin, "One day you'll stop calling me that."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension of the earlier conversation dissolving into familiar banter. "Keep telling yourself that, Sainz."

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ynpiastri te quiero barcelona 🫶

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username1 OH

username2 WHAT IS HAPPENINGGGG

alexandrasaintmleux 👀❤️

username3 SHE THINKS SHES SLICK CROPPING CARLOS’ EYES GIRL WE CAN TELL ITS HIM

lilyzneimer 🥹

username4 the piastri - sainz beef turning into piastri - sainz romance wasn’t on my bingo card

nicolepiastri You failed Spanish like three times in high school…

↳ username1 HEEEEELPPP

↳ oscarpiastri 😂😂😂😂😂😂

↳ username2 mama piastri is too iconic for constantly dragging her kids

↳ ynpiastri 😩

landonorris I SEE HOW IT IS NOW

↳ username1 help lando’s dreams came true

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Saturday arrived in Barcelona, which meant it was time for qualifying.

After your quick rendezvous with Carlos in his motorhome - something that was routine by now- you made your way towards the paddock club to meet Alex and Kika. Your mind was still buzzing from Carlos' touch, your skin tingling where his lips had been just moments ago.

Your hair was slightly tousled, a result of Carlos' fingers running through it. You could still feel the ghost of his kisses on your neck, and the memory sent a shiver down your spine. Pausing briefly, you tried to smooth down your clothes and fix your appearance in the reflection of a nearby trailer. The last thing you needed was more knowing looks from your friends, you had enough when Lando teasing you and Carlos whenever he had the chance.

Approaching the paddock club, you spotted Alex and Kika waiting for you near the entrance.

"Hey, there you are!" Alex called out as you neared. "We were starting to wonder if you'd gotten lost."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "In a place I've been coming to for years? Not likely."

The three of you sat down at a nearby table and ordered something to drink. The conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from race predictions to the latest paddock gossip.

"So," Kika said, leaning forward towards you, "how are things going with Carlos? You two seem pretty cozy lately."

You felt a blush creeping up your neck, the warmth spreading to your cheeks. You took a sip of your drink to buy yourself a moment, but you couldn't hide the smile that tugged at your lips. "Things are good. Really good, actually."

"But…?" Alex's eyes narrowed slightly as she studied your face.

"But nothing," you shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "We're just enjoying each other's company."

Kika's eyebrows shot up, her expression a mix of surprise and disbelief. "Wait, has he not asked you to be his girlfriend yet? I thought for sure you two would be official by now."

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, bringing all your insecurities rushing to the surface. The ones you've tried to push away since this thing with Carlos began.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but your friends knew you too well. The smile you'd been wearing moments ago faltered, and you could feel the doubt creeping in.

"Hey," Alex said softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand. "I'm sure it doesn't mean anything. Carlos is crazy about you, anyone can see that. Every relationship moves at its own pace."

You nodded, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Yeah, of course. We're just taking things slow, that's all."

But as the conversation moved on to other topics, you couldn't shake the doubt that had taken root in your mind. You found yourself only half-listening, your thoughts a swirling mess of questions and insecurities.

Why hadn't Carlos made things official? Was he keeping his options open? Were you still just his rival's sister who picked fights with him in his eyes? The rational part of your brain tried to argue that labels didn't matter, that what you and Carlos had was special regardless of what you called it. But the insecure part wouldn't be silenced so easily.

As you sat there, surrounded by the chatter of your friends and the energy of the circuit, you felt a strange sense of isolation creep over you. You were in Carlos' home city, surrounded by his world, and yet you'd never felt more unsure of your place in it.

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"Finally," Carlos breathed, as he opened the door. Before you could utter a word, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside, kicking the door shut behind you. In one fluid motion, he pressed you against the wall, his body flush against yours.

"Carlos, what-" you started, but he silenced you with a searing kiss.

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. "Sorry," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I've been wanting to do that all day."

"You saw me right after the race, you needy little bitch."

Carlos' hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer. "That was hours ago. Far too long."

"Seriously?" you teased, though you couldn't keep the affection out of your voice. "You're ridiculous, Sainz."

"Maybe," he conceded, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear. "But you like it."

Carlos began to trail kisses down your neck, his touch igniting sparks across your skin. You laughed as he pulled you towards the bed, your fingers intertwining with his.

"Slow down, hotshot. The bed's not going anywhere."

"But my patience might," he turned to face you, "Do you know how hard it was to focus on the post-race interviews when all I could think about was getting you alone?"

"Oh, poor baby," you teased gently, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. "It must have been tough, going over the race data after a P6 finish."

Carlos groaned dramatically, pulling you closer. "Torture, hermosa. Absolute torture."

Carlos guided you towards the bed, his hands never leaving your body. With a gentle push, he lowered you onto the mattress, quickly following to hover above you. His lips found yours again, the kiss deep and passionate, as his hands roamed your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt.

You arched into his touch, your own hands exploring the firm planes of his back. Carlos broke the kiss to trail his lips along your jawline, down to the sensitive spot on your neck that always made you gasp.

"You're really needy today, aren't you?" you said, running your fingers through his hair.

Carlos' lips quirked into a smirk, his eyes softening with affection. "I'm always needy when it comes to my girl," he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips once more.

Your breath caught in your throat, not just from the sensation of his warm breath on your skin, but from his words. My girl. The phrase echoed in your mind, stirring up the doubts you'd been trying to push away.

Suddenly, Kika's voice from your earlier conversation rang in your ears. "Wait, has he not asked you to be his girlfriend yet?"

The warmth that had been building in your chest turned cold as uncertainty crept in. If you were his girl, then why hadn't he made it official?

Carlos must have sensed your sudden tension because he pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing. "YN? What's wrong?"

You forced a smile, trying to shake off the doubts. "Nothing," you said, your voice not quite as steady as you'd hoped.

He studied your face for a moment, concern evident in his eyes. "Are you sure? We can stop if you're not feeling it."

"No, no," you assured him quickly, not wanting to ruin the moment. "I'm fine. Just… got distracted for a second."

Carlos didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded slowly. "Okay, but promise me you'll tell me if something's bothering you?"

You nodded, pulling him back down for another kiss. As you lost yourself in the sensation of his lips on yours and his hands on your body, you pushed your concerns to the back of your mind.

A few moments later, you laid tangled beneath the covers, your head resting on Carlos' chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder. The afterglow should have been blissful, but your mind was elsewhere, racing with thoughts you couldn't quiet.

Carlos must have sensed your unease because he shifted slightly, tilting his head to look at you. "YN? What's wrong, hermosa? You seem… distant. Are you not feeling well?"

You sighed, debating whether to voice your concerns. "It's nothing, really. I just…" you trailed off, unsure how to continue.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand moving to cup your cheek. "Talk to me. What's going on in that beautiful head of yours?"

You bit your lip, your heart racing. "It's just… when you called me 'your girl' earlier… I don't know. It made me think."

"Think about what?" Carlos' brow furrowed slightly. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, you didn't," you assured him quickly. "It's more about… us, I guess. About what we are. What this is between us."

"YN," he said, his voice low and intense. "I thought I've been clear about how I feel about you. I've been yours since that kiss at Jimmy'z last year. Maybe even before that, if I'm being honest."

His words should have reassured you, but they only made your anxiety spike. You sat up abruptly, pulling the sheet around you.

You'd wanted clarity, but now that you had it, you didn't know how to handle it.

"But what does that mean, Carlos?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly. "We've been doing... whatever this is for months now, but we've never really talked about it. We haven't put a label on it."

Carlos sat up too, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. "I didn't think we needed to. I thought it was obvious how I felt about you."

"Obvious?" you repeated, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice. "How is it obvious when we've never actually discussed what we are to each other?"

Carlos reached for your hand, but you pulled away, standing up from the bed. You began pacing, your mind racing.

"YN, please," Carlos said, his voice soft. "Come back to bed. Let's talk about this."

You shook your head, reaching for your clothes. "I can't... I need to think. I need some space."

As you hurriedly dressed, Carlos got out of bed, pulling on his boxers. "Are you really running away, Piastri?" he asked, a hint of anger in his voice now. "I thought we were past this. That you weren't that arrogant girl who was ready to pick up pointless fights with me anymore."

His words stung, cutting deeper than you thought possible. It felt like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs and leaving you reeling. The accusation brought back all the insecurities you'd been trying to suppress, all the doubts about whether you deserved this happiness with Carlos. It was as if he'd reached into your chest and squeezed your heart, leaving you raw and vulnerable.

You whirled to face him, eyes flashing with hurt and anger. "Arrogant? Is that what you think of me?"

"No, that's not what I meant," Carlos ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his voice. "I just... I thought we'd moved past the point where you'd run away instead of talking to me."

"Maybe I wouldn't feel the need to run if you'd actually communicate with me," you shot back.

"Communicate?" Carlos scoffed. "That's rich coming from you. You're the one who's been keeping me at arm's length this whole time!"

The accusation hit you like a slap. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, YN," Carlos said, his voice rising. "Every time things get too real, you pull away. You make a joke, you change the subject. It's like you're afraid of admitting that this might actually mean something."

"That's not fair," you protested, feeling tears prick at your eyes. "I'm here, aren't I? I've been here! But how am I supposed to be sure that this isn't just a fling for you? Or some twisted way to mess with Oscar?"

"Oscar?" Carlos looked you with wide eyes, shaking his head, "What does Oscar have to do with anything? This is about us, YN. You and me."

"Is it?" you challenged, your voice breaking. "Because sometimes I don't even know what 'us' means. Are we together? Are we just having fun? How am I supposed to know?"

Carlos' expression softened slightly, but his frustration was still evident. "You're not being fair, Piastri. I've always been the one to show my desire to be with you. I did it that night after Lando's party, remember? But you're the one who runs away when things get real."

His words hit home, and you felt a fresh wave of guilt and confusion wash over you.

"I don't... I don't run away," you said weakly, but even to your own ears, it sounded unconvincing.

"Don't you?" Carlos asked, his voice softening. "Every time I try to take a step forward, you take three steps back. I'm not the one who's afraid of labels here."

Silence lingered in the air, you felt physically sick. Carlos' words were true, every single one of them, deep down you knew it. As much as you tried to let your guard down with him, your self defense mechanisms always came through.

"When are you going to stop sabotaging your own happiness for other people?" Carlos asked after another minute of silence. "This isn't about Oscar, or anyone else. It's about you being too scared to admit that you might actually care about me."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, once again. "Scared? You think I'm scared? I'm terrified, Carlos! Terrified of getting hurt, of ruining everything. And you're not exactly making it easy.""

"How am I not making it easy?" Carlos demanded, his voice rising. "I've been nothing but clear about my feelings for you. Every time I get close, you shut down!" Carlos shouted, his frustration boiling over. "It's like you're allergic to any kind of emotional intimacy!"

"Oh, that's something coming from you," you spat back. "Mr. 'I-can-charm-anyone-with-a-smile'. How do I know this isn't just another conquest for you?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. You saw the hurt flash across Carlos' face, quickly replaced by anger.

"A conquest?" he repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Is that really what you think of me? After everything I've shared with you?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," you said, your voice breaking. "This whole thing is just... it's too much. I can't do this."

You turned towards the door, reaching for the handle. Carlos stepped forward, his anger dissipating, replaced by desperation.

"YN, wait," he pleaded. "Please, don't go. Not like this. Let's talk, mi amor. Don't run from me."

The term of endearment, spoken so softly, almost broke your resolve. You paused, your hand on the doorknob, torn between the urge to flee and the desire to fall into his arms.

"I... I can't, Carlos," you whispered, your voice thick with tears. "I need some time. Some space to think."

"YN, please," Carlos said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can figure this out together. Just... stay. Please."

You turned to look at him one last time, your heart breaking at the pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry," you managed to say. "I'll... I'll call you later."

And with that, you stepped out into the hallway, leaving Carlos standing alone in his room.

You immediately felt like you made a huge mistake.

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You were curled up on the couch in your apartment, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, staring blankly at the TV screen. The sound was muted, the flickering images providing a distraction you desperately needed but couldn't quite focus on. Your phone lay face down on the coffee table, ignored despite the occasional vibration of incoming messages.

Your mind wandered to Carlos, it always did.

The memory of your argument played on repeat in your head, each hurtful word a fresh wound. You couldn't shake the image of his face - the hurt, the anger, the desperation in his eyes as you walked out the door. It haunted you.

Everything that had happened that night felt like a blur. The passion of your initial encounter, the tenderness of his touch, the way he called you "his girl" - it all seemed so perfect until your insecurities came crashing in. You wondered if you had overreacted, if you had let your fears get the best of you.

Carlos had been right about one thing - you did have a tendency to run when things got too real. It was a defense mechanism, a way to protect yourself from getting hurt. But in doing so, were you sabotaging your own happiness, like he said?

The only thing you were sure about was that it wasn't physical attraction or the remaining tension of your bickering from last year anymore, Carlos saw you in a way no one else did, and that terrified you as much as it thrilled you.

Your conversation with Lando from earlier that day came back to you. You had called him in a moment of panic, spilling out all your fears and doubts. Lando, ever the unusual voice of reason, had listened patiently.

"YN," he had said, his voice gentle but firm, "you can't let your insecurities ruin what you and Carlos could have. I've known him for years, and I've never seen him like this with anyone else. He really cares about you."

"But what if it doesn't work out?" you had asked, your voice small. "What if we end up hating each other again?"

Lando had chuckled at that. "You two are so stubborn, you know that? You're both so afraid of letting your guard down that you're pushing each other away. Someone needs to take the first step, YN. And from what Carlos has told me, he's been trying. Maybe it's your turn."

His words echoed in your mind now, mixing with the memory of Carlos' plea for you to stay.

You made a huge mistake by walking away that night, and now you didn't know how to fix it.

A soft knock on the door startled you out of your thoughts. You hesitated, not wanting to face anyone, but another, more insistent knock followed.

"YN? It's me, open up," Oscar's voice called from the other side.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself off the couch and shuffled to the door. When you opened it, your brother's concerned face greeted you.

"Hey," Oscar said softly, his eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. "Can I come in?"

You nodded, stepping aside to let him enter. Oscar walked in, his gaze taking in the dim lighting and the general disarray of your usually tidy living room. He turned to face you, worry etched across his features.

"What's going on, sis? I heard you're not going to Austria," he said, his voice gentle but probing. "And it looks like you haven't slept in days."

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze. "I just need a break," you mumbled, moving back to the couch and curling up in your previous position.

Oscar followed, sitting down beside you.

He reached out and placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, his touch gentle and familiar. "YN, talk to me. What's really going on? Is this about Carlos?"

At the mention of Carlos' name, you felt a fresh wave of emotion wash over you. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. Oscar noticed your reaction and pulled you into a tight hug.

"Oh, sis," he murmured, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "What happened?"

You buried your face in your brother's shoulder, finally letting the tears fall. Between sobs, you started to explain everything that had happened in Barcelona - the conversation with Kika and Alex, your growing insecurities, the night in Carlos's hotel room, your argument. As you spoke, you could feel the weight of the past week pressing down on you, the emotions you'd been bottling up threatening to spill over.

"…and now, I don't know what to do," you finished, your voice barely above a whisper. "I feel like I've ruined everything."

"YN, listen to me. You haven't ruined anything," Oscar said, "Relationships are complicated, and misunderstandings happen. But from what you've told me and what I've seen, it sounds like Carlos cares about you a lot. And I think you care about him too, more than you're willing to admit to yourself."

"But what if it all goes wrong?" you wiped your eyes, sniffling. "What if we end up hating each other even more than we did before? What if... what if I'm not enough for him?"

Oscar shook his head, a small smile on his face. "You've always been your own worst enemy, you know that?" you almost rolled your eyes at he familiar statement. "Remember when I left for boarding school? You were so upset, convinced that I was leaving you behind forever. You didn't want to say goodbye, afraid it would hurt too much."

The memory flooded back, and you felt a lump form in your throat. "Yeah, I remember," you said softly.

"But do you remember what happened after?" Oscar prompted.

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips. "We ended up talking more than ever. Phone calls, letters, video chats…"

"Exactly," Oscar said, squeezing your hand. "You were so scared of losing me that you almost pushed me away. But when you finally opened up, our relationship grew stronger than ever."

"That's different, Oscar. This is… it's Carlos. It's complicated."

"Is it?" Oscar challenged. "Or are you just making it complicated because you're scared? I've seen the way you two look at each other. It's not just some leftover tension from your rivalry. It's real."

You sighed, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. "But what if-"

"No more 'what ifs'," Oscar interrupted. "You can't live your life afraid of what might happen. You're missing out on what's right in front of you," you were quiet for a moment, considering his words until he spoke again, "I know you’ve held back a lot in your life—for me, for our family—but I don’t want you holding back when it comes to Carlos.”

You blinked, slightly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

Oscar hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I mean… I’ve seen how much you sacrifice for the people you love. You’ve put so much of your own life on hold to support me, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But when it comes to Carlos—this thing between you—it’s different. I would never forgive myself if you sacrificed that for my sake.”

Your heart clenched at his words, and you realized how much Oscar understood you, maybe even more than you realized. “Oscar, I’m not holding back for you, I—”

“I know you’re not doing it consciously," he interrupted gently, "But I can see it. You’re worried about how our dynamic will change, or maybe how I’ll react. But, YN, I want you to be happy. If being with Carlos makes you happy, then I want you to go for it. Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about anyone else.”

You sat there, absorbing what Oscar said. His words made you feel a lot of different things all at once. You realized he was right - you had been holding back, not just with Carlos, but in many parts of your life. This scared you, but also made you feel free.

It was time to put yourself first.

"I hate that you're always so wise, you're my little brother, I'm supposed to be the one giving you advice, not the other way around."

"To be fair, I was thrown into the motorsport world at an early age, you experience all kinds of drama there," he shrugged, making both of you laugh, "Now, are you going to talk to him, or do I need to drag you to Austria myself? Or even Madrid?"

You let out a small laugh, the first genuine one in days. "I guess I'll talk to him. But I still don't feel like going to Austria, I need some time to gather my thoughts."

"Fair enough," Oscar nodded, "Just don't take too long, okay? You both deserve to be happy. And Lando is freaking out because you're ruining his dreams again."

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liked by carlossainz55, oscarpiastri and 397,538 others

ynpiastri i almost forgot how it felt to watch a race on tv. congratulations boys 🥳 and ty to my queen @carmenmmundt for the last picture

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username1 QUEEN WE MISS YOU WHAT HAPPENED

username2 the paddock is not the same without the most iconic piastri

lilyzneimer 🤍

carmenmmundt 😚😚

username3 im pretty sure this is the first time she’s not at a race since oscar’s f2 days

username4 THE 55 HELLO?????

username5 WHATS THEIR SHIP NAME?? PAINZ???

username6 she’s down bad for the smooth operator this is what i call enemies to lovers

landonorris You seem happy for my DNF…

↳ ynpiastri stfu

carlossainz55 ❤️

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You paced nervously in your apartment, your heart racing as you waited for Carlos to arrive. The soft carpet muffled your footsteps but did nothing to quiet the storm of thoughts in your head. You had rehearsed what you wanted to say a hundred times, but now that the moment was here, all your carefully prepared words seemed to evaporate.

Your eyes flitted to the clock on the wall, then to your phone, checking the time for what felt like the thousandth time. The knock on the door made you jump, your pulse skyrocketing. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. "It's just Carlos," you told yourself, but that thought brought both comfort and a new wave of anxiety.

With trembling hands, you smoothed down your shirt and ran a hand through your hair before opening the door. Carlos stood there, looking tired but as handsome as ever. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd been running his hands through it—a nervous habit you'd noticed before.

His eyes lit up when he saw you, a mix of relief and apprehension in his gaze. For a moment, you both just stared at each other, the air heavy with unspoken words and emotions.

"Hi," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You stepped aside to let him in, hyper-aware of his presence as he moved past you.

"Hi," he replied, his voice warm as he entered.

You led him to the living room, settling on the couch. There was a moment of awkward silence, the tension palpable. You both opened your mouths to speak at the same time.

"I'm sorry—“

"I wanted to—"

You both laughed, some of the tension dissipating. The sound of his laughter, even tinged with nervousness, helped to ease some of your anxiety.

"You go first," Carlos said, his eyes soft as he looked at you. His gaze was patient, encouraging, and you drew strength from it.

You took a deep breath, your hands fidgeting in your lap. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, knowing he deserved your full honesty. "Carlos, I'm so sorry for running away in Barcelona. It wasn't fair to you, and I've been kicking myself ever since. I… I panicked. Everything was happening so fast, and I just… I couldn't handle it."

He nodded, his expression understanding. He reached out to take your hand, his touch sending a shiver through you. "I appreciate that, YN. Truly. But I owe you an apology too. I shouldn't have pushed you or made assumptions about your feelings. I got caught up in the moment and didn't consider how overwhelming it might be for you."

"No, Carlos, you were right," you shook your head, squeezing his hand. "I do run away when things get too real. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to myself either."

You paused, gathering your courage. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure Carlos must be able to hear it. "The truth is, I care about you. A lot. More than I've cared about anyone in a long time. And that terrifies me."

Carlos moved closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. The tenderness in his touch almost undid you. "Why does it terrify you, mi amor?" he asked softly, his eyes searching yours.

You leaned into his touch, feeling tears prick at your eyes. The vulnerability of the moment was almost overwhelming, but you forced yourself to continue. "Because I'm not used to feeling this vulnerable. I've always prided myself on being independent, on not needing anyone. It's been my armor, my way of protecting myself. But with you… you see parts of me that I don't show anyone else. You've managed to slip past all my defenses, and it scares me how much I want to let you in completely."

Carlos listened intently, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as you spoke. His warmth, his steady presence, made the walls you had built around yourself seem almost unnecessary.

"It's okay to be scared, hermosa. I understand why you feel like you need to protect yourself. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore. I’m here, and I want to be here for you, with you."

Your heart swelled at his words, and despite the vulnerability, a small part of you felt lighter, freer. "I’ve never let anyone get this close before," you admitted. "But I don’t want to keep running, Carlos. I don’t want to keep pushing you away."

Carlos smiled softly, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your chest tighten. "I don’t want you to run, either. I want us to be together, whatever comes next. But only if that’s what you want."

You exhaled shakily, emotions swirling inside you like a storm. "It is what I want," you said, your voice firm but laced with emotion. "I want to be with you. I’m tired of being scared of something that could be so good."

A look of pure relief crossed Carlos' face, and he pulled you into his arms. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent, feeling his heart beating steadily under your cheek. His arms wrapped around you tightly, as if he were afraid you might disappear.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered, answering the unspoken fear that lingered between you both.

Carlos kissed the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. "You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that."

You pulled back slightly to look up at him, your hands resting on his chest, "I promise I'll change, I'll be-"

"Mi amor," Carlos interrupted softly, "I don't want to change you. I fell for you exactly as you are—stubborn, brilliant, and fiercely independent. Those are the qualities that drew me to you in the first place."

You couldn't help but smile at that, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "Even when I was being a pain in your ass?" you asked, a hint of your usual sass creeping into your voice.

"Especially then," he chuckled, the sound warming you from the inside out. "You know, even when we were at each other's throats, I was always drawn to you. I wanted to know you better, to understand what made you such a firecracker."

"Really?" you asked, surprised.

"Really," he confirmed, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Besides, you were infuriatingly attractive when you were angry. The way your eyes would flash, the flush on your cheeks… it took everything in me not to kiss you right then and there sometimes."

You felt a familiar warmth spreading across your cheeks at Carlos' words, but you couldn't help the playful smirk that tugged at your lips. "Oh, so that's why you were always trying to rile me up, huh? And here I thought you were just being an insufferable little bitch."

"Ah, there's the Piastri I know," Carlos threw his head back in laughter. "I was wondering when your sharp tongue would make an appearance."

"You love it," you teased, feeling more like yourself than you had in days.

"I do," he admitted, his eyes twinkling.

Carlos' gaze dropped to your lips. Slowly, he leaned in, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn't want to. Not anymore.

Your eyes fluttered closed as his lips met yours. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if he was still afraid you might run. But as you responded, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, the kiss deepened, filled with all the emotions you had both been holding back.

When you finally pulled apart, Carlos rested his forehead against yours. "I meant every word I said," he murmured. "I'm serious about this. I want to make this work."

You took a deep breath, your heart racing for an entirely different reason now. "I'm serious too, Carlos. It scares me how much I want this, but… I want to be with you."

The smile that broke across Carlos' face was radiant. He cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again.

"You're still my little bitch after all," you couldn't help but laugh as you parted.

"When are you going to change that to something more romantic, hmm?" Carlos rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. "'Mi amor,' perhaps? Or 'cariño'?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I failed Spanish in high school?" you rolled your eyes back at him. "And I thought you liked it when I called you that. Didn't you say once that it turned you on?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that statement," he said with a grin. "But how about this—you can call me your 'little bitch' if you want, but I get to call you my girlfriend. Deal?"

Your heart skipped a beat at the word 'girlfriend.' It should have scared you, but instead, it filled you with warmth.

"Deal," you agreed, pulling him in for another kiss.

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ynpiastri fitting 💋

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username1 OMGGGG

username2 ICONIC

alexandrasaintmleux 😂😂😂😂

username3 WHOS THE BOYFRIENDDDD

logansargeant Is this who I think it is? 👀

↳ ynpiastri little bitches everywhere

username4 THATS CARLOS CONFIRMED

username5 CARLOSYN PAINZ 😩

landonorris BITCH FINALLY

↳ username1 i bet lando manifested this

nicolepiastri We been knew since Singapore 2023, by the way

↳ ynpiastri MUM 😩

↳ username2 I LOVE YOU NICOLE PIASTRI

carlossainz55 ❤️

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The Hungarian Grand Prix had been a whirlwind of emotions. The entire paddock was still buzzing with excitement over Oscar's maiden Formula 1 victory.

Your little brother had driven the race of his life, leading most of the laps to take the checkered flag. The memory of him standing on the top step of the podium, eyes glistening with tears of joy as the Australian national anthem played, was one you'd cherish forever. The pride you felt was indescribable - your baby brother, the kid you'd watched grow up and chase his dreams, was now a Grand Prix winner.

It had been three blissful weeks since you and Carlos had officially become a couple. After your heartfelt conversation at your apartment, you had both taken the time to navigate this new phase of your relationship, and it had been everything you could have hoped for.

Telling your close friends and family was the easy part. Lando practically squealed with delight, Oscar and Carlos had a nice chat, and of course, Nicole Piastri, a fan of dragging her own kids, reminded everyone that you failed Spanish in high school multiple times, so Carlos had to make sure to constantly translate for you. The rest of the paddock had quickly caught on, and soon, Carlos Sainz and the eldest Piastri were the talk of the town.

But you didn't mind the attention. Being with Carlos felt so natural and right.

Now, as you sat in the airport waiting for your delayed flight to Monaco, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. Sure, the hours-long delay was less than ideal, but you were surrounded by the people you cared about most, celebrating Oscar's first win with good old fasioned airport McDonalds.

"I can't believe Oscar got his first win," Lando exclaimed, already halfway through a Big Mac. "That's crazy, mate."

"I know, I still can't believe it," Oscar beamed, "It hasn't really sunk in yet."

You reached over to give your brother's arm an affectionate squeeze. "I'm so proud of you, Osc. You deserve it."

"Thanks, sister. Couldn't have done it without your support all these years."

"Oh, come on," you teased, "I didn't drive that car. That was all you out there."

"Yeah, but you've always been there," Oscar insisted, his voice softening. "Through the karting days, the junior formulas, all of it. It means a lot."

You felt a lump form in your throat, touched by your brother's words. You pulled Oscar into a tight hug, blinking back tears of pride and joy. "You're my little brother, Osc. I'll always be in your corner, no matter what."

Oscar returned the embrace, squeezing you tightly. "I know, YN. And I couldn't ask for a better cheerleader."

When you finally pulled apart, you noticed the others watching with fond smiles.

Across the lounge, Carlos was engaged in an animated conversation with Lando, their voices a low hum in the background. You couldn't help but watch him, admiring the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the graceful movement of his hands as he gesticulated. Even in casual clothes, hair slightly mussed from the long day, he took your breath away.

As if sensing your gaze, Carlos looked up, his eyes meeting yours. The soft smile that spread across his face sent a flutter through your chest. You patted the empty spot next to you on the couch, a silent invitation. He nodded, excusing himself from his conversation with Lando, which couldn't help but tease about the two of you being codependent now.

"Missing me already, mi amor?" Carlos teased as he approached.

You rolled your eyes playfully, but couldn't keep the smile off your face. "Don't flatter yourself, Sainz. I just didn't want you to strain your neck looking over here every five seconds."

Carlos chuckled as he sat down next to you, immediately wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. "Ah, but how can I resist when the view is so beautiful?"

You snuggled into his side, inhaling the comforting scent of his cologne. "Smooth talker," you murmured, but there was no bite to your words.

"Only for you, hermosa," he replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

For a while, you sat in comfortable silence, watching as the sun began to set through the large windows. The quiet was occasionally punctuated by laughter from where Oscar, Alex, and Lando were playing some sort of card game.

"How are you feeling?" you asked Carlos softly, noticing the slight droop to his shoulders.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Tired," he admitted. "It's been a long few weeks. But happy," he added, squeezing you gently. "Very happy."

You smiled, reaching up to cup his cheek. "I'm glad. You drove amazingly this weekend, you know."

"Thank you," Carlos leaned into your touch, his eyes softening. "It means a lot coming from you."

Carlos let out a contented sigh, his hand coming up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. "I can't wait for the summer break, you know?" he murmured. "Just you and me, in Mallorca. No distractions, no obligations..." he turned his head slightly to press a kiss to your palm, his gaze holding yours. "I've been looking forward to it for weeks. Getting you all to myself, finally."

"That sounds perfect," you sighed happily. "Though I hope your plans also include plenty of time for just lounging around and doing absolutely nothing."

"Of course, whatever you want, hermosa."

"Whatever I want, huh?" you teased, a mischievous glint in your eye. "That's a dangerous offer, Sainz."

"I think I can handle whatever you throw at me, Piastri," he grinned, leaning in closer.

You were about to reply when a french fry hit you squarely on the forehead. You turned to see Oscar looking at you with mock disgust.

"Seriously, you two? We're right here," he groaned.

"Oh, like you and Lily aren't just as bad," you retorted, throwing the fry back at him.

Oscar caught it mid-air, popping it into his mouth with a grin. "At least we have the decency to be gross in private."

"I don't think I'll ever get used to see you all lovey-dovey," Lando chimed in.

"Shut up, Lando," you rolled your eyes, "I seem to recall you being the one who was pushing for this whole thing in the first place."

"Yeah, well," Lando shrugged, "I'm starting to think I preferred it when Carlos thought you were insufferable and you called him a 'little bitch'."

You couldn't help but laugh at that, glancing over at Carlos and pecking his cheek. "Oh, I still do."

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liked by carlossainz55, oscarpiastri 403,664 others

ynpiastri my little brother, the grand prix winner 🥺

oscar, watching you stand on that top step today brought tears to my eyes. i still remember the day you left for boarding school to chase your racing dreams. i felt like i was losing my little brother, and a piece of my heart went with you.

but seeing you now, living your dream and achieving what so many thought impossible, all i can feel is an overwhelming sense of pride. you've grown into an incredible man and driver, but you'll always be that kid who used to steal my snacks and beg me to play race cars with him.

your journey hasn't been easy, through every challenge, every setback, you kept pushing. and now, here you are, a grand prix winner, battling with the best (and occasionally a spaniard little bitch 😩)

you've grown so much, but some things never change. like how we're celebrating this monumental victory - stuck in an airport, chowing down on mcdonald's.

i love you so much, little bro ❤️

tagged: oscarpiastri, landonorris, carlossainz55, landonorris, alex_albon

view all 4,648 comments

username1 im SOBBING this is so beautiful

username2 THE PIASTRI SIBLINGS ARE JUST TOO PURE

mclaren 🧡

nicolepiastri 🥲🥲🥲

username3 AHHH THE PICTURE OF HER AND CARLOS IN THE PLANE I CANT

username4 this is too pure as an eldest daughter im sobbing

username5 PAINZ CONFIRMED

carlossainz55 ❤️

↳ username1 he only comments hearts come on bro

username6 THE LANDOSCAR PIC🥺

oscarpiastri Sis, you've got me tearing up in the middle of this crowded airport. Your support has been the backbone of my journey, and I couldn't have done this without you. You've worn so many hats - cheerleader, mentor, occasional bodyguard (those Twitter wars were something else 😂 but look at you and Carlos now). But most importantly, you've been my rock. When Mum and Dad couldn't be there because of work, you stepped up. You've been my third parent in every way that counts. So yeah, we might be stuck in an airport eating McDonald's right now, but I wouldn't want to share this moment with anyone else. You're the best sister and 'bonus parent' a guy could ask for.

↳ ynpiastri bitch stop it my therapist has enough issues to deal with (ILYSM)

↳ username1 SHES SO REAL

↳ username2 OSCAR CONFIRMING CARLOS-YN

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TWITTER

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The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in oranges, pinks, and purples. The water was gently hitting the side of the yacht, making a calming sound. This peaceful feeling matched the quiet mood around you and Carlos.

You were sprawled out on the deck, lounging on plush cushions as the warm Mallorcan breeze caressed your skin. Carlos lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his eyes roaming over you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

"You're staring," you murmured, a smile playing at the corners of your lips.

Carlos didn't even try to deny it. "How can I not?" he replied, his voice low and husky. "You're breathtaking, mi amor."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, still not entirely used to the way Carlos could make you feel with just a few words. "Flatterer," you teased, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair.

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly in contentment. When he opened them again, the look he gave you was filled with such warmth and adoration that it made your heart skip a beat.

"It's not flattery if it's true," Carlos insisted, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

You couldn't help the small gasp that escaped you as his lips trailed up your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "Carlos," you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He hummed against your skin, the vibration sending a shiver through you. "Yes, hermosa?"

"Kiss me," you demanded softly, tugging him closer.

Carlos was more than happy to oblige, capturing your lips in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened. You lost yourself in the sensation, in the taste of him, in the feeling of his body pressed against yours.

When you finally broke apart, Carlos rested his forehead against yours. "You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmured, his accent thicker than usual.

"Good. That's the plan," you grinned

Carlos groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "You'll be the death of me, Piastri."

"But what a way to go," you quipped, running your hands down his back.

He chuckled against your skin, the sound sending pleasant vibrations through you. "Indeed."

As Carlos lifted his head to look at you again, something caught your eye over his shoulder. Squinting slightly, you realized what it was and couldn't help but let out a small sigh.

"What is it?" Carlos asked, noticing the change in your expression.

"Don't look now, but we've got company," you said, nodding slightly towards the distance. "Paparazzi, about a hundred meters out."

Carlos groaned, dropping his head back to your shoulder. "Can't we have one moment of peace?"

You ran your fingers soothingly through his hair. "Hey, it's okay. We knew this was part of the deal."

"I know. I just… I want to keep you all to myself sometimes."

The possessiveness in his tone sent a thrill through you. "Well," you said, a mischievous glint in your eye, "if they're going to intrude on our privacy anyway, we might as well give them something to see."

Before Carlos could react, you pulled him down for another kiss, this one slower, deeper, and decidedly more public-friendly than your previous ones. When you pulled back, Carlos looked slightly dazed.

"Dios mio, your family is going to see those," he shook his head, "What will Nicole Piastri think of me? Oscar will run me off the track, too."

You laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Oh, please. My mum adores you, and you know it. As for Oscar, well… he'll just have to get used to it," you shrugged, "He was the one who encouraged this to happen anyway."

Carlos only shook his head with a smile, pulling you in for another kiss, you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders, feeling his skin against yours.

When you finally broke apart, Carlos's eyes were soft, "Te quiero," he whispered, his voice husky and filled with emotion.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips. "I failed Spanish, remember?" you teased gently, your heart racing in your chest.

Carlos's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled back. "I think you know what that means," he replied, his gaze never leaving yours.

"I love you too, you little bitch."

Carlos let out a dramatic groan, but the affection in his expression was unmistakable. "I should have known the sappiness wouldn't last."

"Hey, you signed up for this," you teased, poking him playfully in the chest. "Might as well accept it."

Pulling you close, Carlos pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. "Gladly, mi amor. Gladly."

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liked by carlossainz55, charles_leclerc and 476,458 others

ynpiastri he’s still a little bitch 😚

tagged: carlossainz55

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username1 AHHHH

username2 THIS HARD LAUCH

alexandrasaintmleux love to see you happy my girl 🥰

lilyzneimer 💓💓

username3 THIS is enemies to lovers

username4 i still can’t believe they’re together 😭 THEY HATED EACH OTHER

georgerussell63 WELL FINALLY

↳ alex_albon For real

↳ username1 THE ENTIRE GRID JUST KNEW

↳ ynpiastri why are all of you so damn nosy

↳ pierregasly Or you and Carlos were too obvious

↳ charles_leclerc 😂😂😂😂😂

oscarpiastri Yup, this is weird

↳ username1 OSCARRRR

oscarpiastri However, I’m really happy for you sister ❤️

↳ ynpiastri ily little indirect matchmaker

carlossainz55 You’ll never stop calling me that, won’t you hermosa?

↳ ynpiastri NEVERRR MY LITTLE BITCH FOR LIFE

[eli-com]

need me some more judd pretty pls

୧ *·˚ — JUDD BIRCH

୨୧ includes — fem!reader, afab!reader, mature content, p in v, oral (f! receiving), jealousy, fingering, ooc!judd, terrible writing, MDNI

a continuation of my other 2 Judd posts with innocent!shy!reader. not in the same order as the og scene in the show just for the purpose of the fic.

please have some grace. I stayed awake all night writing this whilst trying to fix my sleep schedule for my lecture monday x

— Judd loves his younger siblings, as hard as that may be to believe. He’s always been protective over Leah and Nick; only he got to make fun of them. However, a lot of the time, they do things that really piss him off. Whether it be Nick hitting on you, or Leah throwing a slumber party with her overly loud and clingy friends, as she was doing now, his brother and sister really knew how to annoy him.

Currently, he was laid on his bed, a pillow shoved over his face as he did his best to drown out the excessive giggling coming from Leah’s room. If there was one thing that really got to him, it was overly loud people. Why couldn’t they just speak at a normal volume? They wouldn’t speak at all if it were up to Judd, but he’d accept anything lower than the volume they were at right now. He despised his sister’s peppy attitude and overly-optimistic way of thinking, which, unluckily for him considering the situation, she shared with a lot of her friends.

You were supposed to be coming over tonight, so at least that gave him one thing to look forward to. The two of you had been ‘seeing each other’ for a three or four months by now, and in all honesty, Judd was loving it. He couldn’t get enough of you, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. He was all over you, every second he could be. Whether it was at his house, at school, when you were getting lunch at your favourite cafe, he didn’t care. If he wanted you, he was gonna have you. In all honesty, Judd considered you his girlfriend by now, even though he’d never actually used the word.

He’d never been in a real relationship before, only ever having a few girls he’d sleep with when he needed the relief. But it was different with you, he wanted to be around you, enjoyed your company. He’d never experienced that with anybody before. He was used to the comfortable routine of sleeping with someone and completely blanking them the next day. He could never do that to you, he wouldn't even dream of it. Maybe it was laughable, the fact he was known throughout school for his rebellious attitude, yet he'd wound up falling for one of the best behaved girls in town. He didn't care enough to think about it that much, though. All he knew was that he liked you, and he was going to do whatever it took to keep you around.

It wasn't long before he heard a familiar ring tone from his phone, a small grin gracing his lips as he grabbed it and saw your name on the screen, along with a photo he'd taken of you asleep in his bed. He'd been tempted to change it, especially when Leah and Nick had first seen it and relentlessly teased him for 'being a sap', but the sight of that sleepy smile on your face stopped him every time. He'd answer the call without second thought, already knowing you were outside.

"How many times do I need to tell you to just use the doorbell like a normal person?" He'd growl down the phone, doing his best to act annoyed, though you knew he was anything but. In fact, he was actually extremely excited at the prospect of getting to spend time with you.

"I don't wanna disturb your family." You'd argue back, sweet, gentle voice coming through somewhat robotic on his phones speaker. He could only scoff, shaking his head as he all but ran down the stairs and opened the door. The moment his eyes met yours, he was pulling you inside, wrapping an arm over your shoulders and beginning to guide you towards the stairs that led to his bedroom. Though, he'd never been the luckiest person in the world, and the two of you were spotted before he could whisk you away.

"(y/n)!" Elliot would exclaim, throwing his arms up into the air as he made his way over, Diane close behind. The older couple would give you the same welcoming smiles that they always did, pulling you into a warm hug and asking how you'd been. Judd was unsure how he felt about the fact you got along so well with his family. On one hand, it was frustrating. He'd do anything to just be able to rush you upstairs and have his way with you without any interruption. But on the other, he couldn't deny the way his heart ached at the sight of you laughing with his sister and mother, or helping his dad out in the kitchen. You seemed to slot yourself into their dynamic with such ease, as if you belonged. The idea was sweet. Not that he'd dare voice that thought aloud. At least, not this early in the relationship.

"Judd didn't tell us you were coming over." Diane would hum, eyeing her eldest child with a look of annoyance. His mother wasn't a fan of how he tried to hide you away. It wasn't like he was ashamed of being with you, the mere idea of that was laughable. He simply wasn't a fan of his entire family knowing what he was getting up to in his spare time. Especially when it came to his activities in the bedroom. Besides, he wanted to save you at least some of your dignity.

"Oh, it was kind of a last minute decision." You'd explain, though that wasn't true at all. Every time you left Judd's company, he'd make sure to create plans for when you'd next hang out. He didn't like last minute decisions, and he wanted to ensure there would always be a definite time for him to see you. He craved your company in a way he'd never experienced, and so, he didn't like the idea of going without it for too long.

"That's no problem. We'll set a place for you at dinner right next to Judd-y." Elliot would nod, smiling down at you. Though, Judd was quick to intervene.

"No need. We'll eat in my room. I don't need Leah and her friends sending (y/n) deaf." He'd roll his eyes, tightening his grip around your shoulder, hand running along your arm affectionately. He'd never imagined himself to be a physically affectionate person until he met you, but he just couldn't seem to get enough.

"Don't be rude, Judd." Diane would chastise, despite the small smirk that rested on her lips. Even she had to admit that her daughters friends spoke in a tone too high pitched to be natural. "You know how important family dinner is to your father." Elliot would simply shake his head, patting his wife's back.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure these two just want as much time together as they can get. I remember when we were like that. I couldn't keep my hands off of you when we first got together." The older man would sigh lovingly as he stared at his wife, bringing her closer by the waist. Diane would chuckle under her breathe, grinning.

"You're still like that now." She'd note, causing Judd to hold himself back from gagging. He was used to his parents open-nature when it came to anything surrounding the subject of sex and physical intimacy, but he'd rather they didn't freak you out with it.

"Right, well, we'll be going." He'd grumble, successfully guiding you up the stairs this time. He was quick to shove you into his room, shutting the door once he was inside with you.

"I think it's sweet how your parents are still so in love, I mean-" You were cut off by Judd slamming your back against the bedroom door and practically shoving his tongue down your throat. He didn't want to talk about his parents right now. He'd been thinking about you all day, ever since he'd first woken up to a painful hard on with nothing but the thought of you on his mind.

"Stop talking about them." He'd grumble against your lips, his knee moving to slot between your legs and rub against your crotch. Instantly, a breathless moan escaped you, causing him to grin. He'd never get used to just how reactive you were to his touch. Just the pretty noises you made were enough to have him straining against his pants.

One of his hands would move to rest against the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair and guiding your head ever so slightly back. Slowly pulling back from the kiss, a thin strand of saliva would form between your lips, a smug grin pulling at his mouth. Those wide doe eyes of yours would never fail to make his heart thump in his chest.

"You miss me?" He'd ask, nosing at your cheek before beginning to trail kisses along your jaw. Maybe the question made him sound needy, pathetic even, but he couldn't help it. "I missed you." He'd admit, kisses moving down to your neck now, quickly finding that one spot that had your head leaning back and hips gliding over his leg. His tongue would run over the skin, before he bit down gently, humming at your salty taste. "Know how many times I fucked my fist thinking 'bout you this morning?" He'd all but growl.

"Judd..." You'd sigh, tilting your head to the side as if to offer up more skin for his mouth to attach to. Though, you quickly froze up when you heard the loud laughter coming from the direction of Leah's room. Judd could only groan, continuing to bury his face into your neck and assault your soft skin with his mouth. "They're g'nna hear us." You'd whimper, his hips rolling against your lower belly.

"Don't give a shit." He'd huff out, shaking his head as his hands began to slide under your shirt, thumbs running under the wire of your bra. Instinctively, you'd press your chest further into his touch, arching your back in the process. He'd grin to himself. "Let them hear." He really couldn't care less if Leah and her little friends heard him fucking you. They were allowed to be as loud as they wanted and disturb his peace, so now he'd disturb theirs.

"But-" You'd choke out the singular word, cut off by how his hands slid beneath your bra and cupped your breasts. He'd quickly get to work, pinching at your nipples and rolling them between his fingers and thumbs. God, he could play with your pretty tits all day if you let him. He'd worship every part of your body for as long as possible.

"Just shut up." He'd bite out, pulling back to glare down at you. It wasn't a mean glare, but one of lust and need. He craved you, needed you in every possible way he could have you. "Don't you wanna make me feel good, huh? Just ignore them and focus on me. Gonna make us both feel so good, baby." He'd mumble into the curve of your jaw, hands sliding down to your waist and beginning to undo the button of your jeans. You seemed to finally give in, nodding and helping him pull down the offending clothing.

As he yanked them down your legs, he'd sink onto his knees, staring up at you as he did so. His lips would travel over your thighs, pressing gentle kisses to the soft skin every now and then. He'd help you step out of the jeans, leaving you in a pair of pretty navy panties. His fingers would trail affectionately over the lacy material, groaning under his breath as he toyed with the edges.

"So pretty like this, baby." He'd murmur into your skin, pressing another kiss to your inner thigh, hearing you whimper in response. His hands would move back to cup your ass, groping at the flesh as his kisses moved up to your heat. He'd press a gentle kiss to the front of your panties, grinning when your hips jolted forward, chasing him as he pulled away. You were so damn desperate, no matter how many times he had his way with you. Every time was like the first.

"Judd." You'd groan out, one of your hands moving through his hair this time, yanking on it so that his gaze met yours once again. You were frustrated, that much was obvious. "Just want you. Now." You'd whisper.

He wasted no time in rising to his feet again, pulling down his own pyjama pants as he did so. He never wore underwear underneath; that was something you'd learnt pretty early on. You'd almost moan at the sight of his length, a bead of pre already leaking from the pink tip. You couldn't stop yourself from running your thumb over it and bringing it up to your lips, causing Judd to groan in response. You were so damn hot without even trying to be.

With that, his hands would grab at the back of your thighs, arms working to lift you up into his hold and wrap your legs around his waist. Your back remained pressed into the door, and his fingers would waste no time in pushing your panties to the side. A low hum rumbled at the back of his throat as he ran his shaft through your folds a couple of times, lubing himself up with your arousal. Then, as if the two of you were running out of time, he'd press himself into you to the hilt, groaning as he rested there. You'd cry and claw at him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, one hand lost in his hair.

You'd breathe in slow unison, both doing your best to catch your breath and relax. It wasn't often you went straight into it like this, Judd always preferred to play about with you a bit first. But, who was he to deny you when you sounded all whiny and looked at him with those big, pleading eyes of yours? He was weak for you, and he made no attempt to hide it. He'd give you a few moments to get used to the size of him, feeling your velvety walls clench around him and holding himself back from just pounding into you.

Soft hands would play with his hair, and your lips would press to his cheek. He took that as a sign to move, and so, he did. His hips would roll up into yours, making sure to go slowly at first, allowing you to feel just how deep he could reach at this angle. You'd whine and mewl in his ear, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck, breathless pants escaping him. You were so tight, so warm, so perfect. His hands remained resting on your ass, fingers flexing as he groaned into your skin.

"That's it... That's all you wanted, huh? All you ever want, hm? Such a slut for me." He'd murmur, feeling you nod in response, eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, his hips were beginning to pick up the pace, his own need to feel you overwhelming him. "You like that? Like feeling how deep I can go?" He'd continue to ramble, slowly moving to push one of your legs up to your chest until it hooked over his shoulder. You'd whine out, throwing your head back. He was even deeper now.

"God, Judd, feels good... So full." You'd moan weakly, head tilting to the side, jaw hanging open. All kinds of small sounds continued to pour from your lips, and he'd do his best to memorise every single one. His forehead would press against yours, gaze never daring to glance away from your own. He loved watching you fall apart for him, loved seeing just how much he affected you.

"Yeah? You like that?" He'd hum, grinning sadistically as he once again picked up the pace. He was practically slamming into you now, his own body keeping you pressed to the door as his hips pounded into your own. The door would creak with each movement, and he was sure just about anybody in the house would be able to hear your loud moans now, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. The only thing on his mind was feeling you cum around him, and so, that was what he continued to work towards.

"Judd..." You'd stutter out between sob-like moans, tears appearing in the corners of your eyes, hands travelling up to cup either side of his face. He'd turn to press a quick kiss to the palm of your hand before going back to focusing on his ruthless pace. That familiar coil was forming in your belly, and you knew you wouldn't be able to hold on much longer. Your head was spinning, and you could feel hot tears of pleasure cascading down your cheeks. He was pounding into you so deeply, hitting all the right spots that made your toes curl and back arch. "Fuck, Judd." You'd babble, glancing down at where your bodies connected, seeing how he moved in and out of you with such ease.

Though, he was quick to steal your attention, nudging his forehead against your own and huffing out. "Eyes on me." He'd murmur. "Wanna see your eyes when I make you cum." You could only whimper in response, brows furrowing as he chased your orgasm. With just a few more harsh strokes, your legs would begin to shake, and that familiar feeling of white, hot, pleasure would come down upon you. You'd let out a loud cry, and he'd gasp, picking up his pace yet again. It wasn't long until he was reaching his own breaking point, feeling himself spill inside of you, eyes still holding your gaze. There was something so intimate and loving about the way he stared at you, the way he handled you with such gentleness.

The two of you would stay in place for a while, continuing to stare at one another, breath mingling together as one. He'd lean into your touch on his face, momentarily allowing his eyes to close now as he regained his strength. His hands would slowly massage your trembling thighs, helping you to calm down, relax. A low sigh would escape him before he began to pull himself out of you, moaning as he did. With that, he'd carry you over to the bed, placing you into it with gentle care.

"You okay?" He'd hum, leaning down to brush some hair from your face. His eyes held nothing but care and affection in them, his touch tender. You'd nod, panting and chasing his touch, causing him to grin. "Let me get a cloth for you." He'd grumble, reluctantly pulling away to begin cleaning you up.

The process wasn't long, and he was in bed with you in no time, arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest. He loved being able to just hold you and relax with you like this, the two of you simply existing with one another, appreciating each others company. These were his favourite moments, the ones where all he could hear was the sound of your light breathing, and all he could feel was your body against his. Of course, the moment couldn't last, and before long it was interrupted by his brother opening his bedroom door.

"Judd, mum says you need to come down for dinner-" Nick was cut off by the sight of the you laid across Judd's chest. His face would grow a deep shade of red, eyes wide. Soon enough, his pervy little friend was stood behind him, also taking in the view. The two boys would simply freeze, eyeing up the sleeping girl in his bed.

He was quick to act, grabbing hold of a pillow and throwing it in their direction, pulling up the blankets so that no part of you was on view to them. He'd die before he let Nick and his freaky friend get a look at any part of you belonging to him. Those kinds of views were for his eyes only.

"Get the fuck out!" He'd yell, pushing you gently off of his chest and sitting up to cover you with his own body. The boys would yelp and run away when they saw Judd sit up, slamming the door shut as they left. Though he was glad they were gone, he could feel you beginning to stir beside him. He'd kill them later for waking you up.

"What is it?" You'd huff out, rubbing at your eyes and leaning up. Judd would run a hand over your arm, smiling at the sight of you so groggy from your power nap.

"Dinner." He'd huff out. "I'll go down and get you a plate, yeah? You stay here." He'd insist, though you seemed to have other plans, shaking your head and slowly moving to sit up.

"No, we should eat with your family, don't wanna be rude." You'd mumble, fixing your hair and slowly crawling out of his bed on shaky legs. He'd groan, not only at the idea of having to sit through dinner with his family, but also at the thought of not being able to just lay in bed with you for a little while longer.

He'd helped you get dressed into a pair of his jogging bottoms and an oversized shirt, before beginning to guide you downstairs. He'd grin proudly to himself when he noticed the shake in your legs as you came down the stairs, but you were quick to slap at his chest, causing him to huff.

His parents would give him knowing looks as the two of you entered the dining room and he pulled out a chair for you, but he'd choose to ignore them, focusing on you instead. You gave him that sweet smile that never failed to make his heart flutter, before taking a seat and allowing him to push you in. As he moved to his seat beside you, he'd finally notice Leah's friends who were sat at the table, greeting him and completely disregarding your presence.

"Hey Judd.."

"Hi..."

"Wanna watch me eat a sausage?"

Judd could feel bile raise in his throat, but he did well to just roll his eyes and ignore them, biting back an insult that he knew both you and his mum would tell him off for. Leah would glare at her friends and give them a look of warning, which they seemed to completely ignore.

You, on the other hand, didn't find it so easy to ignore their flirtatious tones. It was uncomfortable to hear other girls openly flirt with the guy you were sleeping with, of course it was. And, to make matters worse, it wasn't exactly a secret that you were sleeping with him; you were in his house, wearing his clothes and eating a meal his parents had made (not to mention the fact they'd most definitely heard him having his way with you less than an hour ago). Yet, despite all of that, they continued to flirt with him like you weren't even in the room.

Neither you or Judd had brought up the topic of a relationship in the last few months. Things were good as they were, and the two of you were comfortable in the little routine you'd created. You had no idea what his thoughts were, but you'd most definitely begun to fall for him. Your heart slammed against your ribcage every-time you caught him so much as look in your direction at school, cheeks growing hot whenever his shoulder grazed yours in the halls. The sex was great, no doubt, but you wanted more than just that. You enjoyed his company, craved it. You wanted to be able to spend time with him without using the excuse of wanting a good fuck. Not that you'd ever bring it up to him. As far as you knew, you were nothing but a way to get off for him. Sure, he spoke to you sweetly and gave you better treatment than you ever thought he was capable of, but what if that was just how he was with every girl he slept with? He could be a gentleman and still keep his reputation of an asshole.

Whilst you zoned out, Judd would take it upon himself to grab hold of your plate and begin to place food onto it. As he did so, he could feel Leah's stare on him, causing his natural frown to grow deeper. He already knew she had something to ask.

"Um, hey, Judd..." She'd say as sweetly as possible, staring at her older brother with a look of hope. He was already bored of whatever this was.

"Whatever it is, fuck off." He didn't even glance in her direction, making sure to give you an extra scoop of the potatoes he knew you loved. Then, he was sliding the plate in front of you, grabbing his own plate and scooping on just about the same thing he'd given you.

"Oh, come on! I just want you to text your hook-up in the city and, like, buy us some mushrooms tomorrow." She'd plead, holding her hands to her chest as if to look somewhat innocent. It was ironic, considering she'd just asked for drugs.

"Yeah, we wanna get high and figure out if we're actually friends." One of her friends would chime in, writhing in her seat in an attempt to look cute. Judd didn't even bother glancing in their direction.

"Please? We'll pay you double." Leah would add on, which seemed to finally convince him.

"Fine. I'm saving up for a pressure cooker." He'd grumble, placing his own plate in front of himself and shoving some chicken into his mouth.

The group of girls seemed to light up upon hearing his agreement, cheering amongst themselves and smiling brightly at him like he was God's greatest gift. Just the way they ogled him was enough to have you shuffling in your seat, feeling a strange possessiveness build up inside of you. You weren't used to this; you'd never been jealous over a person. Were you being pathetic? Would he laugh at you if he knew you were feeling this way? Probably.

"You're our hero, Judd." A brunette girl would sigh.

"I love you, like, for real." Another would chime in, sending Judd a look of pure adoration.

"Gabrielle!" Leah would exclaim, sending her friend a look of disapproval.

"What? Your brother's hot!" The girl would defend herself, causing your face to scrunch up as you did your best to focus on the food in front of you rather than their conversation. Judd seemed to ignore them with such ease, why couldn't you?

"Seriously, he's such a badass." Another would murmur, eyeing him up like a piece of meat. It just didn't sit right with you. Everyone at school was always too scared of Judd to approach him, you'd never expected girls to fawn over him like this.

As if noticing your distress, Judd would glance at you out of the corner of his eyes, taking in the way you stabbed at the meat on your plate. His hand would move to run along your leg, before he affectionately squeezed your thigh, brows ever so slightly raised, silently asking if you were alright.

You couldn't tell him that the way they spoke about him upset you. He'd probably panic about the fact you were clearly growing feelings for him and kick you out. So, you just smiled and continued to eat, leaving him to watch you in confusion.

"Exciting, the Birch house, isn't it?" Nick's barely moustached friend, Andrew, would sigh, eyes trained on you. Judd's gaze would sharpen when he saw how the two boys were looking at you, knuckles turning white from how tightly he clutched at his knife and fork.

"Don't talk to her, you little shit." He'd grunt out, giving Andrew a deadly stare that had the smaller boy shrinking back in his seat. You'd turn to Judd, shaking your head as if to tell him to stop scaring the kid. He'd huff, subtly moving his chair closer to yours, knee brushing your own. He had no doubt the creepy teen would be having wet dreams about you later, and that made his stomach turn.

"You wanna come with me tomorrow?" Judd would hum as he ate, tone low, eyes glancing at you every now and then, trying to gauge your reaction. You'd freeze for a moment, turning to him. He'd never really asked you to hang out like that. At least, not anywhere that wasn't at school or his house. Going out with him like that would be new. "To get the 'shrooms for Leah and her pack of crows." He'd nod his head over to the lively girls, as if you'd been confused by what he meant.

"Yeah, 'course." You'd smile in return, nodding. Though, you still felt a slight discomfort in your stomach. The flirty glances Leah's friends continued to send Judd didn't go unnoticed by you, and you weren't sure how much longer you could put up with it.

Dinner didn't last too long after that, and by the end of it, you'd only managed to finish about half of what Judd had put on your plate. Clearly, the continuous comments and looks from Leah's friends had ruined your appetite.

Now, you found yourself back in Judd's room, sat in his bed scrolling through your phone as he sat on the side lifting some weights and watching you. He'd noticed how off you'd been at dinner, and the urge to find out what was bothering you gnawed at him. You always finished whatever his parents had made you for dinner, not only because you thought they'd hate you if you didn't, but because you genuinely enjoyed his father's cooking. After a while, it was clear you weren't going to say anything, so he took it upon himself, placing the weight to the side and moving to rest a hand at your ankle.

"What's up with you?" He'd grunt, brows narrowed in question. You looked sad, uncomfortable, and he hated it. He was so used to you being giggly and playful around him, so to see you like this was unsettling. It didn't feel right.

"Nothing." You'd glance up, meeting his gaze and shrugging your shoulders. Then, you went back to your phone like nothing was wrong. No, he wasn't having that. You weren't going to just shrug this off like you weren't pouting and feeling sorry for yourself. He could read you like a book by now, and that frown on your lips was telling him you were anything but fine. So, his hand wrapped around your ankle, pulling you further down the bed so that he could climb on top of you.

"Talk to me." He'd huff, snatching your phone from your hands and placing it to the side, ignoring how you whined in protest. He was practically straddling you by now, hands either side of your head. It took all of his willpower to ignore the rise and fall of your chest.

"'S nothing, I already told you." You'd huff out, resting beneath him with a defiant look in your eyes.

"Stop being such a fucking brat and tell me." He'd demand, hand travelling down to slide beneath the sweatpants he'd given you and glide over your folds. Your entire body would jolt, eyes growing hooded as you bit your bottom lip. "I'm not stupid, can tell something's bothering you."

"Never said you were stupid." You'd whine, hips rolling up to chase his fingers, which he quickly pulled away. A noise of upset left you, which made him grin.

"Tell me what you're thinking about." He'd encourage, thumb moving to draw slow circles over your clit, eliciting a breathless moan from you. You looked conflicted, as if debating whether or not to really tell him what was on your mind. A part of you wanted to, wanted to just confess your jealousy and hope he'd comfort and reassure you. But, another part of you was screaming not to, telling you that it would be stupid to even mention the thought to him, that he'd just shrug it off and call you an idiot. Finally, after a few more strokes of his thumb, you'd break, gaze tracing over anything but him as you let out a shaky breath of air.

"I don't like how Leah's friends look at you." You'd whisper, head turning to the side to look at the wall. Judd's movements would pause as he hovered over you, a look of confusion overcoming his features.

"How they look at me?" He'd repeat. You'd nod.

"How they look at you. How they speak about you." You'd add on, moving to brush away some hair that had fallen into your face, nervously fiddling with the strands. Judd would take a few moments to think about your words, before a small grin settled on his features. "Like you're a piece of meat."

"Yeah?" He'd hum. "You sure you're not just jealous?" He'd grumble, leaning down to press a kiss to the love bite he'd left on your neck earlier. A shiver would run down your spine, back arching off of the bed as you chased his lips.

"No." You're respond quickly, lips pulling into a pout. You knew this would happen, knew he'd just make fun of you. You shouldn't have said anything. His hand would move back to your cunt, fingers gliding ever so gently through your folds, causing you to whine and gasp.

"You're not?" He'd hum. "Not jealous of how they were trying to flirt with me? Of how they look at me?" He'd ask, collecting your arousal on his fingers before bringing them up to his lips and taking them into his mouth, allowing himself a taste of you. A low hum escaped him, and he was quick to move his fingers from his mouth to yours, allowing you a taste as well. "'S not a bad thing, baby. It's kind of cute." He'd shrug, making you whine around his fingers as they stuffed your mouth full. A low chuckle left him.

"You worried I enjoy it? Worried I like 'em?" He'd ask, gaze never breaking from your own. You seemed to hesitate for a moment, but when his fingers moved from your mouth and back down to your crotch, you'd quickly find yourself nodding. Judd would coo mockingly, tutting under his breath. "Poor thing." He'd mumble, hand moving again.

Slowly, he'd begin to sink down on the bed, until he was face to face with your heat, lips ghosting over the material of the sweats you wore. His gaze was heavy on your face, hands smoothing over your clothed thighs as he continued to rile you up.

"Did you see me look at them? Even once?" He'd ask, moving forward to press a soft kiss to the material. "When did I ever even glance in their direction, huh?" He'd practically growl. "Didn't, did I?" You shook your head in response.

"No." You'd mewl, staring down at him, using your forearms to hold you up so you could watch him.

"So what makes you think I like 'em? In what world would I give them even a moment of my time, huh? Acting like I wasn't up here fucking you an hour before dinner." He'd hum, slowly pulling the sweatpants down, grinning as you lifted your hips to help him. You were always so damn eager and willing. Such a good girl for him. He'd take your panties along with them, wanting to just get to your skin. "Such a greedy little thing, huh? Don't even want other girls looking at me?"

"Yeah." You'd admit breathlessly, nodding like an idiot. You didn't care how pathetic you looked right about now, all you could think about was having his mouth on your cunt. He'd chuckle when he heard your agreement, shaking his head and pressing a soft kiss to your clit.

"Those annoying shits don't stand a chance with me, sweet thing." He'd murmur, pressing more kisses over your inner thighs. "Not when I've got you." He'd grin.

With that, he was leaning down, pressing a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to your heat, causing you to gasp and lift your hips from the bed. He was quick to react, wrapping his arms around your thighs and taking hold of your hips, holding you down so that you couldn't move. His tongue would flick out to move in tight circles over your clit, lips pulling into a smug smirk when you cried out a moan.

"Such a pretty girl. All mine, right?" He'd murmur into your pussy, licking a long stripe through your folds and humming as your arousal collected on his tongue. You were so sweet.

"Yeah." You'd squeak out, making him chuckle.

"Mhm, and I'm all yours, yeah?" He'd continue to ask, knowing you weren't really in the right mind to be answering questions right now. His mouth was attacking your heat, and he expected you to respond to every word he asked.

"Uh-huh." You'd sigh, nodding deliriously.

"Smart girl. My smart girl." He'd praise, moving his thumb up to rub circles over your bundle of nerves, tongue moving down to kitten-lick over your hole, leaving your walls to clench around nothing. Breathless gasps and whimpers would continue to pour from you, going straight to his head.

"Judd." You'd sigh out, head thrashing from one side to the other as you did your best to contain the sheer need you felt for the man between your legs. He'd just continue to chuckle to himself as he heard your whines, applying more pressure to your clit with his thumb.

"Mm? My jealous girl need something? What d'you need, baby?" He'd coo almost sadistically, evil eyes staring up at you as he leaned away from your heat. You'd sob at the loss of contact, attempting to roll your hips but failing due to his grip on them.

"Wanna cum." You'd huff, one hand moving to rest on his head, attempting to guide his mouth back down. He'd refuse, remaining where he was and grinning.

"You g'nna be good? G'nna tell me when you're upset next time instead of being a little brat and ignoring me?" He'd ask, causing you to immediately nod along. You'd agree to anything if it meant he'd finish what he'd started. "Need your words, baby. C'mon." He'd encourage, causing you to sob.

"Yes, Judd, do what ever you want." You'd whine.

"Don't cry, baby." He'd hum, leaning back down and moving his hand away from your clit, fingers circling around your entrance now. His tongue would move to take over the job his thumb had been doing, kitten-licking at your bundle of nerves. "Been so good for me." He'd mumble.

With that, two fingers slowly slid into you, immediately beginning to pump in and out. He was practically making out with your cunt by now, fingers curling and hurling you towards your orgasm. Your own fingers would yank on his hair desperately, anchoring his face to you as you continued to try rolling your hips, still failing.

He was relentless in his movements now, giving you exactly what you'd asked for, though it was somewhat overwhelming. The pleasure was building quickly, not allowing your mind to keep up with your body. Before you could even register it, you were coming undone, chest heaving and moans vibrating in your throat as you felt yourself release. Judd would groan, lapping up whatever he could get, nose bumping with your clit every now and then, causing you to whine.

His lips continued to kiss at your cunt until you finally began to calm down, pussy growing sensitive and hips attempting to escape his touch as it grew too much. He'd hum, moving back up to lean over you until his lips met yours in a sweet kiss. It was slow and gentle, as if he was deliberately being soft with you.

"Meant what I said." He'd whisper against your lips, clean hand moving up to run over the side of your face, stroking your cheek tenderly with his thumb. "'M all yours, don't want anybody else like I want you, especially not Leah's bitchy friends." He'd grumble with a huff from his nose.

"Haven't wanted anybody else since we started... Only ever crave you, crave havin' you near me, crave your company." He'd explain, tongue momentarily sliding into your mouth, causing you to hum when you tasted yourself on it. Then, he'd pause, as if silently debating over something.

"I don't normally do the whole relationship thing, never thought I'd be any good at it." He'd admit quietly, leaning back to look at you beneath him. "But I want that with you. Want to know that you're mine, want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours." He'd confess almost shyly. You'd go silent for a while, causing him to frown and huff. "You don't have to say anything-"

You'd cut him off by pulling him down into another kiss, this one faster, more excited and passionate. "Yeah." You'd sigh. "I'd like that." You could feel him smile, genuinely smile, against your lips, causing your heart to flutter.

"Good." He'd growl. "Was gonna have to kill you if you said no."

[dokyumms]

(not so) sneaky

what happens when a drunk chan wants to cuddle while the group's in italy, except no one knows you're dating...

pairing: dino x 14thmember!reader

genre: fluff, lightly suggestive? (just very detailed making out i guess)

word count: 1.1k

cw: kisses/making out, chan had too much wine, secret relationship, set during nana tour

a/n: i'm finally back! this wasn't what i was originally going to put out, but i've been stuck trying to finish a different fic so here yall go 👀 i will be back on my normal posting schedule now!!! could NOT find a third pic so i guess it's just 2 for now

dividers by @purefantasia

someone lands onto your bed with an "oomph"

assuming it's wonwoo, for the third time, maybe coming to give you another souvenir, you wink an eye open. "you need something, won?" but instead your greeted with a sloppy, suspiciously wine tasting peck on the lips. oh lord.

you widen your eyes at the attack, staring at the culprit who pulls away with a dramatic "mwah!"

"chan? what are you doing? what if there's someone in here?" you ramble, sitting up properly to scan the room, accidentally knocking into chan's head in the process.

"ow! y/n～!," he sulks, "aren't you happy to see your boyfriend? what's with the aggression～"

thankfully, the room is empty, or at least you think so. it's basically pitch black save for the moonlight that peeks in through a sheer curtain. you turn your head back at chan, sighing when you can practically smell the wine coming off of him.

"you're so drunk, aren't you?" you ask, and all he does is nod in response, pushing you down onto your back and laying down next to you. normally, you'd nag him. you'd tell him that you've warned him about the damage he'd probably do to his career if he wouldn't stop downing glasses of wine like it's water, but it's not a normal day, so you hold back this time.

since the group's tour had started, you and chan had not gotten any time to yourselves whatsoever. and as much as you were thankful for the free trip to italy, it'd only prolonged the time till you could even kiss chan, let alone cuddle.

even if sharing the same bed was normal for the members, one of them nuzzling into your neck? yeah, probably not something you could pass off as platonic. and chan? he liked to do a whole lot of that.

speaking of the members, there's a faint sound of laughter and singing that is barely muffled by the closed door- a reminder of just how risky this whole situation is, but you try to ignore it for the sake of being able to enjoy this one moment.

chan shuffles around before rolling over so that half of his body is on yours. he snuggles into your chest, as expected, and closes his eyes.

"that wine was really good, though," he mumbles quietly, as if all the energy he had a minute ago just vanished into the warmth of your bed. you chuckle at his deliberation, pondering a bit yourself. "too bad i never got to try any, think i passed out right after the game." you respond, recalling most of the evening where you were given an hour to do a mission.

you failed (the mission being that you had to carry an egg on a spoon around the entire house without dropping it, but mingyu accidentally bumped into you...), but you were glad to see that chan had passed it (plus, it gave him a chance to give you a hug with no suspicion).

he hums. "well, do you wanna try some?" he asks, lifting his head to look at you. you blink a couple times, confused. "are you really going to go out there and try to lug back a bottle without them noticing you? because i’m not getting dragged into more karaoke.”

shaking his head slightly, he laughs, his voice vibrating against you. “no, i was thinking of something more like this,”

he pulls himself up so that he’s hovering over you. his eyes flicker over every feature of your face. you watch him, almost shuddering at his gaze. suddenly, you’re thankful for the lack of light, because you don’t want to imagine how red your face is; it’s been awhile since you and chan have been doing, well, whatever he’s doing.

before you can really ask about that, he captures your lips in a hungry kiss. you let your eyes flutter shut at the contact. the whole move is pretty cheesy, but the acidic taste of wine on his lips distracts you well enough to ignore the thought.

it’s an addicting flavor, and you swipe your tongue against his lips, greedily taking as much as he’ll give you.

it’s always moments like this where chan lets loose. normally, he’s shy about his love, even when you two are alone, so it’s always a surprise whenever he’s got alcohol in his system. it almost makes you forget that he’s the one who suggested keeping you two a secret.

he parts his lips, letting your tongue roam, sighing when he feels your hand cup the back of his neck and pull it closer to you.

you two don’t really keep track of how long this goes on for, both of you being dazed in some way. but finally, you pull back.

there’s a couple seconds of breathless panting before he grins at you. “taste good?”

you smile back, “eh, would probably be better from a glass”, laughing when he gives you a look of defeat and collapses next to you, quick to pull you back into his embrace.

by now, it’s probably some wild hour in the night, and you know that chan should head out before someone barges in to go to sleep, but he doesn’t seem to want to let go.

“chan,” you warn, looking up at him to find that he’s practically passed out already, eyes closed as he breathes shallowly. “chan, you should go.” you say, even though you don’t really want him to.

“i’ll be out before someone gets here, they’re all bound to just sleep on the ground at this rate,” he yawns, tightening his grip on you.

if you knew any better, you’d push him off the bed, but for right now, you choose to believe him and you fall asleep to the sound of his heart beat.

-

“don’t jeonghan and dokyeom do this all time? it’s not anything abnormal…”

“okay well not like that!”

“just let them be, it’s probably nothing.”

“nah, what the hell.”

“the water isn’t working again!”

you faintly hear a mush of voices overlapping each other, but it’s none of your concern right now. chan has most definitely not left yet, still snuggled up against you.

the smart choice right now is to get up and check what’s on the agenda for today, but you don’t make that choice and decide to rest for a bit more. the warmth of chan’s body is a little too comfortable right now.

he stirs and shuffles a bit before you feel his hair tickle your neck as he seemingly looks up and plants a soft kiss to your jaw.

bad idea.

“HUH?”

“THEY’RE DATING GUYS THEY’RE DATING”

“damn chan i didn’t know you had it in you!”

“eugh”

your eyes fly open as you practically pop up into a sitting position. chan does the same.

you’re both equally as horrified to see that a good amount of the members are standing near the foot of your bed. they’re either shouting or standing with a hand covering their mouths.

chan groans besides you, falling back onto the bed as basically slam your face into a pillow.

looks like you two are never being left alone again.

[alllgator-blood]

FINISHED THAT ONE COMIC I POSTED ABOUT ALMOST 30 FULL DAYS AGO?? I FINALLY REMEMBERED IT EXISTED AND FINISHED IT. I HAVE SO MUCH I WANT TO SAY ABOUT MY LAMB NOW THAT THEY'RE FINALLY THE MAIN CHARACTER IN A LONG COMIC, BUT it went on forever so I put it below the cut.

While we're above the cut, I have a bunch of REALLy good asks I'll be trying to draw for soon. But keep an eye out for a poll coming up soon...cause now that this is out of the way, I want another big project to have in the background and I have Big Ideas for Big Angst Comics........

OH YOU CLICKED THE THING, NICE. OKAY. SO:

Have I ever talked about how my lamb works?? I need to do more with them but I'm a bishop enjoyer to an obsessive degree. The lamb operates on the same kind of level as kallamar did during the breakdown comic, but on a more permanent, more stable level. After being told to hide for their whole life, to never show their face and not even being given a name......being beheaded by four gods and recruited by a fifth forgotten one who claims they're the Chosen One just made the lamb think "OH! None of this is real. My brain wanted me to feel important before I died, and this is my dying vision. Okay, I'll play along >:)" and now they're the equivalent of when you beat a game and replay it while picking the funniest/worst options to see what'd happen.

USUALLY their decisions are clouded by the assumption that nothing they do actually matters, but they're still......a person who held things dear and had standards while they were alive. So they love hijinx, but aren't like leshy who launches people out of catapults for fun, or kallamar who sees mortals more as lab rats than people living their own lives. They'll do some things for the lolz but their humanity definitely shows through when dealing with someone like shamura.

I think they went into the bishop slaying quest wanting to hate shamura, assuming they were an irredeemable antagonist that deserved to be vanquished. They were told by narinder that shamura was the big bad, so they figured there was nothing to it beyond that. But then they actually MET shamura, who wasn't at all what they were expected to be. Every other bishop is just like "RAHH I'LL KILL YOU" when you meet them, and then shamura is the only person who actually tells you about what happened, speaks to you like a person and not an obstacle, and doesn't seem bothered about the fact they're going to die. So that got them thinking....hmm...perhaps these people are slightly more realistic than I anticipated. Still gonna kill them tho

I'm not sure the lamb hates the bishops, especially after the realization that they're a fucked up family acting out in desperation rather than logic. When you're born into circumstances you know will eventually doom you (like being a sacrificial lamb destined for slaughter) you kinda...lose the ability to care after a while. They don't really *forgive* the bishops for the slaughter of their people, and definitely enjoy bullying them and kicking them around now that they're powerless mortals- but the initial horror of being born to die has subsided. Now that they're presumably in some kind of afterlife, and have better, more fun things to move onto now that they're the ruler of everything- it's not worth it to hate those five forever.

I think *because* the lamb has only been a god very briefly and still remembers mortality well, that's why they're the one god who does things "because they're funny" but also is respectful of people like shamura. It's like when you're playing GTA V and you accidentally drive over a dog while trying to pull over and look at it closer. Is it a real dog?? No but you're still gonna feel bad!! So like I said, in the lamb's mind they have NO reason to care about any of these people or show them mercy, but the fact that they're not as detached from mortality as the bishops were makes them a benevolent god. I'll be doing a comic about this very subject in the future and it WILL be depressing >:)

Also. Unrelated. But if you read this far, I feel the need to justify why heket and leshy suddenly have boobs in this comic. I'm sure it's obvious that I headcanon the gods don't have sex characteristics cause like...why would they need those. I don't want to draw that. But as MORTALS they would probably need to have all their organs intact to function properly, so pour one out for shamura + leshy who probably completely forgot they were transgender until they woke up in mortal bodies. NOT SURE HOW KALLAMAR WOULD REACT, I think they're more just horrified they lost all their tentacles

I debated doing another silly comic about the concept but I don't want this blog to get too raunchy, so instead have this epic ms paint art (I CAN MAKE THESE JOKES, I'M AFAB TRANS I DESERVE THIS ONE THING)

[yeahxsurexokay13]

wagnifesting, lando norris

summary: y/n is lando's best friend but everyone keeps manifesting for her to be something more.

warning: like 2 swear words.

fc: sophia weber

hope you like it!! x

y/n.y/l 📍monaco

Liked by pierregasly and 327.085 others

y/n.y/l 72h in monaco 🍝🍾🏁🖤

view all 1.040 comments

username Lando's biggest supporter 🧡

username the pic with kika is so cute aww!! ❤️ by author

username last slide is giving date

username she went to dinner with kika and alex! kika posted about it 😊

username Pretty 😍

username MY BOI LANDO!!!! LETS GOOOO ❤️ by author

francisca.cgomes Missed youuuuu ❤️❤️

y/n.y/l missed u more lindaaaa ♥️

username if you ever need someone to carry your bags on these trips, I volunteer as tribute (please)

alexandrasaintmleux Sooo good to see you ❤️

y/n.y/l you too lovelyyy ♥️

username you're so pretty it's unreal omg

username tired of pretending i don't pray it's a confirmation post everytime i get the notification that you've posted

landonorris See you again in 10 years when you decide to come to another race

y/n.y/l let me know when you plan on winning so i can go to that one x

username shE DID NOT

username omg savage

username she's my favourite wag and she's not even one! @/landonorris put an end to that 🫣🫣

username PAPAYAAAAA 🧡 you ate with that outfit

29 May 2023

landonorris

Liked by maxfewtrell and 830.891 others

landonorris Nothing better then a day with friends. First time trying wakeboarding 🤙🏼 Edited

view all 3.001 comments

username so ummmm i think this is him doing something @/username 👁️👄👁️

username i cheered

username bro really said let me fix the mess i made and posted that last pic

username Lando I wasn't prepared

username Best way to spend a day off :)

username he still has a y/n phew

username it's been a tough 2 days for y/nlando nation

y/n .y/l than*** you edited it and it's still wrong you muppet

landonorris I'm blocking you ❤️

username aw young love

username love to see it

username a day off with friends, but y/n is the only one who gets a special mention 😌😌😌

11 June 2023

y/n.y/l

📍 silverstone circuit

Liked by charles_leclerc and 498.934 others

y/n.y/l silverstoneeeeeeeeeeee 🏎️ podium for my boy at his home race!!! (((:

view all 1.808 comments

username Another amazing race for him, congrats!

username "mY bOY" !!!!!!!!!!!!! ok i'm totally chill about this

username You looked incredible yesterday!!!💖

username no one provides us with lando content quite like you we need you to attend every single race weekend !!!

username THE SECOND TO LAST PIC HAHAHA

maxfewtrell Sorry, but were you there by yourself or?

y/n.y/l it did feel like i was with how much p and you were ignoring me to be all lovey dovey with each other (🤢)

maxfewtrell is that jealousy speaking?

username EXPOSED 🫢

username please just date already

username so happy for him grabbing that podium spot at silverstone 🧡

landonorris P2 AND A TROPHY BABYYYYY ❤️ thank you y/n/n

y/n.y/l ♥️

username see this is why punctuation is so important 🫢🫢

username @/username i don't get it?

username @/username there's no comma so we could say baby is being used to address y/n!!!!!

username @/username delusion 2 - 0 common sense !!!!

09 July 2023

y/n.y/l posted a story!

[redflagshipwriter]

ANOTHER UNDEAD FENTON

Inspiration came from this post by @stars-obsession-pit !

Word count: 1479

Masterpost of Archive Down Fics here.

(I wrote three dp x dc fics based off of prompts I've seen in the last day for reading while the site is getting maintenance. )

There was a high, shrill scream in the Fenton lab.

Maddie bolted for the stairs, abandoning her coffee without a thought. She flung herself down to see Jack bent over a body in front of the portal.

“Is this person a threat?” Maddie prepared to defend her husband, but the body didn't move.

Jack looked up at her. “No, I was just surprised! I think he's hurt, Mads.”

Her bleeding heart husband. She crossed the room and rolled their intruder over to see it was a kid, maybe Danny's age. In his sleep, he had a sweet, soft face. His face and throat were covered in faint scars.

Well. That was one of hers, now. No getting around it. That was a teenage boy on her floor who has obviously been the victim of violence.

“Well, shit,” Maddie said companionably. She blew out air between her teeth. “Dear, would you put clean sheets on in Jazz's room?”

They were running out of space, between the clones and the past evil alternate future children.

Jack saluted her, shouted an affirmation , and bounded away.

Maddie took a moment to wonder if her children would be an infinitely expanding collection and if so, if it would be better to move into Vlad's castle than to build the home addition they had planned for.

She gathered the teenager up in her arms despite him being her size, and laid him out on an exam table. She started checking his vitals.

A hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Maddie said. She redirected her hand to smooth hair behind his ear. He blearily followed the movement, just as obviously intelligent as he was obviously compromised. She didn't know if it was a concussion or drugs or what, but this boy was not well. “It's Friday June 29th, and you're in Amity Park, Illinois. I'm Madeleine Fenton and you're at my house because you fell through a portal. Is there someone I should call for you?”

He stared at her. She could see the moment he decided not to speak to her.

That situation didn't change much all day. The kid walked himself up to bed and peered around at Jazz's old posters. He seemed to want to be alone, but Maddie caught him watching Dani and Dan playing catch in the yard. She made eye contact with him over her book and then looked back at her shrieking kids. Dan was doing flips on the trampoline and launching his sister in the air, catching and tossing her back up in the nick of time between flips.

Their new boy closed his curtains.

“I was thinking about Dante,” Jack said, bringing out a pitcher of iced tea. “Or, how about Jasper! Eh? Eh? You know, like Jazz-per?” Jack belly laughed.

“He probably has his own name,” Maddie said calmly. She'd estimated him at 16 or so, anyway. But whatever. If he wasn't going to give them a name, they did eventually need something to call him. And they needed to sort out accommodation fast, before Jazz got back from her college tour trip.

“Let's go with Jasper until he gives us his real name.” There were enough Ds in her home, honestly.

She lured Jasper out of his room for lunch. He sat at the kitchen table and watched them all warily. He only ate what they ate.

Danny arrived mid-meal. “Mom! Dad!” There was a whumpf as he probably threw himself onto the sofa. “We wanna go to Elmerton, that ok?”

“You should take your brother with you,” Maddie called back. “He needs clothes.”

“What?” Danny clearly pried himself up and came into the kitchen. Maddie silently offered to make him a plate. “No, I ate at Tuck's. Dan, what'd you do to your clothes?”

“Nothing, you pathetic worm,” said Dan, who really was a sensitive boy. “I am not the topic of discussion, you blithering fool.” He jerked a finger at Jasper. “New one.”

Danny stared.

Jasper looked uncomfortable. He gave a sort of hello nod.

“He's, uh, he's not-”

“Not a clone or alternate future version of you, nope,” Maddie agreed. “Though he did come out of the portal. We wondered if he might be a ghost, but it didn't seem necessary to ask.”

Jasper full body flinched at the word “ghost”, but he looked confused.

Danny squinted at his new bother who, it must be said, did look a bit like a Fenton already. “Not a ghost,” he said after a long pause. “But a little undead. Not sure what kind. But yeah, you're walking dead, buddy.” He clapped Jasper on the shoulder.

“You'll fit right in!” Jack cheered. “Dan is half dead! So is Danno! And so is Dani here! And-”

“Thank you, Jack,” Maddie cut him off. “It might be a sensitive subject, don't you think?”

“Nah,” said Danny, stealing food out of the pan despite saying he wasn't hungry. “We aren't that sensitive. Like-” he looked at Jasper and explained: “I got electrocuted to death in the lab two years ago. Dan is from an alternate future where everyone he loved died, so then he killed everyone else on earth. And Dani is a science experiment baby.”

“It's true,” Dani said solemnly. “I'm a work of science.”

“You make me sound so uncool,” Dan complained, stabbing at his spaghetti.

Jasper laughed for the first time. He himself seemed surprised by the sound. It was hoarse but there was promise there.

When the boys were off at the mall in Elmerton with Sam and Tucker, Maddie called up Vlad.

“You want to come here?”

“I’ve got more kids than I have rooms in my house,” she said wryly. “So if the offer is still open…”

“Yes, of course it is,” he assured her. “But- most of the little ones are still in the Ghost Zone, correct?”

“They're not big enough to leave yet,” Maddie agreed. “Which is why I need to be near a portal.” The ghostlings were staying with the LunchLady and Box Ghost, but they needed to be able to be in touch. “But no, I've got another one.”

Glass shattered in the background. “Another- what happened to Daniel this time?”

Maddie laughed at how flustered her old college friend got. “Nothing to do with Danny, actually, this one fell out of the portal. He's some level of partly dead, but we don't think he's a ghost at all.”

Left unsaid was that they needed to do a lot of research to figure out what other possibilities there were. If they could get into contact with Danny's GP, he might be able to get them on the right track.

“Well.” Vlad took a moment to rally. “When will the family be arriving?”

Two months later, all the kids were pretty settled in.

Jasper had never shared a name, but he was happy to let them call him Jay. He was a phenomenal big brother to Dani. He wrestled with Dan. He bullied Danny into doing his homework. It had been something of an administrative nightmare to get Jaspen enrolled in school, but Vlad had pulled off whatever magic trick he'd done for Dani (applied a lot of money to the problem, Maddie supposed) and Jay had settled in very well.

“Your debut in society,” Maddie hummed, making a point of straightening Jay’s tie. He was growing already, she was sure of it! He was going to wind up as tall as Jack.

“I've been to parties before, Mom,” Jay drawled, and then flushed a dark red that meant he didn't want to be asked questions. Maddie tweaked his nose instead of answering.

“But this is the first one where Vlad's introducing you to his business friends!” She said, already dressed up for a fun night. Vlad had flown them all in on his private jet for the day.

“Queen is a family man as well,” Vlad had said the night before, aiming for calculating and coming off soft. “It will put him off his guard or perhaps make him sick with envy that I have brought a higher quality child than he could ever manage to produce.”

They arrived together, Maddie on Jack's arm, keeping her flock of kids within eyesight as Vlad led the pack. She had a perfect view of Oliver Queen seeing them arrive, the smile dropping off his face, and him choking on his drink. He did look very silly, Maddie had to admit.

“Inept,” Vlad hissed, very pleased. “The fool can't even drink. His company will be mine-” he looked at Danny for some reason. Vlad faltered at whatever be saw. “....Through legitimate business practices, such as buying a majority of stocks,” Vlad weakly finished.

Maddie slapped him on the back. “Go get him, tiger.”

[vulchak]

Alright I'm gonna watch the travesty that is the live action httyd. So I'm taking notes like for Lilo and Stitch, and I have the original script, and the original movie pulled up, just to be sure I'm not forgetting anything despite the original httyd being seared into my retinas since age 10

TL;DR written post-watch cause this became like 2,000 words, It's bad, it's horrendous. Pretty much everyone is slightly to horribly out of character, they're all mean and/or stupid. It's mostly the same movie, but every change is for the worse, and everything that's stayed the same is acted and directed MUCH worse.

Berk isn't their home anymore it's just some random island close to the nest, the Red Death isn't fireproof, they still fire into her mouth but there's no reason for it now unless you've seen the original, Astrid is emotionless through the whole thing, none of her anger, passion or any other emotion is here.

Toothless and the other dragons are much less intelligent. The CGI looks like a mobile game ad most of the time. Overall, not a single good thing here, don't bother watching it, let alone giving it money. Go watch the original, or read the books and ignore this fucking insult to animation and to How to train your dragon.

Right off the bat:

"This, is Berk" no the fuck it isn't, that's a moldy pride rock. It's so ugly and, small.

Oh, the sheep isn't even real. What too pussy to use a real sheep? It's a fake one attached to a bell like someone wouldn't notice a real sheep bleating or THE GIANT FUCKING DRAGON TAKING IT. I guess the point was they're keeping the sheep safe from the dragons, then why put out bait? If the dragons don't see sheep they won't attack? Probably? Man idk, it's stupid

The opening monologue too, is just. Soulless. More brief and not an ounce of sarcasm or dry humor. Y'know, a big part of Hiccup's way of speaking

Stoick so far is alright. He's not NEARLY as imposing as his animated counterpart, didn't even recognize him at first. Even with real human proportion limitations, still think they could've done more in the costuming department, at least added some height to him cause rn Hiccup is like, up to his shoulder which just feels wrong

CGI so far looks horrendous, a shot of the dragons setting fire to the village looks like a fucking mobile game ad

Hiccup going to Gobber and that whole little scene is much more clunky here. They've removed basically all the sass and jokes from the scene, from BOTH sides. "They need toothpicks don't they" and "little-er" are gone The latter probably because they knew they severely miscast Hiccup cause this guy doesn't look like the scrawny little loser Hiccup is at the beginning of movie 1

Astrid coming out from smoke instead of walking in front of an explosion is just lame and screams "we didn't have the budget"

And on Astrid, Hiccup going on about how cool she is instead of just the delivery of her name letting us know he has a thing for her, is keeping up the trend of these fuckass remakes really struggling with subtlety and visual storytelling

Alright so Hiccup is a straight up moron now

First of all they're putting WAY too much emphasis on the Astrid thing, it wasn't acknowledged at all until a couple teasing comments from the CHILDREN in the arena, NOT Gobber Second of all, the launcher thing he built. Why the fuck does he firemit twice on purpose, at his fellow vikings? In the original it was an accident, he patted it, the mechanism was too sensitive and fired and hit a viking ON ACCIDENT

All the acting is so incredibly, and I hate using the word but there's no better one I can think of, cringe. It feels like a youtube skit more than a movie

And the delivery is horrible, especially on Gobber. In the original you could tell him and Hiccup were at odds but they still liked each other, Gobber came across as a silly uncle figure, who was still protective, and only became serious when he saw Hiccup was a danger to either himself(running out into a fight he wasn't ready for) or others(accidentally knocking a guy out with his launcher) here, Gobber seems to barely stand Hiccup and Hiccup is no better towards him

Okay just don't tell us the Monstrous Nightmare sets itself on fire, alright, HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THEN?? (I know because I'm me, but for general audiences it's a weird omission, if I didn't know, I'd assume it was just, accidentally on fire, not something it deliberately did) they didn't bother introducing the rest of the teens either, Hiccup calls them the fire brigade and focuses solely on Astrid, we don't learn the others names till later

The whole dragon attack is so slow and anticlimactc, and this is the last time I'm mentioning Hiccup's delivery, because it's awful. End of story, slow, over-exagerated, not an ounce of the charm and sass Jay Baruchel brought to the role

No talking fishbone rant and Hiccup imitating Stoick. 0/10

So, Berk is no longer their home. BERK IS NOT THEIR HOME. It's just, close to where a "key dragons nest" is… They're setting up for the 3rd movie where they just ditch Berk so it's not a plot hole aren't they? It just, gives so much less weight to everything. They're not defending their generational home they're just, camping out to kill dragons

This was no doubt done to explain the POC vikings, as "the best warriors from all around the world" but. They didn't need to do that. It's a fucking fantasy dragon movie, especially for the background characters, cast whoever you damn well please, you don't need an in-universe explanation that ruins the lore and significance of the main location

The great hall is also tiny and cramped now

Gobber doesn't stay to talk to Stoick, Stoick has to stop him from leaving the hall. Gobber is just an ass here. Fuck this whole movie, bury the script with some C4 and light it up

Okay they mention Valka, by name, that's a good thing, but it's the least I'd expect now that they know exactly where the story is headed

WHY IS EVERYTHING SO BRIGHTLY LIT THIS IS ONE OF THE MOST TENSE SCENES IN THE WHOLE STORY AND IT LOOKS LIKE THE GODDAMN TELETUBBIES HILL UP IN HERE

Overzealous, excited teenager "I have slain this mighty beast!" VS generic protag guy "I DID IT!"

The shot of the reveal of Toothless' open eye gives me goosebumps, every single time. The atmosphere, the score, the slow camera movement and angle. None of that is here, it's just, oh, it's open btw here he is

Okay more of every character being meaner for no reason, why did Hiccup start to leave? In the og he immediately went to cut Toothless loose. Here he has to hear a whine then go back. Jackass

And Toothless doesn't pin Hiccup because the CGI characters interacting with the live humans is expensive and hard to pull off. Also GOD he's so SLOW and just. He feels like he shouldn't be able to lift off the ground, all his speed and agility are gone, and BCAUSE of said sluggishness we linger long enough on his tail to SEE IT MISSING HALF OF THE TAIL FIN BEFORE THE ACTUAL REVEAL. FUCK THIS MOVIES' COMPOSITION AND DIRECTION IS ASS

He doesn't even faint, he doesn't even stumble he just kinda. Looks at Toothless flying away, and sighs. He doesn't look like a guy who got attacked by the scariest dragon they've never even seen, he looks like a guy who saw his car getting towed

The conversation between Stoick and Hiccup is alright I guess, just a worse clunkier version of the original with worse delivery, not much more to say

Ooookay, dragon training, dunno what "trial of flame" is, dumb, will be ignoring it. They seem to be cause they call it dragon training half the time, anyway. Banter is OK, however, "daddy pulled some strings" is such a dumb line. Second, Tuffnut sounds so whiny and him and Ruffnut being held back, 4 years, makes them 19-20. That's. A pointless, mildly weird inclusion

They act childish as ever but they're that much older than the other teens. Again, utterly pointless

"Will you stop that?! You big bag of wool." And so, insulting Fishlegs, for his weight, was absolutely necessary apparently? Isn't this supposed to be the modern progressive remake that "fixes" and "improves" aspects of the original??

As far as I remember, Fishlegs was never made fun of for his weight, not in the first move at least. I don't wanna say with certainty without checking. But in this moment he definitely wasn't, and it further makes Gobber just, a jackass in this version

So. Gobber takes Hiccup's axe, emphasizing how important a shield is. Then Hiccup has to awkwardly tap his shield with his hand to make noise while everyone else still has their weapons?? Why??

Yet again I find myself, asking WHY. Why did we need the dragon manual scene to go on for so long just so Hiccup can simp for Astrid some more? So Astrid can further emphasize how Berk isn't their home and they don't care about it? So we can learn Hiccup and Stoick's house, their home, the home they lost Valka in, the home they cherished. Is like the viking white house and if one of them isn't chief they get kicked out?? The fuck is wrong with this movie??

Unsurprisingly the scene of Hiccup reading the manual is short, lame and without a fraction of the atmosphere and creepiness of the original. It's like he's reading a damn instruction manual and skipping to the part he needs to read

Seeing the ships get attacked is pretty neat, alright that one is a plus

They put the hesitation before the nose touch back, good. But forbidden friendship just, doesn't hit the way it does in the original, it's kinda. Boring, didn't make me feel a damn thing

Okay all the "us girls gotta stick together" is so fucking annoying YOU CAN SHOW THEM BEING FRIENDS WITHOUT POINTING IT OUT WITH OVERUSED MODERN TERMS. Show don't tell, dammit

Gothi standing there moving beads is also stupid and pointless, and her design isn't nowhere near as charming as the original(design being casting and costume)

Exchanging dragon nip for dandelions is also stupid

"Who's a good boy??" Ah so Toothless is in fact, a dog now. Good to fucking know. He seems so much less intelligent here as a whole

Test flight is just bad, bad camera work, bad cgi, bad everything. And no Toothless accidentally running Hiccup through fire in the end. Why remove it it was such a fun little gag

If I don't directly mention a scene, assume it's the same, but worse. That's how a majority of them are, same script with minor alterations and worse acting and animation I just don't have anything to say on those

Not faulting Nico Parker, she's doing the best with what she's got, but what she's got is a bad script and bad direction. Because Astrid seems so cold, and emotionless. Seeing the Red Death and saying "what is that" wtih a complteltly nerutral expression, she sounds like she's asking about an ugly shirt her friend is wearing

Also how do you manage to make the northern lights ugly? How is that possible? Beautiful blues teams and purples vs puke green

"Don't get inloved, my dad respects you too much" VS "make sure they don't find Toothless" So this Hiccup cares more about Astrid's reputation, not her, her REPUTATION, than he does about Toothless' life. Got it. SIMP. FAILTHY FUCKING SIMP What have they done to my boy.

Okay there was one neat shot of Hiccup's hand matching Toothless' paw when they're trying to climb up

"ASTRID GET BACK HERE. THAT'S AN ORDER." So, he's concerned about flaunting power and being right, not just, getting a kid out of danger. He's upset they're not listening to him, not that they could get hurt

Fight between Toothless and Hookfang is extended and I guess it's decently cool, but that, and the longer fight between Toothless and Stoick, just makes everything slower and more anticlimactic. The original was quick and snappy, this is just "we're filling time"

"You're not one of us. You're not my son." Cannot BEGIN to compare to "You're not a viking. You're not my son." Seriously the delivery, the line itself, hits nowhere as hard. I guess bringing up Valka is alright but feels a bit forced ngl

WHY DOES TOOTHLESS HAVE A FUCKING AMERICAN FOOTBALL CROTCH GUARD ON HIS FACE LMAO WHAT IS THAT

Alright final battle, mostly the same but worse, HOWEVER, The occupational hazard line was removed, this one and the setup for it earlier

And Stoick, doesn't say "I'm sorry" nor does he tell Hiccup he doesn't have to go. No no he says he was "just trying to protect him" and that whatever happens up there he's proud. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't take accountability for being wrong

They got rid of "not fireproof on the inside" with the terrible terrors, and therefore, no explanation as to how or why Hiccup decided to fire inside the Red Death's mouth. Especially considering SHE'S NOT FIREPROOF. THEY BLEW HOLES IN HER WINGS AND FLEW THROUGH THEM FOR A COOL VISUAL, COMPLETELY FUCKING RUINING THEIR WHOLE LORE

(EDIT) I was mistaken, someone pointed this out and I went back to rewatch. In the original they blow holes in her wings too, but there it's much more subtle and it's small holes that get torn apart by wind instead, in the remake they just blow massive firey holes in her wings

Stoick apologizing and waiting to see Hiccup alive is alright, but they really should've kept it a father son moment, Astrid doesn't need to be there. Also, just he's alive. No "you brought him back alive" he still thanks Toothless later but that line was a nice acknowledgement to what he did

Well, the rest of it, is just the same, but worse. They acknowledge that Stoick and the others rode back on dragons, I guess that makes sense, it's alright

Snotlout has a non-subplot with his dad which was done much better in the show, not much else to say on that

And that was it. The live action How to train your dragon remake. In a word. Soulless. The same but worse. What they do change is for the worse, not a single person aside from Gerard Butler was cast appropriately, nor designed as far as costuming goes, they bend over backwards justifying the changes they've made and the movie is much worse for it

Every single character is also, meaner for some reason. Only Fishlegs is about the same but more whiny somehow. It's just. Bad, no other way to say it, it's bad. Gobber is the worst offender, he's an asshole to Hiccup, to the other kids, everyone. Hiccup is also so unlikeable and a genetic protagonist with bad delivery. By the end I couldn't give less of a shit if he made it or not cause he was annoying more than anything

Toothless is significantly less intelligent, agile and cool than in the original. Same goes for all the dragons honestly. Trash heap with bad cgi, bad acting and a bad script. I'll be happy when it's forgotten. And I hope the sequel gets canceled, but general audiences will make this at least an 800mil movie so that probably won't happen

[clarkeybabey]

❝ i need you to fill the void ❞

# summary; someone spoils your secret

# playlist; void, the neighbourhood, nothing's gonna hurt you baby, cigarettes after sex.

# word count; 1.2k

# note; freya, faith, and talia cameo, I didn't proofread and I hate this oops.

Have a wedding they said, it'll be fun they said. You can't name a time when you've been this stressed out and anxious in all your years of living. To make it even worse, the one person who could help you breathe through all of this wasn't going to able to see you for another three and a half hours.

Last night, for the sake of tradition, you slept without George for the first time in more than a year. He texted you about a thousand times after you finally fell asleep about how he couldn't wait to be tied to you for the rest of your lives, which meant you woke up in the best of moods despite the lack of his presence.

Keeping everything a secret wasn't hard, since everyone had done it before for Simon and Talia. Unfortunately, some people you thought you could trust with an invitation weren't the most reliable. Your friends were sat off to the side some snapping pictures of you and themselves, others scrolling social media. Freya gasps, she's unable to control the way her lips purse, and brows crease as she turns the volume of her phone down as quick as possible.

You're sat in a chair, your makeup artist hard at work. "Something wrong?" In the blink of an eye, the girls are all standing around Freya, staring at the screen in disbelief.

Talia chews at her bottom lip before speaking, "Y/N, sweetheart, I'm gonna show you something, but I want you to try not to freak out."

You swear you feel your throat begin to close at the slight waver in her voice, now it's your turn for your brows to knit together, "I'll try," you mumble, absentmindedly picking at your manicure.

She makes her way to you as slow as ever with Freya in tow with her phone, which she hands off to you after turning the volume back up, swiping up and back to the video to restart it. You recognize the username as a girl George had introduced you to a few months ago at the sidemen's anniversary party, you don't recall sending her an invitation...

The video begins with a screech from her, "Hi, guys! This get-ready with me is extra special, this time my friend George is getting married," you feel your stomach drop, cheeks warming as she talks about only being a plus one to someone whose name goes in one ear and straight out the other.

"This better be a fuckin' joke," bile begins to rise in your throat and tears threaten to melt away every bit of the 45 minutes spent on your nearly Pinterest-perfect makeup. When you click on the comments you notice there are some from mere seconds ago and steadily continue to pour in, you shake your head hoping someone will pinch you and wake you from this atrocious nightmare, "God, I really wish this was a joke," you whisper, your bottom lip trembling uncontrollably.

You look up at the girls around you as you slowly start to crumble under the weight of it all. Faith is typing away furiously, jamming her fingers against her phone screen, you hand Freya her phone back, wordlessly reaching for your own that was laying screen down on the vanity.

When the screen comes to life you see messages, notifications from dms, posts, and tweets you've been tagged in. Nothing really catches your eye aside from two missed calls from George and a few texts just under them.

my fiance 😝😈: call me when you see this please, darling

And you did exactly that. He answers on the first ring, his soft, accented voice filling your ear ripping another sob from your throat, "Y'alright, love?" He asks knowing the answer, hoping to god you weren't on tiktok to see what he'd seen a few minutes ago, but as you cry into the speaker he understands you have.

You shake your head, before remembering that he can't see your actions, "No," you croak, making him sigh and shake his head. This is your day and somehow someone's managed to ruin it for you.

To be completely honest, George couldn't care less about everything being secret, but all you wanted through the whole planning process was privacy, no huge party after the ceremony, nothing.

You didn't want to post anything until you were boarding the plane for your well-deserved nearly three-week honeymoon. And your fiance was more than happy to oblige.

"Can you come here? Please, I couldn't give two fucks about tradition, we're fuckin' tiktokers for god's sake." you pause a second until you hear shuffling on his end, followed by a snort. "I'm already outside, baby," you hear the smile in his voice, you keep your phone pressed to your ear with your shoulder.

When the door swings open, he's standing there looking so damn good in the suit you picked out together so many months ago and it makes you cry even harder, knowing how much of a snotty mess you probably look now all because everything not going the way you imagined.

He wraps you into his arms before you're able to say anything, breathing you in. "You look beautiful," he steps back from you keeping a comforting hand on your hip as he looks you up in down, "this satin?" He asks pinching at the material of your dressing gown, to which you simply nod, your throat still feeling tight.

Of course, he notices how much everything's eating you alive, "I handled it, sweetheart. I figured out who invited her, they know we don't think its a good idea for her to come," he gives you a reassuring squeeze, watching your face closely for any change of expression.

You pursed your lips taking a deep breath through your nose, "Thank you, I missed you so much," he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, instead of responding immediately, he chose to envelope you into his arms. Your ear is pressed against his chest so close you can hear his heart thumping against his ribcage, "Missed you more, could hardly sleep without you."

This time when he pulls away, his hands cup your face, and his lips meet yours in what you swear is the best kiss you've ever had, he doesn't keep you like that for as long as you'd like, leaving you chasing after the feeling. He rests his forehead against yours and his hand slips from your cheek to your neck where he feels your pulse quicken.

He breathes you in, this time stepping back for real knowing the girls are waiting for you, "Now go get in the dress I've been hearing about for months, wanna hurry up and make you mine for life."

You smile, the first real one you've worn since reading his messages this morning, "So impatient," you mutter and he shakes his head, swatting at your bum, "I can show you impatient," he quirks a brow, his voice is laced with suggestiveness that's unmistakable

"Later," he raises his hands in surrender as you turn back to the door that's ajar, his hand catches your wrist, turning you around quicker than you could let a gasp escape you. His lips find yours once more and you exhale out of your nose, relaxing against him as he smiles against your mouth. "Now you're free to go," your fingers dance along your now tingling lips, as you watch him disappear down the hallway,

When you return to the girls you almost have forgotten the original situation at hand aside from the fact that maybe every little thing about him is the best.

[willbyersabyss]

It's calling you...

El saw Will in the void when she opened the 1983 gate. He was the one calling to her the whole time.

Brenner told El that the demogorgon was calling her, but what if it wasn't the demogorgon at all... what if it was Will.

The lines are constantly blurred between the demogorgon and Will in s1. Will talks through the lights, the demogorgon comes through the wall. They follow the demogorgon's blood trail, they find Will instead. Will calls Joyce, the demogorgon intercepts. We can never really tell whether it's Will or the “demogorgon.” This blur could carry over to the opening of the gate.

Speaking of phone calls, almost every missed phone call in the show is related to Will in some way. When people try to reach him, they fail. Only when Will calls them does it go through.

I can't even give all of the examples because there are too many, but Will is always associated with phone calls. Will called Joyce in s1, Mike has had multiple missed calls to Will, Nancy tried calling Will in s3, etc. Will has to call, he has to reach out.

When Max calls the Byers, it doesn't just go to voicemail, it's busy. Someone is using the phone despite no one being there. That someone is Will. One of the first scenes we see is Will calling the police, but he doesn't call them, he calls... someone else. Whoever it was, they picked up. But there's no sound other than screeching. Who was screeching? We'll get to that in a bit...

El was called to. The "demogorgon" wanted her. So we have Will who is constantly associated with phone calls, but he's also mixed up with the demogorgon. Why? El answered his call.

The phone call Bob tells Joyce to let go is immediately followed by the lab's lights going haywire, then a door to the Upside Down opens for Will. They also cut to a faucet dripping and a clock going unusually fast. El's void is made of water and there's a clock ticking sound just before she opens the gate. These scenes parallel. The 1983 gate was opened for Will. He was calling out to her, just like the phone.

"All I needed was someone to open the door. And you did that for me without even realizing it." Ok Vecna I'm pretty sure El noticed the giant gate in the wall. So what didn't she realize? El didn't know Will was the one calling to her.

When Mike asked if El saw Will, she flipped the DnD board to the back. We assume she means the Upside Down, but what if that's not what she meant. What if she meant she saw him in the void? The back of the board is pitch black just like her void.

She places Will's character right next to the demogorgon. How does El know that Will is where the demogorgon is? She had to have seen him NEXT TO IT. This is the first time in the story where we see El sensing Will, so why would we assume she saw him in the UD before this point? She hasn't used her tracking power since she opened the gate. There's only one time she could have seen him. When she contacted the demogorgon, there might have been someone else there, lurking behind. Will!

When El puts Will over the walkie, Lucas says this. The name Blackburn means "black stream." The void is black and made of water. Could this be hinting at El tapping into the neighbor of the demogorgon in the void? Mike follows this with "Did that sound like a baby to you? That was Will." Hm that's interesting because we can actually hear Will in the void when El sees the demogorgon for the first time.

Yeah, that's right. You can hear him.

I can only add one video to this post so the number in the corner will align with the text accordingly!

I'm going to sound like a broken record because I've talked about this a few times already, but I think I finally put all the pieces together:

1 - When it cuts to the speaker, you can hear a faint voice come through. This sounds just like Will when he tells El to hurry. So we have a real "Did that sound like a demogorgon to you? That was Will!" moment. If you line up the hurry clip with the speaker video (not pictured), Will starts to disappear in Castle Byers at the exact time El breaks out of the void in the other clip. They're connected.

We don't actually see what's making the noises in the void the first round, we only hear it. What would the reason for this omission be?

I think the moment we see Will in the Upside Down Castle Byers is the beginning of everything. That's when the gate opened.

2 - The scream we hear when El opens the gate is the same scream that breaks Castle Byers. While this is just a demogorgon sound, it's interesting that they used the one that sounds the most human. Especially when this is the least common sound it makes. It has the same cadence and length in both clips!

I would also like to note that this sound has played when a demogorgon wasn’t directly seen. When Nancy emerges from the tree gate, we hear this weird scream too even though the demogorgon clearly wasn’t coming through with her. Gate, scream, invisible demogorgon.

The egg the demogorgon is eating when she touches it is about 20 feet away from Castle Byers. It can't be a coincidence that they placed them so close. They could've had Hopper come across that egg anywhere, why Castle Byers?

Dustin used an egg to test if the deprivation bath was ready. El then found Will in UD Castle Byers using this bath. Eggs are associated with the gate opening, they used an egg just before she finds Will, and THE egg is outside Castle Byers. Will being in Castle Byers is related to the gate opening.

So what if the scream Will hears was the same scream from the gate opening? We don't see a creature on the other side of the blast, just white fog, so can we be sure it was the monster opening the door? Maybe the force of El opening the gate is what broke it. When people disappear from the void, they leave behind the fog we see outside of Castle Byers after the blast. This fog doesn't usually appear in the UD.

Most people don't sense El when she reaches out to them in the void, but Will did. He was reaching out to her. When El opens the gate, Will was already in Castle Byers in the UD. There's time shenanigans here. Time doesn't really flow how it should in the void. El was able to see a pregnant Terry in there before she was swept into her memory loop. Time also is weird in the UD. It wouldn't be crazy for El to be able to open the mother gate after Will got kidnapped in a weird paradox way.

3 - Coming back to phone call weirdness for a second, Will hears screeching over the phone. This may be a stretch, but it kind of sounds like a distorted version of El's screams when she opens the gate? Then Will's phone call was interrupted by the creature unlatching the door. So when Will's call goes through, a door opens. And he's met with the answer to his most fateful call. He hears El screeching as she opens the gate because that was the result of him reaching out.

In their respective universes, both Will and the demogorgon destroy Castle Byers. So that's another mix up between the two. If Will really was the one calling out to El before she opened the gate, his destruction of Castle Byers is not only a physical representation of how he inadvertently destroyed it, but also an emotional representation. Will accidentally created his own kidnapping by asking El to open the gate. He created the trauma that led to his childhood destruction. The rod imagery at the end of this scene proves that.

Another possible reach, but we know that it was raining the night Castle Byers was built and the night Will destroyed it. If El's journey through the watery void also indirectly caused the destruction and creation of the UD Castle Byers, there's more water connections there. The UD isn't just mirroring visuals, but scenarios too.

When Hopper inspects the remains of Castle Byers, he finds a lion plushie. El was cuddling a lion plushie when Brenner told her she was going to make contact with whatever was calling her. The lion causes Hopper to flashback to Sara and El was in a flashback when we see her with her lion. So what if UD Castle Byers is a "flashback" to when the gate opened?

Just before UD Castle Byers was destroyed, Will was singing Should I Stay or Should I Go. While these were not the lines he was singing, the song makes references to time weirdness. "I'll be here till the end of time" implies that Will is stuck in a time loop when he's in the UD. This song being sung during this scene may hint at its significance in the time loop.

Then there's lines alluding to kneeling in a black void with something on your back. Interesting how the demogorgon was crouched down in the void when El touched its back.

Speaking of kneeling, El approaches Billy in the void the exact same way she does the demogorgon. Billy, who is literally named William. I'm telling you the Will demogorgon mix up never ends. Billy makes himself disappear the same way Will does in the void scene. Oh and when El is looking for the source in Billy's mindscape, the song "William" plays. Very subtle (sarcasm). Will is the source.

Ok but how did the gate open?

Will died.

In s4, we find out that gates can be created by killing people. We also find out that music can open gates in the mind. Interesting how both of those things happen to Will around the UD Castle Byers scene. Will was singing to himself, then he got taken to the library where he died.

The big boy gates all meet at that library where there's a giant clock. Will was the fifth and final sacrifice. But wait! The original gate opened at the lab, not the library. Perhaps Will died twice... once at Castle Byers for a split second, then again at the library. The Castle Byers death opened mother gate, but the library death had delayed effects.

Or Will didn't die twice and it was just a joint effort between El and Will.

El and Will have opened a gate together before. Every time El contacted Will up to this point, it didn't open a gate. Only when Will reached out himself did a gate open. We're right back to Will being the one calling out. He had to try for it to work.

Will was on the brink of death in Castle Byers. Maybe he wanted a gate to open right then and there so he could be saved. But time had different plans. So when Will called out to El in the void, she answered, and they opened the gate together, not knowing that this actually causes his suffering rather than heal it.

In s2 when they figure out that Will spelled out "close gate," the phone rings. They rip the phone off the wall. Another missed call associated with the gate. But this time, it was Will telling them to close it. He had to tell them to ignore the call. They destroy the call, they close the gate.

It's also possible that Will's call for help was manipulated by Vecna. Maybe Vecna showed El the demogorgon to hide his true intentions. Will has something Vecna needs to open the gate. Not to make everything about Will's mind theory, but if the UD is Will's mindscape, it could explain why Will’s call for help resulted in a gate. Max's call for help through music opened a gate to her mind. So is it really that far off to say that Will's did the same?

Alright lets get a run down of the timeline:

El reaches out to Will in Castle Byers, Will tells El to hurry. This aligns with the first call El hears in the void.

A bit later, El revisits the call, assuming it was the demogorgon. In a startled scramble, she accidentally makes contact with Will who was on the brink of death about 20 feet away. Their joint energy opens the gate and destroys Castle Byers.

This energy attracts whatever took Will to the library. Will is kidnapped once more and dies. This joins the gates in 1986?

We know that the scene of Will getting taken from Castle Byers to the library is the opening scene of s5. Both s3 and s4 begin with a gate opening. Wouldn't it be fitting for the s5 opener to be the gate that started it all?

[cosmerelists]

If Cosmere Characters Were Stopped for Street Interviews

As requested by anon. :)

It's a common thing to see on Tiktok, I think, where someone will make a short video in which they stop some random people on the street to ask them a question. If such a thing existed in the Cosmere, here is how it might go!

1. The "Meet-Cute" Question

Interviewer: Hey! Are you two a couple? How'd you meet? Dalinar: She was my brother's wife. Interviewer: O-Oh? Navani: Oh, don't worry. We did not get together until after my former husband was murdered. Interviewer: ... Interviewer: It, uh, wasn't you guys who murdered him, right? Navani: Of course not! Dalinar: We didn't become friends with his murderer until a long time later. Interviewer (muttering): Maybe I *won't* post this one for Valentine's Day...

2. The "Special Talent" Question

Interviewer: Got any special talents? Szeth: Yes. I can dance. Interviewer: Awesome! Can I see? Szeth: [leans in until his lips are almost touching the mic]: No.

3. The "Religion" Question

Interviewer: Do you believe in god? Lightsong: ... Lightsong: [laughing so hard he can barely speak] Absolutely not! Llarimar: ... Interviewer: Your friend looks upset... Lightsong: Priest. Interviewer: What? Lightsong: My priest looks upset. Interviewer: ... Lightsong: What?

4. The "Name That Flag" Question

Interviewer: Hello! Hello! I'll give you twenty bucks if you can name this flag! Wayne: Okay! Wayne: Mmmmm..... Frank. Interviewer: ... Wayne: Oh, but keep the money! Get Frank a coffee. Wayne: Heh. Frank.

5. The "Worst Job" Question

Interviewer: What's the worst job you've ever had, sir? Hoid: Mmmm, probably the time I was coatrack. Interviewer: A...coatrack? Hoid: Yup. Just stood there. Frozen. While people hung their coats on me. Interviewer: How much did you get paid for that?? Hoid: I, well, I wasn't paid anything. Interviewer: I, uh, don't think that was a job...

6. The "How to Flirt" Question

Interviewer: What's your go-to move to pick up women? Kaladin: What? Interviewer: Like, how do you flirt when you like someone? What's your move? Kaladin: [Thinks about it. A sudden wind blows through his hair, shampoo-commercial style. The sunlight gleams off of his bare, muscular arms. His gorgeous brown eyes stare off into the distance.] Kaladin: I don't think I do anything, really. Interviewer: [almost breathless with lust] I-I bet you don't!

7. The "Best Ramen" Question

Interviewer: Hey, where's the best ramen in the city? Design: Oh, definitely at my ramen place! Interviewer: What do you think is the secret to good ramen? Design: Counting the grains of salt individually! Interviewer: Uh... Design: Ha ha, just kidding! Interviewer: Ha ha, of course! Design: Counting them doesn't affect the taste--but putting in the same prime number of salt grains every time does! Design: Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have given away my secret... Interviewer: I don't Interviewer: I don't think you need to worry.

8. The "How Much Rent" Question

Interviewer: How much rent do you pay, sir? Kelsier: I'm not the one who pays. Interviewer: Do you know how much it costs, though? Kelsier: For people who force their skaa to pay to live as slaves? Typically, it costs them their life. Interviewer: ... Kelsier: Because I murder them. Interviewer: ... Interviewer: I gotta get back to my own universe.

[kyeomofhearts]

Back For More | J.WW

+ summary: while adjusting to your new life in college, you couldn't help but attract the attention of wonwoo, someone you happened to share a history with.

+ pairing: badboy!wonwoo x fem!reader

+ word count: 4.5k

+ content: badboy!wonwoo, college au, mature language, jealousy, angst, suggestive, possessive wonwoo (yum), teasing, a lot of dialogue for sure, fluff?, please lmk if i missed anything tyyyy!

HC | Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

[ᝰ.ᐟ] glad you guys enjoyed part one!!! 🥹 i really appreciate the lovely comments you all left <333 i know this took forever for me to post but i swear i didn't mean to. currently writing part three as we speak so it will definitely come out within these following months or so... anyways, this wasn't proofread so please excuse any mistakes i may have made! as always, don't be scared to comment because i quite literally thrive on your guys' comments and reblogs! :)

Two weeks. Two full weeks of your torture.

Wonwoo was pretty shocked, to say the least. He wasn’t aware of the lengths you would take to ignore him. Sure, it was his fault for going off on you but he was sorry. He knew what he had said to you that day upset you, but he didn't know it was going to end up like this. And now he was at a loss, he wasn’t sure on how to navigate this 'predicament' between the two of you.

Wonwoo obviously knew that he had to apologize to you but he also knew that you needed space. Which is exactly what he did for those first few days after the ‘fight’ had occurred. He gave you space for a day or two but then, those two days turned into five... and before he knew it, two weeks had passed.

Of course, it’s not like Wonwoo didn’t try to talk to you but it was kind of difficult when you would run away at the mere sight of him. It also didn't help that any of his attempts for forgiveness were typically greeted with your indifference, it was as if you had walled yourself off completely.

To make matters worse, anytime that Wonwoo was able to see you, Hyunwoo was right by your side. It was troubling, to say the least. He couldn't quite put his finger on why the sight of you with Hyunwoo stirred such unease within him but it did and he hated it.

Out of everyone on this campus, you were giving Hyunwoo your time and attention? It just didn't make sense to Wonwoo. You barely knew the guy!

Not that he was jealous or anything but… there was something about Hyunwoo that he didn't trust. His easy 'charm' and 'magnetic' personality seemed almost too good to be true, and Wonwoo couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. He was definitely hiding something.

And so, Wonwoo found himself in limbo, caught between the regret of his past actions and the uncertainty of what would happen between him and you. He hoped for the chance to set things right, to close the gap that had formed between the two of you, but he couldn't help but wonder if it was already too late.

Until then, all he could do was wait for another opportunity.

[...]

To say that you were bored was an understatement. Ignoring Wonwoo for two weeks was beginning to take its toll on you. Life had suddenly become only about your job and classes which was... exhausting.

Granted, you did make it your life mission to ignore him any chance you were given but there was no point in dwelling on that. It was quite easy going no-contact with him considering that you didn't share any socials with him. A small part of you did occasionally miss when you would get randomly bothered by Wonwoo, it was a nice distraction from whatever you were thinking about at that moment.

Other than that...

Life was pretty uneventful if you were being honest with yourself. Your days were usually filled with school assignments and work so there wasn't anything that could help you keep your mind away from Wonwoo. And it didn't help that your friends had gone radio silent on you either.

Some might say that you were taking your pettiness too far but you couldn't help yourself! Sure, you and Wonwoo were not at the level where you could practically share everything with each other but how else were you supposed to react to his obvious injuries? Like... did he want you to just ignore his bruised face and act like everything was fine and dandy? You despised how much this whole situation still bothered you even after a few weeks had passed since it occurred.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt to hear Wonwoo out-

"Hellooo? Yn!"

Your head snapped towards the direction where you heard your name come from. Of course, it was Hyunwoo.

"I've been calling your name like crazy! Are you deaf or something?" His voice was laced with annoyance but you could tell that he was trying to play it cool.

You don't know if it was because you were always sleep-deprived but recently, Hyunwoo had been getting on your nerves. Hyunwoo was just too clingy for your liking, always feeling the need to be around you any chance he could. It was bothersome if anything.

“Sorry I was distracted, what did you need?” You tried to sound nice but couldn't help the irritation from slipping into your tone.

Hyunwoo scoffed. "Well, I just wanted to invite you to this party on Friday." He stepped closer to you, there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He continued, "I know parties aren't really your thing but... please think about it at least?"

You hesitated, your mind automatically going through your schedule. You were definitely open on Friday, but the thought of going to a party wasn't exactly appealing to you. Especially not with the current state of your social life.

You mulled over his proposition for a few seconds.

"Uh, thanks for the invite, but I think I'll pass," you replied, trying to sound casual.

Hyunwoo raised an eyebrow, his playful demeanor turning into one of disbelief. "Pass? Come on, yn, when was the last time you actually went out and had some fun?"

Ugh. His words hit a little too close to home. You knew he was right, but the idea of going out without knowing anyone felt daunting. You knew that there was surely something better you could do on a Friday night but a small part of you was curious about the party. Maybe you should at least check it out, that wouldn't hurt, right?

You looked at Hyunwoo and exhaled.

"Okay fine, I'll go with you," you playfully nudged his arm before continuing, "under the condition that I can leave whenever I want."

Hyunwoo couldn't help but roll his eyes and scoff at your 'terms and conditions', but he accepted it either way.

"Sure, oh and trust me, you won't want to leave, I'll make sure of that," Hyunwoo said as he looked at the time on his phone noting that he had a few minutes left. He patted your back before bidding you goodbye to attend his next class.

You weren't sure if it was you but there was something off about his reply. But before you could dwell on it further, your phone suddenly buzzed with a notification, forcing you back to reality.

[www.onwoo requested to follow you.]

Oh.

Okay, now you have a lot of questions. How did he even find you? Was it through one of your friends? Why now? God you knew this was going to eat you up for the next few hours or maybe even days.

Nevertheless, you accepted his friend request and even went as far as to add him as a friend. That should be okay, right?

You slipped your phone back into your pocket as you got closer to your class. Surely your lecture would at least help you take him off your mind.

Wrong.

When you entered the classroom you noticed that the seating arrangement had been changed. There were a few students still standing at the front who looked just as confused as you. After a few more students came to the class the professor eventually got up to address the situation.

"For those that are coming in, I have changed your assigned seats for the rest of the semester! If you look at the board you will also see that I have grouped you into pairs, and to make it convenient I have sat you with your partner so you do not have to struggle with finding them. If you have any questions please do not hesitate to ask me!"

Okay, this was different but not necessarily bad. You looked towards the board to see who you had been paired with and you felt your stomach drop down to the pits of Hell.

[yn | wonwoo]

If you were going to be honest you completely forgot Wonwoo was even in this class in the first place.

If there was a God out there, then they for sure failed you today. This was very unfortunate for you, but there wasn't anything that could be done about it. So you begrudgingly made your way to your assigned seat, right next to Wonwoo.

You took a quick glance over his figure noting his dark attire. There wasn't anything special about it but just seeing him in a simple black shirt and sweats was doing a lot of things to you. Why was the room hot all of a sudden?

After getting yourself situated in your seat, you felt his eyes surveying your figure. Part of you wanted to turn to see if he was actually looking at you but that would just be another win for him so you decided to keep your gaze on the board. Just focus on the lecture.

"yn." Wonwoo said in a somewhat muted tone, tapping a finger on your arm.

Well, that didn't last long.

You hated how much of an effect his voice still had on you, that deep tone always giving you goosebumps. Surprisingly, you still managed to keep your eyes on the lecture, you wanted to see how far he would go to get your attention.

Though your silence didn't amuse Wonwoo, in fact, it annoyed him. He hated not being able to annoy you, maybe even going as far as to say that he missed talking to you. Of course, he wouldn't have been in this situation had he not snapped at you that day but he was really trying to earn your forgiveness. He was willing to do anything at this point. So he leaned towards you, his cologne invading your senses. God, why did he have to smell so good?

"Can you stop ignoring me? I gave you enough space already," he said in a hushed, irritated tone.

You looked at him, trying your best to not laugh at how desperate he was beginning to sound. His usually calm and collected persona was beginning to crumble down into a hopeless mess. Feeling playful, you decided to torture him just a little bit.

"I don't think I want to, it's been kind of fun not having you around," You whispered back, turning your gaze at the board so you wouldn't have to see his reaction. Just for the fun of it, you decided to egg him on a little further, "Maybe try again later."

As you focused on the board, you could practically feel the tension radiating from Wonwoo beside you. His irritation was palpable, his patience wearing thin as he struggled to contain his frustration.

But despite your playful defiance, a small part of you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe you were being too harsh on him, too stubborn to admit that you missed whatever you had going on with him. Deep down, you knew that ignoring Wonwoo wasn't going to solve anything, that it was only prolonging the inevitable confrontation you both needed to have.

As the lecture droned on in the background, the weight of Wonwoo's presence beside you grew heavier with each passing minute. You could sense him fidgeting in his seat, his frustration simmering beneath the surface as he grappled with your stubborn silence.

Maybe it was time that you stopped pushing him away.

Finally unable to bear the tension any longer, you cleared your throat.

"Okay fine, I'll stop ignoring you but don't think that I have forgiven you yet." Your eyes lingered on his face, his cuts and bruises had noticeably healed but they were still evident.

Wonwoo's tense figure visibly relaxed at your words. Even though it was only a small step, Wonwoo felt as if he had already won the lottery.

After another hour had passed, the lecture had finally come to an end. You didn't have any plans after this so you were excited to just spend the day doing whatever. But just as you were about to slip out of your seat, Wonwoo's voice stopped you in your tracks.

"Wait for me," he said, his voice softer than before.

Seeing Wonwoo like this was quite... weird. His demeanor towards you was a complete contrast to his usual confident self. It was kind of unnerving.

After that, Wonwoo began to gather his belongings, even going as far as gently taking your bag from your hand. He slid the bag onto his shoulder, not caring about the fact that he looked ridiculous wearing his regular backpack with your tote.

"I can carry my bag," you said as you tried reaching for it.

Wonwoo quickly moved away before you could even land a finger on your tote. "Let me carry it for you, please." His tone was sincere this time, almost pleading if anything.

With a reluctant sigh, you began to make your way out of the classroom, allowing Wonwoo to fall into step beside you as you made your way out of the lecture hall. The hallway was relatively quiet, the sounds of footsteps echoing against the tiled floor as you passed by other students.

As you walked side by side with Wonwoo, you couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a physical barrier. As you rounded the corner, you stole a glance at Wonwoo, taking in the uncertainty etched into his features. It was strange to see him like this, vulnerable and unsure, but there was also something oddly endearing about it.

"What's going on? You're acting really weird right now," you finally blurted out, unable to contain your curiosity any longer.

Wonwoo's steps faltered slightly at your question, his gaze flickering away before returning to meet yours. "Can't I do something nice for my friend?" he replied, his voice tinged with a tiny hint of defensiveness.

You blinked, taken aback by Wonwoo's response. "Friend?" you echoed, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. It had been weeks since you and Wonwoo had exchanged more than a few words with each other, but even before that, you weren't necessarily sure you could call him a friend. Sure you've known him for the majority of your life but that was really it, growing up your friend groups rarely interacted so it's not like you actually knew anything about him. He just always happened to be there.

Did he seriously consider you as a friend?

Wonwoo's steps came to an abrupt stop, he shifted uncomfortably beside you, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours. "Well, yeah. I mean, aren't we?" he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty.

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken implications and unresolved tension. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, searching for the right words to express the swirling thoughts and emotions that churned within you.

"I don't know, Wonwoo," you finally admitted, your voice quiet but resolute. "I get that we've known each other for a long time but... I wouldn't exactly call us friends."

His face flashed a hint of hurt before he looked away from you. The silence following between the two of you was almost suffocating.

"That's fair I guess." His voice returned to that stoic tone that you had grown accustomed to.

Wonwoo's response hung in the air for a second, thick with unspoken words and unresolved emotions. You could feel the weight of his disappointment pressing down on you, mingling with your own sense of unease.

"I didn't mean it like that," you interjected hastily, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It's just... weird you know? We've been around each other for so long but I don't know anything about you and you don't know anything about me."

His gaze remained fixed on the ground, his expression unreadable. "I know," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the footsteps of the people passing by. "But we can always change that." Wonwoo was now completely looking at you, his gaze filled with something you couldn't quite pinpoint.

He continued, "Look, I'm sorry I spoke to you that way. I was really irritated by what had happened but I figured that being with you would put me in a better mood," he paused for a second, "I know that it was unfair of me to do that to you and I'll make sure that it won't happen again." Wonwoo's eyes were soft and sincere as he spoke to you.

It was shocking in a way, seeing how vulnerable he was being with you. For someone who usually displayed himself on the 'cooler' side, he really did know how to be genuine with you.

It was also overwhelming. Everything about this felt too intimate for you. From the way Wonwoo was looking at you to the way he voiced out his apology; it was just too much for you.

You had to do something.

Taking a deep breath, you decide to accept his apology, it was about time anyway.

"Okay, fine. I get it, we all have our off days," turning to face his side, you made a playful jab into his ribs, "but if you ever do anything like that again I will kill you." You tried your best to maintain a somewhat serious face but couldn't help but let out a giggle as soon as you saw Wonwoo squirm from your touch.

And just like that, the tension that had once felt suffocating was now gone, as if it had never been there in the first place; or at least so you thought.

What you didn't know was that Wonwoo was completely aware of your little diversion tactic. He noticed the subtle shift in your eyes while he was apologizing to you, he just chose not to say anything. But he'll play along at least for now.

“So…are we officially back to being besties?” Wonwoo decided to say teasingly, his eyes looking at you expectantly.

You stare at him momentarily with an unimpressed look before breaking into a smile. Although you've known Wonwoo for a while, you would have never thought he could joke around like this, especially with you.

And well... it wouldn't hurt if you played with him a little more.

“I’ll say yes if you buy me a smoothie from the stand over there.” You pointed toward the barely visible smoothie stand that was parked a bit farther from the window where you and Wonwoo stood.

It was the same smoothie spot from a few weeks ago only this time they were in a small cart. Although they did have their own shop near the area, the owners would occasionally bring a little cart around the campus to help bring more people in.

Wonwoo let out a low chuckle before asking you, "Do you want the same thing from last time?”

Last time? There was absolutely no way that he was talking about your order from two weeks ago.

You quirked your eyebrow up at him, "…And just how sure are you that you remember my order?"

Okay, to be fair, it's not like you had a complicated order, but it would be surprising if Wonwoo was able to remember it considering that he only heard you order that smoothie once.

Wonwoo looked over to you once again, a small smirk taking over his features. "I'll have you know that it also happens to be my favorite so don't get too excited now," he said in a provocative tone.

Ugh, he was so annoying.

Before you could give his response any more thought Wonwoo had wordlessly started walking toward the smoothie stand, effectively leaving you behind. But rather than following him all the way to the stand you decided to find seating, preferably under the shade. It's been getting hot, you noticed it's especially true when Wonwoo is around.

After finding a spot under the shade you begin to mindlessly scroll on your phone. It wasn't too long after you sat down that a notification got a hold of your attention.

[www.onwoo wants to send you a message.]

Oh god. What did he possibly want now?

[www.onwoo] why didn't you come with me? :(

Before accepting his message request you glanced over to the smoothie stand, the line was pretty long now but Wonwoo had made it just in time to get his order in before the rush. As you were looking at him, he turned his gaze toward you making you immediately look back down on your phone.

[you] it's only a one-man job. also you look ridiculous with my bag.

Wonwoo softly scoffed at your message and looked in your direction. You weren't looking at him anymore but he was still able to see a small smile on your face.

[www.onwoo] i'll have you know that i already had 3 girls compliment me on the bag 😼

You rolled your eyes before shooting back a reply.

[you] i have immaculate taste that's why.

A few chat bubbles popped in and out before they eventually disappeared altogether. It wasn't long after that you heard footsteps quickly making their way toward you.

Just as you lifted your head upwards you heard Wonwoo's confident voice announce his arrival.

“One large smoothie for my little birdy.” He smiled as he spoke, knowing that you absolutely despised that nickname.

You squinted at him in disapproval, “And here I thought that nickname was officially gone for good.”

Wonwoo chuckled at that. He then proceeded to take a sip of your smoothie before officially handing it off to you.

You stayed frozen for a second before grabbing the smoothie and wiping the straw with your shirt.

Absolutely no indirect kisses will be occurring today.

Getting up from your spot, you begin to mindlessly walk toward the closest pathway near you, the weather is pretty nice today. After a few steps, you turned around to see a rather puzzled Wonwoo looking back at you but he still followed nonetheless.

“You’re a little too chirpy today… what happened to the oh-so-serious biker? Hmm?” You playfully poked at him as you said it, enjoying the sweet flavor of the smoothie he had gotten for you.

Wonwoo scoffed softly, holding back his laugh, “He’s still here, he just happens to be in a good mood now that his little birdy is talking to him again.”

But before you can even think of a snarky response Wonwoo continued.

“But if that’s what you’re into then I can always play the part for you,” he said with a smirk, his words smothered in arrogance.

You scoffed, amused by the implication he made. “Ew it’s definitely not like that.”

“Oh, but it can be.” Wonwoo moved closer to you, effectively closing the space between you both. His cologne invaded your senses once again; this time, it was proving much more difficult for you to escape from his grasp. His gaze was unwavering as he looked at your face or to be more exact, your lips.

After what felt like an eternity, Wonwoo finally pulled himself away from you. He smirked at the very flustered state that he had just left you in. It was clear that there was a mutual attraction between the two of you, an attraction you were trying to reject.

It was a challenge that Wonwoo was more than ready to handle.

You cleared your throat, "As fun as it was hanging out after class... I think that it's about time for me to head back home," you said as you recomposed yourself.

Technically speaking, there wasn't anything waiting for you back at your place but you felt that if you stayed a second longer things would definitely escalate between the two of you.

And again, your little stunt didn't go unnoticed by Wonwoo but he also wasn't surprised, if anything, he expected you to pull away like this. That was one of the first things he had noticed when he initially started talking to you, always leaving before things could really develop. It was cute in a way, but he was eventually going to get you out of your shell, it was only a matter of when.

Wonwoo faintly smiled to himself, “Okay but before I let you go, we should come up with a day to start our project together.”

Fuck. You forgot about that.

He continued, “How about this Friday? I have nothing going on that day.” Wonwoo's eyes landed on your figure as you went on your phone to check your work schedule for the upcoming week.

“Ugh, I have to go out with Hyunwoo that day,” you said just as your eyes landed on Sunday, it was completely open.

“…but how about this Sunday? I don’t work that day.” You looked up toward Wonwoo's eyes, hopeful that it could work out.

A million thoughts raced through Wonwoo's head. You're going out with Hyunwoo? Like as in a date or...? No, he has to stay composed.

“That works for me,” he mumbled, his gaze went toward the ground, kicking a few pebbles before looking at you once again, “but what’s going on with you and Hyunwoo?”

You couldn't help but laugh at Wonwoo's question which earned you a scowl from him. God, you were going to have so much fun with this.

“Why do you ask?” This was the perfect opportunity to get back at Wonwoo for teasing you earlier so like the tease that you are, you decided to play dumb with him. “Are you perhaps… jealous?” You said with a loud gasp as a way to rile him up, your hands flying to your mouth for dramatic effect.

You continued, "Don't worry Hyunwoo is just a boy who also happens to be my friend." Wonwoo's face physically hardened at the idea of Hyunwoo being your boyfriend. He knew that you saw him on a regular basis but he had yet to see any real signs that you were actually dating him.

Patting his back in a comforting manner you then explained, "Relax, don't get your panties in a twist. If you have to know, Hyunwoo is just a friend." While it was fun teasing him you most certainly did not want him to get the wrong idea about you and Hyunwoo.

"But if I'm being honest it was kind of fun bullying you, I should do that more often." It couldn't be helped! You just had to add that last part.

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. “Oh wow, who knew you were a sadist.” His tone was playful, an evil grin tugging at the corner of his lips as he played along with your banter.

Your jaw dropped at his comment, huffing out a loud, “Wonwoo!”

He raised his hands up in a surrender, “I'm kidding! I'm kidding… or maybe not.” Which then earned him a slap on his bicep.

“You truly are shameless,” you muttered out loud for him to hear.

By this point, Wonwoo had taken the lead as the two of you walked away from the courtyard. It was only until you were at the school's parking lot that you realized that he had purposely taken you here.

There was a beat of silence before Wonwoo let out a soft sigh. "Would you look at that... my bike happens to be over there..." He nudged you in the direction of where he had parked his bike a few hours prior.

Wonwoo let out another pathetic sigh, "It would be rude of me to just let you walk back home you know?" This time he grabbed a hold of your hand as he led you directly in front of his bike.

Your eyes almost bulged out of your head at the implication that he just made. There's absolutely no way that you are getting on his bike.

"Uh... I'm not so sure this is a good idea Won-"

Wonwoo shushes you and hands you a spare helmet, a shit-eating grin plastered over his stupidly handsome face.

"Just trust me," he says as he slides your tote inside his backpack, "that should hold everything in place." Wonwoo then handed the backpack to you, waiting for you to put it on, his eyes landing on your terrified figure.

This was going to be fun.

[Part Three: III]

[boonoonoonus]

A Lesson to be Learned Pt 1

Smoke returns to Annie and finds out that he's not the only person who's been having nookie in the 7 years that passed. But of course, for him it doesn't count, but for Annie? It's a PROBLEM.

A/N: This is based on a prompt someone posted of Smoke finding Annie with someone else and losing his mind. If you happen to know who made that prompt, please tag them so I can say thank you. Also ENJOY! Shout out to my co-writer who RP'ed Annie.

Warnings: SMUT, SMUT, SMUT, dual narratives with Annie's side and Smoke's

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Smoke wasn’t pleased.

He sniffed the air, his lip curled into a half snarl as his eyes traced the figure disappearing into the distance. Beau-Dallas had looked somewhat stricken at seeing him pull into the plot of land, and even after laying flowers on baby girls resting spot, something still felt off to him.

Still, he put such thoughts to the back of his mind as he walked to the door. When Annie opened the door, a half-smile crossed her lips, and he felt his expression quickly clear. He turned his head to rest his eyes on her, “how you be?” his voice rough and raw.

Something had told Annie that today was going to be a pivotal day, but she had hoped it was the day he would finally release her, allowing her to enjoy her own flesh without guilt. Instead, she felt her heart pounding as she heard the car rumbling in the distance. She’d rushed Beau-Dallas out the door, but she knew it was too late, that he’d been noticed when she really didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Granted, Beau-Dallas hadn’t needed much rushing, a letdown of a man in all manner of ways.

However, the minute she'd realised who had come knocking at her door, her stomach dropped into her gut and her legs went weak. Of course, he would appear today. The last person she expected to see. The worst person, even at a time like this. "Why you here Smoke?" She asks through a crack in the doorway. She doesn't let him in. She can’t. She tries to hold it together, fronting and pretending a moral high ground she knows he wouldn't allow. He'd left her. Not the other way around, but he wouldn't see it that way. She knew that, like she knew his love for her.

"We through with Chicago. And this home." Smoke didn't have to say it was his home, that was implied, a given actually, because Annie was always his home, had been his home since he married her, given her his last name, and seeded her right. If he wasn't gallivanting across the land with Stack, trying to keep that boy alive and with a head firmly on his shoulders, then he was with Annie. There were no other options, no other tethers for him on this land, but his brother and his woman.

Funny how it was only after so many years away, did he remember where home was.

"Well, welcome home." She offered drily, not budging an inch and refusing to stand down despite a rising panic. "You seen your daughter, you seen me. What more you want?" He didn't deserve any more emotion from her, though her heart ached at her words, at their distance. But, her traitorous heart whispered, he'd been the one to leave. No money, and no half arsed messages sent over the years could replace his missing presence. She hadn’t wanted that; she’d wanted him.

"Woman," Smoke planted his feet on either side of her doorway, unmoving. He'd expected resistance, but this callousness was unlike his wife. He could have budged past her, pushed her to the side and entered the shop HE had built, on the land HE had paid for, for HIS wife, but he'd remembered enough southern manners to speak to her from between a clenched jaw and act polite. "I know you hurt, and I know I ain't shit, but you’se my home, ain't nowhere else I 'spose to be, but with you and baby girl."

"Smoke, I done already moved on. I had how many years? Living without you?" How many nights had she slept alone? How many times had she touched herself in private thinking about a cock she missed and a man she loved. How many times had she cursed, remembering his mouth, his hands. And here, he was again, two arms, two legs, two eyes and a brain that worked. Against her will, and her better judgement, she felt herself start to soften. She missed him bad. She missed his hands, his slick mouth, his dick pressed deep in her pussy, her mouth, even her arse. That’s where he'd taken first, back when they'd been too young - too young to be doing anything really, and especially too young to spring up a child neither could care for.

Smoke closed his eyes and breathed deeply. As a man of few words, he'd married a woman who fought primarily with hers because she balanced him out, she could be his mouth piece and he her strength. But on a day like today, he could feel nothing but rising blood pressure from Annie's antics. "Yeah, and I'm motherfuckin' Jim Crow. Let me in, Annie."

She wondered distantly what habits her man may have picked up, as the frustration Beau-Dallas antics inside of her throbbed again, what sort of women he’d held down and fucked while they were apart. Had he licked them? Touched them tender? Did Smoke give them the good good as he’d always given her?

Her heart ached.

“Why? What are you planning, Smoke?” She asks because she knows what will happen if she lets him in. She wonders what he would do once he spread her legs and found another man’s seed. Would he beat her? Hurt her? Take her other hole instead? What would it be? She shook her head to clear her thoughts and shortened the space, pressing the door closed a little more. There was no need to open the door to old demons.

"We not having this conversation on the street for any ole nigga to hear Annie." The idea that their business would be public fodder and affect her business was the only thing that kept Smoke from pulling the door off the hinges and taking his woman into hand. It was hard enough to be back in Clarksdale after so many years, and though the reputation of the Smokestack twins preceded them, Smoke didn't want to take anymore chances with someone who didn't know the rules that ran the town, not after the incident earlier with Terry and the Maybell Plantation nigga outside the Chow’s. "Open the door, Annie, and let me through. You ain't gon' like what I'll do if you don't, and baby girl don't need to see her mama getting her shit popped."

Against her better judgment, she lets him in. Resolved to what seems inevitable now. When she steps back to let the door swing open, she feels a twinge from down below. A burning heat that only increases when she gets a whiff of Smoke’s scent after so long. She’d been aroused ever since she realised who it was at her door, but God it aches something different to have him so close, passing her space to get inside. Her body, after all these tests, these trials and tribulations, hasn’t forgotten. And no sloppy half-hearted coupling with a man whose cock couldn’t even fill her up right would change it.

When Annie opens the door, Smoke breezes past her, his hand already outstretched for his pipe. Once it's in his mouth, he doesn't hesitate to sit down and reach out for the good ganja he knew she kept hidden underneath the shop counter. She's pottering around, trying to keep busy and trying to avoid his eyes, and he can't help but let his eyes roam over her body in want. She's wearing his colour. A blue dress, light cotton so it stains easily with sweat under her arms, around her neck, and when she bends over a bit, he sees the sweat has formed crescent shapes on the places where the fabric rests under her booty cheeks when she stands. A fire burns inside, further fuelled when he pulls his hand back from under the counter and pulls the ganja, but also a soft scrap of fabric alongside it.

Panties.

Soiled, white panties.

Smirking, Smoke slowly put them in his pocket and patted the fabric. "Why you catching an attitude Baby? Ain't like you to cuss me."

Now that she let him in, Annie started to ponder her options. Enraging him further wasn’t it. It was too late, and she couldn’t hide the evidence of what she’d been doing, not with her dress clinging to her body with sweat and that man’s seed rolling down her leg. So, what was left?

Appeasement.

She breathed deeply, trying to stop the shaking in her hands. The ointment was still out. She’d needed it for that man, her pussy hadn’t been too interested in his ministrations and there was only so much juice she could pull from her own puss in front a man that didn’t stir her loins. She eyed it discreetly on the counter, wondered if Smoke noticed it, remembered it as the same ointment he’d used time and time again to ease into her back passage.

“How long ‘ave you been gone Smoke? Was I supposed to be happy you back? Forgive just like that?” She didn’t want to. She deserved to be upset. Deserved to seek out someone after so long; she wasn’t meant to be a widow indefinitely. Or till he remembered he had pussy at home. She was too loving, too pretty, too powerful to be left so alone for so long. He couldn’t just waltz back in, not after he left, and he couldn’t look at her with those eyes and make her feel guilty.

Smoke's eyes watched her keenly. She purposefully kept just outside the span of his arms, so he wouldn't pull her close. Yet, she turned to him as she cussed him out, hands on hips as she breathed a little deeply. "Seven years, baby, I know. Seven long years." He closed his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the memories of the long nights, the nights without her, his heart breaking all over again. "But, I'm back, Annie and baby girl, she's at rest." He breathed deeply and took a few puffs on the pipe. "Papa's home for good. Stack an' me, we gon' open up a Juke joint, an' I'm gonna build you that house I promised you, an' we gon' have babies, give baby girl some siblings to look over, and we gon’ be happy, Annie. Together again, I promise yah." He stood up, placing the pipe to his side and though her body was stiff, reluctant, he pulled her close. His nose finding her neck.

She digested the information slowly, leaning away from Smoke, somewhat distrusting, though her body yearned desperately for his touch to quell the heat. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Settle down, and Smoke didn’t exactly go together, especially when Stack was involved. A voice that sounded a little too similarly to Mary chastised her, told her to keep her suspicion. Still, it’s a fight not to melt right into his arms. Strong hands, a familiar scent, a broad chest. His voice lights something up within her, and she finds some tears collecting in the corner of her eyes. She’d been thinking about trying again, finding someone to give her a child. Probably a son. Someone to keep her company when everyone left, someone who would stay. And here came Smoke. “I missed you.” And that was the truth.

They hadn’t talked about trying again. Too lost in grief, but he was ready now, and he wanted their future back. "I missed you, too.” It's easy to pull her close, her chest heaving and pillow soft, without her brassiere pressed against his own, and capture her lips. She tastes as she always does, as she tasted in their youth, and he can't help but grasp her chin and cheek with his hands, pulling her into his orbit. She's his once more, and it's glorious.

Kissing Smoke never ceased to amaze her. The pure sensuality of it. Lips on lips, teeth, spit, and the single-minded energy that seemed intent on devouring her. She leans in with more and more fervour, her body increasingly primed for something and pussy leaking in new bursts for what she knew what was come next, what she desired to come next, her mind strays away from her trepidation, from her fear of the situation happening between her legs.

Annie is warm beneath his hands and Smoke can't help but slap her ass when his hands travel down her back to clutch at her curves. She moans into his mouth and he grins, drawing her close and digging his hands into her ass as he rhythmically slapped her ass so it continued to shake, one cheek then the next. "Shake that shit for papa," he says pulling back from the kiss to look into her eyes. He reached his hands further down, hiking up her dress onto her hips. Smoke didn't need to look, his hands knew exactly how to find her button and warm centre. So his fingers roughly part her second lips, groaning as he heard the loud wet sound as the lips separated."You miss me, baby?"

Her man doesn’t miss a step, and soon she’s enveloped in warm, familiar pressure. Holding on to her upset and anger is futile in the face of those eyes, fuck his hands know exactly where to go. He obviously hasn’t forgotten her body after all this time. A flick to her clit sends another warm wave all through her and she presses back on his fingers hungrily.

This is what she’s been craving what she missed. His hands on her. His words, filth and all.

She’s moaning now. Soft and plaintive at first, but increasing with strength.

"How can you—“ She can’t even finish the sentence. Rage flooding through her, intercepting her lust and longing. “How are you—gon’ fix your mouth to ask—If I missed ?” She missed him every day. In the beginning, she’d been so damn sad. It faded somewhat with time. As did the pitying glances and words people sent her way. But to ask?

They had a child for christ sake. She'd cradled the babe in her arms and cried for days. How many times had she wished he were with her? How many times had different folk run roughshod over her because they knew he had abandoned her.

She's warm, wet, and the room smells like sweat - like sex, but he can't focus on that because she's unbridled rage and upset in his arms. "Hush," he soothes her, "jus' playin. I know you missed me, I missed you too." That's an understatement. He thought of her constantly. In Germany, in England, in France, in the day, in the night, when he ate, when he slept, even when he was balls deep in some woman he couldn't remember, he had missed his woman.

His Annie.

Not for the first time, Annie thinks, ‘I must be a fool.’ Only a fool would cave like this at the first sign of contriteness, the first sign of apology from a man like Elijah Moore. She was that very fool.

It’s not enough, can’t be. There’s too much time for the two of them to make up for, but the same way she’d know what would be when she let this devil of a man enter her house again. Is the same way she knows she’ll take this paltry offering anyway.

“Elijah…” She says his name out loud for the first time. Not the moniker, not the mask. Her man. Long gone. Now back.

“You realise how much you embarrassed me, yes?” He had more than an apology to make up for. She needed her pride reinforced here. Not just his ego. And she knew he had one.

Even now, with another man’s seed inside her, he still thought he owned her. Still felt entitled to her body—her womb, even. And she’d given in to him still. She doesn’t understand, can’t fathom the pull he’s got on her.

“Tell me you’ll make it right.” That’s all she’s asking. Maybe it’s too much.

Maybe all he can offer her is some good dick and a pleasurable time, some handsome to brighten her day and all the trouble that came with him. Maybe. But something in her still trusts him. She had to. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be letting him talk her out of her metaphorical draws like this.

Smoke was not a man of words, so it was hard to bring forth what was needed, but he looked deep and he scoured his soul. She’s moaning now. Soft and plaintive at first, but increasing with strength, and Smoke can’t help the satisfaction brewing in his body as he toys with her honey pot.

"I'll make it right, baby, Papa will make it right." She was his second baby, their baby girl his third and Stack the first, but Annie had always been his special one. His gorgeous babe, who looked glorious with her sweat-slicked skin.

It wasn't just his sexual attraction, it was the desire, the way her body moved when in euphoria, the love he knew she felt for him in her heart and her power, tingling under her skin and warming his soul.

She groans in upset when he removes his fingers, and he can’t help his smirk as he brings his fingers close to his face. He stopped, glancing between his fingers and her face. “Baby, you creamin'?”

Annie stares up into gorgeous, complex eyes and knows without a doubt that she's in trouble. Her man was a vengeful person. And there’d be hell to pay for the unfortunate man she’d just lain with. As well as herself.

That alone is enough to make her pussy throb in anticipation and increasing fear.

In the past Elijah had shown jealousy before and she’d played it off and been able to reassure him that it wasn’t any other man’s but his.

Now with her caught redhanded, pussy still wet from another mans seed? Not a chance in hell. Lord how long would he hold this over her head?

No subpar sex was worth this. She should have just touched herself and gone to sleep. This is where lust led her.

Punishment.

“I sure wasn’t before.” She acknowledged the event that had occurred previously and held her breath.

His nose catches the scent, and Smoke feels anger like he’s never felt before. His mind runs through the clues, her sweaty skin, clammy hands and reluctance to open the door. Her wet pussy that was loose and open to his touch. “This shit smells like seed” The admission is all over her face and it takes every inch of self control in Smoke to not flip the table and do something drastic to her. “You gave my pussy to some field nigga in the Delta?”

Smoke feels an unbridled rage, that can't be tempered by her wide innocent expression and her mouth set in a pout. A wicked woman is his wife. A wicked, wicked woman.

In a quick motion, he has his hand around her neck, loosely, very loosely. Just enough to scare her, but nothing serious and stares into her eyes.

"Annie?" He asks in warning.