#and somehow i feel like she's used to that

[baby-yongbok]

STRAY HEARTS: RENT-A-BOYFRIEND

⤷ Agent Assigned: Han Jisung x afab!reader

⤷ Client Scenario: A fake date to get your friends off your back turns into the best hookup you’ve ever had and forgetting it was fake to begin with.

⤷ Case Warnings: oral (f.rec), unprotected sex

⤷ WC: 2.9k

♡ Stray Hearts File: 002 of 010

♡ Event Masterlist | ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Your match is one minute away

You're watching the little dot inch closer on the Rent-a-Boyfriend app like you're tracking a DoorDash order. Honestly? Not that different. Except instead of delivering food, he’s here to rescue you from your meddling, very persistent, very single friends. 

The girls are already halfway into the first bottle of wine and arguing over which romcom to put on. Your roommate, Lacey, is on her third blind date pitch of the night. If you hear the words “he’s got a stable job and loves dogs” one more time, you're going to snap.

Just then, the doorbell rings. You rush to the door without an ounce of grace, and there he is.

Flannel, white tee, grey sweatpants with the possibility of no boxers underneath. He’s got messy hair and a lazy, charming smile like he woke up ten minutes ago and still somehow pulled it together. 

“There’s my sugar plum,” he says, voice low and way too confident for someone using that nickname and actually meaning it.

You blink. “I—what?”

He leans in, arms already wide like he wants to say ‘where’s my hug?’ “C’mon, babe, don’t be shy in front of your little friends. Let me in before I start whining.”

Oh, he’s a dork. A hot one. 

You step back, and to your horror—and reluctant delight—he wraps you in a hug. It’s firm with faux familiarity. “I’m going to regret this,” you mutter.

“You paid for premium, sweetheart.” He flashes a grin, slipping off his sneakers. “Regret’s not an option.”

Then he claps once—loud, sharp—you flinch, and he marches straight to the kitchen like he owns the place. Your friends fall silent as he walks in. It’s kind of impressive. Even Lacey, who once debated a cop over a parking ticket while clearly drunk, looks stunned.

Jisung gives them all a once over that just borders the line of inappropriate. “Hi. I’m Jisung. You must be the friends she complains about.”

You nearly choke. “Han.” 

He winks over his shoulder, already reaching for the wine bottle like it’s his. “She calls me Han when she’s pretending she doesn’t like me.”

“Because I don’t.” you say flatly.

“She lies.” he tells your friends.

He pours himself a glass and raises it like a toast. “It’s a pleasure for you all to meet me. I hope I feel some pleasure too.”

You scowl, rubbing the heel of your palm into your eye like a stressed out cartoon character. This is never going to work. You take a seat across from where he stands, trying to seem even remotely interested in your ‘boyfriend’. 

Lacey leans in, mouth twisted like she’s trying to smell bullshit. “So... how did you two meet?”

Han doesn’t miss a beat. “Not telling, the story is too close to my heart. I’m gatekeeping it. You’ll hear it at the wedding. I’m already planning my vows.”

Your entire soul leaves your body with a single scoff. “We’re not getting married,” you snap.

“Yet,” he replies, sipping his wine. “But I have plans for us.” He gives you a kissy face and your friends exchange a glance. He’s losing them. Or winning. It’s hard to tell.

You all move to the living room. Netflix is cued up and snacks are laid out. Han grabs a handful of M&M’s and mixes it with skittles as he drops down next to you like it’s instinct. You watch on, half horrified and half concerned. “What? They’re all going to the same place.”

His arm drapes over your shoulders with too much ease. His hand finds your knee. You glare at him sideways, but he just smiles—easy, casual chaos. 

Your friends settle in, finally picking a movie, some mid-2000s romcom with a predictably chaotic meet-cute. The wine is flowing and everyone’s stealing glances at you two.

The girls are talking through the movie. Gawking at the male lead and discussing whether or not matching with your boyfriend is cute or cringe. You don’t join in, you never really do anymore. Too afraid that one of them will use the conversation to pitch their brother’s best friend's cousin to you.  

Jisung is actually watching the movie. A third handful of mixed candies are shoveled into his mouth and you lean away, kinda over it all. He pulls you back in, casually tossing your legs over his lap like it’s muscle memory. And then he starts tracing patterns.

First your ankle. Then up, slow and unassuming, his fingertips running along your calf, your thigh, higher. You shoot him a look, but his eyes are glued to the screen. His hand, however, is absolutely not glued to a safe zone

“I’ve been tracking your pulse through your thigh this entire time,” he whispers.

You give him a look, his eyes stay on the screen.

He grins. “It tells me everything I need to know. That plus your slight flush are classic symptoms of falling for your fake boyfriend.”

“Or I’m just annoyed.”

“Or,” he says, pointing at the screen and finally looking your way, “Ryan Reynolds is on screen again and your hormones are betraying you.”

“That’s not even—oh my god, that’s Ryan Gosling.”

He blinks, shrugs and squeezes the plush of your thigh just a little. You lean into it. “Same tax bracket. Same jawline. Same vibe.”

You burst into laughter—sharp, real, too loud.

Your friends all glance over. “Everything okay over there?” One of them asks, eyeing Han as he tears into a twizzler.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and biting back your smile. “Just watching the movie.” But Jisung’s grinning like he won something. He leans closer, voice just for you now.

“You laugh like someone who’s kissed me before. Not an ex but maybe my future.”

Your eyes roll before you register it, “I am not your future and I have not kissed you.” You look at each other, he raises a brow. “You will.”

You try to glare. Try to resist, but he’s smirking and his fingers are brushing the inside of your thigh like someone told him just how you like it. “I could do it now,” he says, quiet, playful. “Seal the illusion. Really sell it.”

“You just want to kiss me.” It comes out softer than you meant for it to, your eyes drift just slightly down but his are already there, watching your mouth shamelessly.

“Desperately,” he whispers. “You’re too pretty to just pretend to date.” 

Your chest tightens, your lips part to say something a bit too flirty—and that’s when Lacey calls out, “He’s very… hands-on, huh?”

You both freeze.

Jisung lifts his hands like a suspect caught at the scene. “Guilty.”

“Dude,” Lacey mutters, “we’re still in the room.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Is it a crime to wanna fuck my girlfriend?”

The room stops.

Dead. Silence.

Your other two friends cough so hard they choke on their wine. Lacey makes a face halfway between oh no and oh he’s hot. Your jaw drops. 

“Han Jisung, shut up!”

He looks around, frowning. “It’s a valid question.” 

Then he’s standing before anyone else can say a thing, holding out a hand to you like he’s about to lead you onto a dance floor instead of to your bedroom.

“C’mon, sugar plum,” he says with a wink. “ Let’s leave the judgmental singles to their vino.”

You glare, whispering as you stand, “You don’t know where my room is.”

He shrugs, whispering back. “I’ll find it. Like I found your heart.” You let him pull you forward, trying not to smile. Your friends all make a sound like they want to say something… but what?

Just as you’re out of sight Han pauses, just loud enough that they can hear him “Uh… which room is yours again?”

You sigh. “This way, dumbass.”

He grins and follows. “That’s my girl.”

You shove him down the hallway. He still opens two wrong doors, calls your linen closet ‘cozy,’ then finally stumbles into your actual room. Once the door’s shut, you spin to face him, slapping his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“You paid for me,” he says, all teeth and mischief as he takes in your room. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Plus,” He looks back at you, still grinning “You’re wet.”

You blink. “I am not—”

He takes a step closer. “Babe, I am an expert. It is my job to know.” Your mouth opens to argue—and then his tongue slips over yours with your next breath.

He kisses you like a college guy getting laid for the first time in two weeks, and for some reason it works in his favor. As much as your brain screams to pull away… your body is okay with this. 

He kisses like he talks—fast, greedy, no filter. He's nearly sucking on your tongue before your brain can catch up, hands already gripping your ass like the clock’s ticking and he’s got something to prove.

You gasp into it. “Jisung—”

“Sorry. Sorry, you’re really pretty,” he pants, backing into the wall by your door. You follow, you don’t know why, but you do. “God, I’m so glad you picked me.”

You nearly make fun of him, tease him for really acting like a horny guy from a frat party but the soft grip of his hands on your waist makes your brain buffer. His eyes are already heavy lidded, asking for more. You lean in with permission.

This time he kisses you like he’s always wanted to. Like he’s known you for years and the opportunity finally fell in his favor. It’s deep, smooth, his tongue slides over yours like he really is an expert. Total difference.

Your hands fist into his flannel, pushing it down his shoulders and he turns, switching places with you. His flannel falls to the floor just as your back hits the wall beside the door. Your gasp sounds too much like a moan. 

“Do that again,” he whispers, then bites your lip. “Show me what other pretty sounds you can make.” he rolls his hips into yours and grinds—once, perfectly—and your mouth parts with an actual moan.

“There she goes.” His lips are back on yours in an instant. He moves you, walking backward and bumping into your dresser, your chair, a damn plant before finally landing you on the bed.

You’re breathless. Laughing like you can’t help it. “Are you always this clumsy?”

He lands with a soft oof on top of you, bracing himself on his forearms. His grin is wild and unrepentant. “Only when I’m trying to get laid by someone way out of my league.”

You snort. “I am pretty out of your league.”

“Ouch.” He feigns offence, kissing your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower. “It’s a good thing I still have plenty of time to prove myself.”

You open your mouth, ready to tell him to shut up, but then he hooks his fingers into your shorts and drags them down your thighs without breaking eye contact, and your brain fizzles out.

He whistles low. “Damn. Did I just leave you speechless?” your brain still won’t work.

Your shirt goes next, flung somewhere past the dresser he nearly tripped over. His hands trace your sides, up your ribs, greedy but slow and warm. Unhurried for a guy who looks seconds away from combusting just from this alone.

“You good?” he asks, and it’s the first time he sounds truly serious. Gentle, even. “We can stop if you want—” You pull him down by the collar of his shirt and kiss him hard.

“That’s a yes,” he mutters, dazed.

Then his cocky college boy grin is back as he dips down between your thighs, kissing your inner thigh with a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth. You arch, your hand tangles in his hair as he shifts lower and lower.

“I have this playlist,” he says, licking a barely there stripe up your center, “of my moans. You can sample them if you want. Pick your favorite.”

You laugh, actually cackle, caught so off-guard your body folds in a little.

“That right there,” he murmurs, licking again. “That’s better than my entire playlist.” Then he finally puts his mouth on you. He doesn’t ease into it. No gentle warm up, no drawn out tease. His tongue is pressed flat against your clit in an instant, sucking and slurping so loudly you’re sure the girls can hear it over the movie.

“God—Han—fuck—”

Your hips jolt. Your fingers thread tighter into his hair and he groans against you like you’ve unlocked a new kink for him. You reach for the sheets, your fist twist in them just as his nose bumps over your clit and his tongue fucking turns shallow.

He pops up, chin shiny, eyes wide. “Say that again.” He grins. “Just wanna remember how it sounds. 

You grab him by the collar and yank him up. “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” he kisses over your stomach, moving faster now that you’ve asked. Your shirt comes off, your bra goes next. His tongue traces slow circles over your nipples, then quick, playful flicks that make you arch with a sharp inhale.

Then he fumbles his sweats off—nearly falls over—and finally kneels between your thighs, breath heaving, cock flushed and hard and way more than you expected from a man who unironically called you sugar plum.

He pulls his shirt off and you pause. Stare. There are tattoos, two of them.

One sprawls across his chest on the right, black ink, script you can’t quite read in the low light, paired with a compass. The other stretches up his left side, dark bold lettering. 

Your eyebrows lift before you can stop them. “You have tattoos?”

Han freezes, shirt halfway to the floor. “Shit—do I need to put it back on? Is this a no tattoo household?”

“No, I just—” You blink. “You don’t seem like the type.”

He grins, cocky as ever, like you just said exactly what he hoped that anyone who saw the ink would. “That’s what makes them hot.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already lining himself up. He thrusts in all at once, and whatever you were going to say dies in your throat, replaced by a moan so wrecked it barely sounds like you. 

“Swear to God, if you moan like that again I’m getting your name inked above my dick.” You choke on a laugh, but it melts into a gasp when he rolls his hips a little deeper.

“Deadass,” he mutters. “Right over the waistband, cursive font. Maybe a little heart if you keep clenching like that.” You dig your nails into his shoulder, a laugh shuddering through you and ending in another moan.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. I need a minute. I’m malfunctioning.”

You whine, shifting beneath him, seeking friction. “Just move.”

“Ohhh, you’re a brat. Got it. I’ll remember that.”

He starts thrusting, holding your hips in place and watching himself disappear inside you before he just starts watching you. The way your eyes flutter shut, your mouth falls open with little whimpers and whispers. Missionary turns into a slow grind with your legs locked around him, deep in a way that no one else has ever been. You mean it when you mumble that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Then it gets sloppy. He’s flipping you on your side, holding your leg up as he slams in from the angle that makes both of you moan in approval. He’s the whining type, fingers digging into plush flesh and practically crying above you like a cat in heat.

“Baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re talking too much,” you manage.

He kisses your calf, more tongue than anything. “If you keep being bratty I’ll lick behind your knee just to see what noise you make.” 

You wheeze a laugh that’s interrupted by a whimper as he pulls out, turning you onto your stomach and pulling you up onto your knees. He drags his cock through your folds before sliding in again, harder this time, his hands gripping your hips like he's grounding you.

The moans coming out of him aren’t even human. High-pitched. Desperate. Pornographic.

“Fuck—jagi—don’t clench like that,” His rhythm falters for just a second “I’m tryna make it last.”

You’re no better, moaning into the sheets, legs shaking. “Han, my god.”

“Yeah?” he groans, rutting into you with a frantic rhythm. “Tell me. Tell me how good I feel.”

You start to speak, your lips part but only his name makes it off of your tongue before you’re coming. Hard. Legs shaking and knees slipping enough for him to have to hold you up while he fucks you through your high. Slow and shallow, dragging it out just right.

“That’s what I thought, baby.” He pulls out just as your high is dying down, panting as he strokes himself once, twice, and then—

His load is hot on your ass, his chest heaving and yours is no better. The air is too hot, your moans still echo into nothing.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Ten outta ten.”

You barely move, you’re dazed. Boneless. Then you feel fabric—his shirt—as he starts wiping you down with the gentleness of a man who’s definitely done this before.

You turn, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Really? Your shirt?”

He throws it to the side and leans forward, kissing your cheek. “Boyfriend duties, no big deal. Now roll over, I’m offering complimentary cuddles.”

You sigh, rolling onto your side like your limbs forgot how to function—cause they did. He follows instantly, sliding in behind you and tugging you in like you belong there, like this wasn’t a paid performance. His arm drapes around your waist. He exhales like this is the best part. Like he means it.

He wiggles his brows. “Better leave me a good review or I’ll cry.” 

You huff a laugh, settling into him. “Three stars at best.” He gasps in fake offense, leaning in a bit closer and tickling you just barely. 

“That was at least a four star performance!” You start laughing again, full and unfiltered. Swatting his hand away and leaning further into his chest.

He smiles into your hair. “That one. Still my favorite sound.”

A/N: Is this my first solo Han smut??? I think it is...

I took FOREVER to do this. forgive me my, my chronic illnesses are being...chronic. but the event must go on!

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[mossandink]

You Write Better When You Improvise

seol yoon-ah x male reader

college au, pwp, build up, fluff (?), smut

8k words

Orientation is loud.

That's the first thought that comes into your head as you step into the auditorium, shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of strangers, all pretending they aren't just as lost as you are.

There's music being blasted from cheap speakers and the occasional whistle of a mic being tested by an emcee trying too hard to impress. The chatters of hundreds of people reverberate and ring throughout the auditorium like a rising tide, layered over the sound of shuffling feet and plastic chairs scraping against the floor.

Someone beside you is already scribbling notes in a welcome booklet like it's a test paper. You step sideways, trying not to elbow anyone, scanning rows of identical tote bags and unfamiliar heads.

In a sea of faces, you're finding it hard to spot her. She said she'd meet you here. "Auditorium B," she texted casually, like it wasn't your first day on a campus you didn't recognise, surrounded by people two years younger but somehow already ahead.

Your phone buzzes again.

jiwoo: i lied. i’m late. again. u love me anyway also they gave us these ugly tote bags lol you: 😐

You sighed. She hadn't changed in the 18 months you were gone. Still the same old chronic texter, serial latecomer, and one of the only people who actually kept in touch while you were halfway across the country doing push-ups at the crack of dawn.

Unlike every other guy your age, you decided to enlist right after graduating high school in hopes that you would be able to complete uni life without any military service disruptions.

You ended up with exactly that — 18 months of routine, of shaved heads and strict orders, of standing at attention while your friends posted party photos from their freshman dorms.

You sigh, shifting your weight from foot to foot. The AC's doing nothing against the mix of perfumes and colognes, sweat, and nerves lingering in the auditorium. You loosen the strap of your sling bag and take another quick glance around, still no sign of her.

You're debating whether to leave and pretend you never came when a voice calls out — familiar, exasperating.

"God, you're tall. Why'd I forget that?"

You turn just in time to catch Jiwoo elbowing through a pair of freshmen with a grin that says she's not even sorry, tote bag already crumpled like she wrestled it. Her hair's lighter compared to the last time you saw her, dyed in a way that catches the fluorescent lights.

She looks every inch the experienced university sophomore she is — smug, seasoned, and thirty minutes late. You stand almost a whole foot taller than her, albeit not a difficult feat with her petite stature. It's good to see her after only looking at unfamiliar faces all morning, and after seeing none that felt like home.

Jiwoo looks up at you, squinting like she's doing mental math. "Wait," she says, deadpan." You didn't grow again, right? Please tell me the military didn't feed you Miracle-Gro."

You let out a hearty chuckle, the kind that hadn't escaped your throat in a long time. The thing with Jiwoo is that she always knew how to make you laugh. "Nah, just protein shakes and existential dread."

She grins, walking the last few steps and throwing an arm casually around your waist (she's not tall enough for your shoulders). "Welcome to hell, by the way. Civilian edition. I expect full obedience, hoobae."

You groan as you fall into step beside her. "I'm still older than you, y'know."

"I'm a sophomore and you're a freshman. In my books, that makes me the senior here," she shoots back, sticking her tongue out. "And you're gonna be lost for at least a week, so you'd better follow my lead."

Her relentless teasing comes pouring down, just like it did back in high school. It's like she was never gone, and for a second, it almost feels like time never moved at all since graduation.

You both fall into an easy rhythm, dodging slow-walking freshmen and the occasional overenthusiastic orientation group trying to start a cheer. Jiwoo gives half-hearted finger guns at some juniors who clearly recognise her, and you can already tell she's one of those campus names — not quite all-campus famous, but definitely not quite forgettable either.

"You nervous?" she asks after a beat.

You shrug. "Not really. Kind of surreal, though. Like I blinked and skipped a year of life."

"You did," she says. "You skipped the awkward hookups, all-nighters, bad haircuts, and falling asleep in lectures." She stops and ponders for a second, "Actually, in all honesty, you basically missed nothing."

"Except," you say, "you got to be my senior."

Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "And I've been waiting for this payback for a long time. Me, the junior, once bullied by you, now equipped with the same power."

"Bullied? I never bullied you."

"You always took the last banana milk at the convenience store and walked away without looking back."

"That's called being efficient."

"You're evil."

Before you can respond, Jiwoo's gaze catches someone near the auditorium doors.

"Oh! Yoon-Ah!"

You follow her gaze and see a girl leaning lightly against the wall next to the doors, scrolling through her phone. She looks up and waves back when Jiwoo calls, and your breath stutters for half a second.

She's beautiful. Ethereal, even, in the kind of quiet way that makes you stare without meaning to. Clean lines, soft features that remind you of a deer, and an air of calm that contrasts so sharply with the noise of the auditorium. Her eyes land on you with gentle curiosity, and suddenly, you're very aware of how wrinkled your shirt is.

"She's my roommate," Jiwoo says as the girl approaches. "Be nice or I'll tell her all your high school secrets."

You nod, straightening instinctively before frowning at her words. "I was always nice."

"Hi," the girl says with a smile that's both polite and a little amused. "I'm Sullyoon."

You nod again, maybe too quickly. "Hey. I'm—uh. Jiwoo's friend."

Jiwoo snorts. "He's fresh out of the army, awkward as hell, and apparently he forgot how to talk to pretty girls."

Sullyoon blinks, then covers her mouth as she chuckles — an angelical, infectious laugh where her shoulders shake at the same time, and it’s the kind of sound that makes you want to hear it again.

"Welcome to campus," she says. "Don't worry. We're not all freshmen."

"She's your sunbae now, too," Jiwoo says with a wide grin.

You sigh. "Great. Two of you."

Sullyoon glances at Jiwoo, amused. "He's fun."

"Oh," Jiwoo says, as her trademark mischievous grin spreads across her face. "You have no idea."

And just like that, you're being ushered to sit with them, Sullyoon sliding in beside you, Jiwoo plopping her bag down like it’s her house, and the emcee finally getting the mic to stop screeching.

Voices drone on in the background, but your attention has shifted. You're entranced by the presence of the girl sitting beside you; you'd only just met her, and yet it feels calm and grounding, like a quiet island amid the chaotic sea of orientation noise.

Jiwoo's still rattling off stories about campus life, but you catch Sullyoon's eyes flickering toward you now and then — curious, amused, maybe even a little intrigued.

After a while, Jiwoo nudges you both. "Lunch? My treat. By that I mean I'm starving and have zero self-control around campus food courts and I need my friends to accompany me so I'm bribing you with money."

You glance at Sullyoon, who shrugs with a smile. "I'm in. I need fuel to survive Jiwoo's terrible jokes."

You grin. “That makes two of us.”

Jiwoo gasps dramatically, as if she genuinely offended. "Terrible? I'll have you know people pay good money for this level of comedy."

"Who?" you deadpan.

"Me," she says proudly. "I pay myself in serotonin."

The three of you exit the auditorium, stepping into the bright afternoon sun. Jiwoo leads the way, weaving through clusters of freshmen. You walk beside Sullyoon, the noise fading a little as the two of you fall into an easy rhythm.

"So," she begins, glancing sideways at you, "freshman year, huh? Must be weird starting uni after the army."

You chuckle. "Weird is an understatement. It's like everyone else hit pause on life while I was stuck in fast-forward."

She nods. "I get that. I took a gap year before starting uni. Everyone felt so far ahead. That and, well… almost everyone in my cohort's a year younger, so I always feel slightly off-sync."

You laugh heartily, only the second one today, and the first not caused by Jiwoo. "Mine’s two years younger. So there’s that."

She smiles, eyes crinkling just a bit. "Guess you're not alone, then."

There's a pause, and for a moment, it feels like the world around you has dimmed to just the two of you.

Then Jiwoo's voice breaks in, loud and obnoxious as ever. "Welcome to my favourite bubble tea chain! I need a sip of this every day. Also, I’m really craving fried chicken right now."

You muse at Jiwoo's ability to spoil the moment, comparable to a human sledgehammer — but somehow, the warmth lingers, even after the spell is gone. You glance at Sullyoon next to you, her face equally as amused, and you can’t help but think that things can only go up from here.

The first few weeks feel like a breeze, even as the campus hums with the nervous energy of new beginnings and deadlines. Classes roll by in a whirlwind of lectures, discussions, and late-night readings, but somehow, the chaos feels less overwhelming with familiar presences next to you.

Late nights over at Jiwoo's and Sullyoon's dorm become the norm; more often than not, they end with bottles of soju scattered all over the floor, sometimes even shards of broken glass. With Jiwoo's lightweight nature, there are countless times you find yourself carrying her to bed while Sullyoon quietly cleans up the mess.

Sullyoon rarely joins in the drinking, with her being a lightweight herself, so most of the chaos is courtesy of you doing the heavy lifting.

"Thanks for cleaning up again," you say, slumping onto the couch and rubbing your temples. "I may have gone a little overboard with the drinking this time."

She glances over with a small smile, handing you a glass of water. "You say that every time. Maybe next time, try pacing yourself?"

You grin sheepishly. "Where’s the fun in that?"

Her eyes sparkle with amusement, and the easy silence between you feels warmer than the soju ever could. A warmth you feel unfamiliar with, as if she's unlocking some part of you you didn’t even know was sealed shut — something softer, quieter, untouched by the noise of routine and the years that blurred past you.

You steal a glance at her, watching as she methodically wipes the coffee table clean, hair falling slightly over her face. The lamp in the back illuminates her in a soft halo, highlighting and casting a golden hue across her cheekbones.

Her soft hair drops down in a way that brushes gently against her cheek, framing her features with an effortless elegance — the kind she never seems aware of. She tucks a strand behind her ear absentmindedly, focused on the task at hand, but your eyes linger a little longer than they should.

"You always take care of everything," you murmur.

She pauses, not looking up. "Someone has to. You and Jiwoo are hopeless."

You chuckle, leaning back. "I think I’m starting to depend on you too much."

This time, she looks at you. Not with a smirk or a tease, but something gentler, deeper. "Then I guess it’s a good thing I don't mind."

The silence returns, but something's changed. It feels different now. And you wonder if she feels it too.

Midterms roll around faster than expected as April arrives. The campus library becomes your second home. The hushed whispers and scratches people make on paper add to the ambience that helps you with your concentration on your project. A creative writing project, part of a minor you picked up more out of impulse than foresight.

But the further you go, the more you realise you needed it — the writing, the space to untangle your own thoughts, to turn emotions into something readable.

Yoon-Ah, as you've grown to call her, becomes a constant in your life. Late-night ramyeon cooking and spontaneous movie breaks between study sessions become routine. They're not planned, not discussed, just understood.

general seol: i’m hungry :( buldak or neoguri you: why even ask if you always just choose buldak general seol: you never know when I feel like having something more soupy you: and if on that same day, jiwoo miraculously stops cracking puns, then I’ll know for sure the world is ending general seol: whatever we’re rewatching zootopia this time, you don’t get to choose

It surprises you how easy it is — how seamless her presence fits into your days. There's a rhythm now, a shared playlist of habits and glances. She becomes visibly more comfortable, no longer bothered by unintentional touches and knees bumping on the couch during movie time, or shoulders touching on the way back to the dorm from grocery runs.

Late-night calls become more frequent, almost a necessity before ending the day, sometimes going way deep into the night. There are even a couple of times you fall asleep to each other's breathing and wake up the next day with your phone still warm in your hand.

You start to know more about each other, how she has two younger siblings, how she took Spanish classes in high school and travelled to Madrid during her gap year, and the small things, like how she only wore crop tops in her dorm, how she had a playful side to her usually prim and proper self.

And before you know it, she starts joining you during your library time.

"You always look like you’re about to monologue when you're stuck," she teases one afternoon. She's resting her head on the desk with her hair sprawled out across the wooden table, staring up at you as you focus on your typing.

"That's because I am," you reply, deadpan. "I'm a tortured artist, Yoon-Ah. Respect the process."

She snorts, tossing an eraser at you. "You’re just stalling."

But then she sits up, crosses her legs, and says, "Okay. Tell me what your character wants. Start there."

And just like that, without even realising it, she’s helping you write as well.

One weekend in late May, Jiwoo heads home for a family gathering, suitcase in hand, leaving the two of you alone in the dorm. It's raining, and you end up watching another movie together after a grocery run. Halfway through, you realise you've stopped paying attention.

Yoon-Ah is curled into the corner of the couch, blanket up to her chin, hair slightly damp from the walk back from the supermarket, clinging softly to the sides of her face. The faint scent of rain clings to her, mixed with that subtle floral aroma that’s become oddly comforting to you — like an anchor in the middle of the storm.

The dim light casts gentle shadows across her features, highlighting the delicate curve of her jaw and the smooth arch of her eyebrows. Her doe-like eyes, usually filled with mirth and amusement, are half-closed now, heavy with tiredness but still holding that quiet spark that always draws you in.

She yawns and turns to you, whispering something about the cinematography — but you don’t really catch it. You just nod.

Your shoulders are touching, and you hesitate to inch your hands closer to hers.

By the time the credits are about to roll, the blanket falls to the ground as she falls asleep.

You can't help but notice her midriff, exposed to the cold breeze of the AC. Toned and smooth, her fair skin taut over gentle curves. A faint line of delicate muscle traces down toward her waist, hinting at quiet strength beneath the softness.

Your eyes move up to her chest, rising up and down, her cleavage visible as her top was slightly pulled down lower than usual.

You swallow, your heart beating a little faster in the dim light. You look away out of restraint, afraid of what thoughts your brain might conjure up.

Just thinking about her in that way intoxicates you more than any other alcohol. 18 months in the military straight out of high school left you in solitary. Apart from a couple of casual hookups with Jiwoo on certain leave days, you were almost new to and deprived of sex.

And with the fast-paced routine of everyone in university life, it's hard to catch anyone's eye. That, and the fact that everyone in your cohort is 2 years younger, which, to you, is a no-go. You draw the line at 1.

Anyway, you spent all your free time with Jiwoo and Yoon-Ah, so it’s not like you're out there looking for someone. Besides, you had more important studies to focus on.

She suddenly mutters something in her sleep, probably just a sound caught between dreams. You pause, then gently pick the blanket up from the floor, draping it over her again. To keep her warm, yes, but that's not the only reason why — though that's what you try to tell yourself.

As you lean back and your eyes drift to the rain streaking across the windows, you're suddenly pulled back to a night about a month ago.

Jiwoo's birthday. It was right before midterms, a spur-of-the-moment party for her that had an underlying, "we're kinda only throwing this party to relax two days before exams" reason behind it, but Jiwoo didn't seem to mind.

It was originally supposed to be a quiet one, just the three of you, and it was meant to be a surprise, but with Jiwoo's quick wits and her sharp eyes, she pretty much caught on immediately.

Much to both your and Yoon-Ah's dismay, she ended up taking over the planning process and invited everyone she knew. The initially planned small celebration in the dorm (which you now considered to be your main place of stay; most nights you just crash on the couch) became a gigantic roof-top party, with only a handful of people you recognised that you could count on one hand.

Yoon-Ah seemed to be on the same boat as you, looking like a damsel in distress, particularly highlighted by her doe-like features.

"Jiwoo sure is famous on campus, huh." You walked over to her, offering her a drink you filled up from the dispenser with a party cup. Her fingers brushed against yours as she took it, soft and lingering, just a split second too long to be accidental.

She glanced up at you with that same faint smile she always wore when Jiwoo was being Jiwoo — fond, exasperated, and just a little bit tired. Her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, a quiet laugh slipping past her lips. "You're telling me. I thought we agreed on a quiet surprise, not a K-pop fan meet."

You chuckled, shifting your weight beside her against the railing. From here, you could see most of the rooftop crowd. Jiwoo was laughing with someone across the way, lights stringing overhead, music pulsing low and steady in the background.

But somehow, in that moment, the crowd blurred. Your awareness narrowed until it was just you and Yoon-Ah, side by side beneath the soft glow of the fairy lights. She smelled faintly of rose and something warmer, like vanilla, subtle and familiar — the kind of scent that clung to your hoodie after long nights together and lingered longer than you'd ever admit.

It took a couple more cups before you realised the drinks had alcohol in them, the clear indication being Yoon-Ah's flushed face and slurred words.

A clearer indication would be when she started to inch closer to you ever so slightly, before she fully leaned into your shoulder with a soft sigh, and you could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"You're warm," she mumbled, barely audible over the music, her fingers curling loosely around your wrist.

You laughed in response. Partly out of reflex, partly as a defence mechanism. You were entering uncharted physical touch territory, and your body didn't quite know what to do with itself. “You’re drunk.”

She blinked up at you, slow and lazy, her lashes heavy, lips parted in that loose, unguarded way intoxication sometimes brings. "Nooo, I’m — okay, maybe a little," she drawled, letting the words hang in the air like fog.

Then, without moving her head from your shoulder, she tilted it slightly toward you, her breath warm against your neck. "You’ve got that army energy, you know…"

You turned your head just enough to look at her. "What does that even mean?"

Her smile turned playful — slow, slightly crooked, like the alcohol had softened the lines of her usual expressions. "Like… you'd be really good at… building tents. Giving orders. Kinda in a hot way but... emotionally constipated."

You snorted. "Wow. Thanks?"

"I'm just saying," she murmured, almost sing-song now, like every word required a bit more effort than she meant it to. Her fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, moved slightly — a light, dragging touch that lingered too long to be accidental.

There was a pause. Not long enough to be awkward, but long enough for the air to shift. For her to lean in a little closer, enough for her voice to fall into a murmur only you could hear.

"I bet you lost your virginity before enlistment, huh."

Another thing you learned about her: with her inhibitions lowered from alcohol, she really had no filter with her boldness. It was like a complete 180 from her usual self.

You turned, startled, caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment. She was watching you through half-lidded eyes, a mischievous flicker in them despite her intoxicated haze.

"…Seriously?"

She gave a one-shouldered shrug, loose and unbothered. "So? Am I wrong?"

You thought for a bit, wondering whether you should answer her, before finally giving in, "You are, actually." You pondered on whether you should reveal the next part to her.

Yoon-Ah caught on to your hesitation immediately, her eyes narrowing — or at least trying to, given how slowly her facial muscles seemed to be cooperating. Her curiosity was piqued now, stirred awake by the alcohol and her usual inability to let things go once she caught a thread of intrigue.

"What aren't you saying?" she prodded, voice slurred but sharp enough to cut. "Come on. Spill."

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck. Then, with a resigned sigh, you caved.

"I hooked up with Jiwoo when I was on leave," you admitted, your voice low. "Just last year. She was… the first."

You braced yourself, unsure what reaction you were expecting — discomfort, judgment, maybe even jealousy — but definitely not what came next.

A soft giggle escaped her lips, quickly bubbling into a full-bodied laugh — loud and unrestrained, the loudest you had heard from her in the almost two months of knowing each other, her head tilting back as she clutched at her sides.

It was the most uninhibited sound you'd ever heard from her.

"That makes two of us then," she managed between breaths, then grinning at the look on your face.

You stared at her, blinking once. Then twice.

"…You’re kidding."

She wiped at the corner of her eye, still laughing a little as the remnants of amusement softened into something gentler, more reflective. "Nope."

You tried to wrap your head around it — not just the confession, but how casually she said it, like it wasn't a bombshell. Like she hadn't just completely rearranged your understanding of the two most constant people in your life.

You tilted your head. "When?"

She shrugged, leaning her weight back against the wall as her body swayed slightly, her arm brushing yours again — whether by accident or intention, you couldn't tell. "Sometime during freshman year. It was… kinda messy. But not dramatic. We were both drunk, bored, and frankly a little lonely." She paused, gaze drifting past your shoulder, out into the haze of rooftop lights. "She kissed me first, if you're wondering."

You weren't sure how to respond, as something shifted somewhere in your chest. You weren't sure whether it was feelings of relief or jealousy, or something in between. But instead of overthinking it, you just went with it.

"Makes sense," you said, lips quirking up. "She is a pretty good kisser. I’ll give her that."

She turned to look at you, blinking slowly — then burst into laughter again, though this time it was quieter, more breath than sound. Her hand found your arm, fingers curling loosely around your wrist as if to steady herself.

"You're the worst," she said, but there was no bite to it. Her thumb brushed against your skin, absentminded, like she didn’t even realise she was doing it. And you didn’t move away.

"I mean," she went on, head tilting slightly, her words still a little slurred but more deliberate now, "I always figured there was something between you two. The way you looked at her. The way she teased you." She squinted at you, expression amused. "But I don't swing that way, if you're wondering. It was just for fun." She looked at you, as if hoping for some sort of reaction.

You smirk, raising an eyebrow. "Just for fun, huh? You and Jiwoo have pretty interesting definitions of boredom, then."

She scoffs, nudging your arm with hers. "You're one to talk, Mr 'She was my first.' What, no heartfelt confessions? Candlelight?"

"Please, I don't see her that way, and we both know that. I just needed some stress relief from the army, and Jiwoo needed it too."

It was her turn to look at you with her eyebrow raised, so you indulged further.

"Plus, it was in her car. After bibimbap. Romantic as hell."

That earns another laugh — her hand flying to her mouth too late to stifle it. "God, that's awful."

"It was foggy," you say, mock solemn. "We couldn't see out of the windows, Titanic style."

"You did not just compare Jiwoo's Kia to the Titanic."

You shrug. "It makes sense. I was Jack, she was Rose. The dashboard was the iceberg, how it killed the sex."

She groans, collapsing sideways and almost falling over the railing. "You're the worst person I know." You couldn't help but grin.

For a moment, the two of you just sat there in that shared understanding, the hum of the city below, wrapping around the rooftop like a warm current. Then Yoon-Ah's fingers gave a slight squeeze around your wrist, grounding.

You turned to look at her. The rooftop light hit the edge of her cheekbone, casting soft shadows across her face. You suddenly became aware of how close she was — how her knees were angled just barely toward yours, how her lips were parted like she still had more to say but hadn’t quite figured out the words.

"…Are you drunk-drunk?" you asked, only half-joking.

She smiled — slow, sly, knowing. "Maybe."

Then, after a beat: "But not too drunk to know that I’m glad I stayed behind tonight."

Something in the way she said it made your pulse stutter.

You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol talking, or if it was just her being unfiltered, unafraid. But for the first time, you let yourself lean into it.

"Me too."

Suddenly, a flash of light interrupts your memory, then a low, rolling crack of thunder tears through the room.

You blink, disoriented for a moment, as the rooftop, the party, and the warmth of Yoon-Ah's laugh dissolve into the here and now.

The thunder jolts you back to the dorm couch. The screen is dark, the movie long finished. The rain has thickened into a steady downpour against the windows, and the occasional rumble of thunder rolls through the air like distant cannon fire.

Yoon-Ah stirs from beside you, her body tensing briefly before relaxing again, blinking up at the ceiling with bleary confusion.

"...What time is it?" she mumbles, voice raspy with sleep. Her hair is slightly messy now, sticking to her cheek, and the blanket you'd pulled over her is twisted around her legs. She shifts, then winces. "Ugh, my neck."

You glance at the clock on Jiwoo's desk. "Almost eleven."

She sits up slowly, groaning, rubbing her eyes. "I didn't mean to knock out. What even happened in the movie?"

You shrug. "No idea. I stopped watching after the opening credits."

She lets out a breathy laugh and turns to face you, knees drawn up to her chest under the blanket. "Nice. So neither of us knows how it ends."

"It's fine, it was probably a pretty shit movie anyway." You glance over at her, bundled up in the blanket and her posture curled into a ball on the couch, hair a mess, sleep still lingering in her eyes, giving off the vibe of a domestic girlfriend.

After a moment of comfortable silence, she suggests, "We should probably get back to work, shouldn't we? Don't you still have that one creative writing assignment?"

You groan at the reminder. It's the same one you'd been putting off for weeks, stuck at the same line, the same blank page that somehow felt more personal than it had any right to be. Your task required you to add a mature spin on your piece, and you were struggling with the details.

"I hate that you remember things like this," you mutter, dragging a hand down your face.

She grins, stretching her arms above her head before flopping back against the couch cushions. "Someone has to hold you accountable."

You sigh, already dragging your laptop over from the coffee table and flipping it open with all the enthusiasm of a funeral march. She does the same with her iPad, propping it up on her knees and opening her notes app.

For a while, the only sound you hear is the low hum of rain with the occasional thunder, and the soft tapping of keys and stylus against glass. It's oddly peaceful and domestic, in a way that makes your chest ache with something you don't want to name.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes pass. Then, out of nowhere:

"Hey."

You glance up. She isn't looking at you, still staring at her screen, light reflecting off the frame of her reading glasses, but there's a slight furrow in her brow now. Like she's hesitating.

"Just now, when I was sleeping, I dreamt of something."

Your interest is piqued as you shift closer to her every so slightly.

"That night on the rooftop," she says slowly, "Jiwoo's party... did I ever say anything weird to you?"

You freeze, fingers hovering over your keyboard, mid-sentence.

"...Define weird?"

She finally meets your eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I dunno. I just... I remember laughing a lot. You said something about Jiwoo being a good kisser, and I remember thinking, 'God, I should kiss him just to wipe that smug off his face.'"

You blink, startled, a flush crawling up your neck as you wonder if the alcohol from that day carried over in her system. "You—what?"

"I didn't, obviously." She's still smiling, but her voice has dipped lower, softer. "But I thought about it. That's what I remember."

You sit back slowly, marvelling at the coincidence that just about 20 minutes ago you were thinking about the exact same thing.

"Yeah," you murmur, just loud enough for her to hear. "I remember that too."

Another rumble of thunder rolls outside, low and distant this time.

The silence is different now; it's charged, like a pulled string waiting to snap. She doesn't look away, and neither do you.

Her hair's still tousled from sleep, a few strands falling into her eyes. Her cheeks are faintly flushed, maybe from the warmth of the blanket, maybe from something else. And the curve of her mouth is soft and uncertain, almost as if she's holding something back, like she's waiting for you to break first.

You take her in like you're seeing her for the first time — really seeing her. The delicate slope of her shoulders exposed from the crop top, her toned body that elicited such wild thoughts in your head, and the way she absently rubs a thumb against the blanket's edge.

Her bare legs are folded up beneath her, one foot peeking out from under the fabric, toes curling slightly against the cushion. There's something unguarded about her, her usual sharp wit and lazy confidence replaced with a quiet vulnerability.

She looks at you the way someone might study a half-finished painting, unsure if it's worth finishing, but unable to stop staring.

Your heart starts to beat louder than the rain as you swallow.

"Yoon-Ah..."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

She doesn't respond right away — just watches you, eyes searching yours. Then her gaze flicks down, just briefly, to your lips.

And that's all it takes.

You lean in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, but she doesn't. Her eyes flutter shut just before your lips meet, unsure at first, like she was still starting to test the reality of it. It's hesitant and exploratory, but because she was her, it felt more warm and real.

Her hand finds your sleeve, fingers lightly curling there, grounding herself. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss just slightly, careful, reverent, like either of you might vanish if you move too fast.

When she pulls back, it's only by an inch. Her breath is warm against your cheek, unsteady, and you can feel the flutter of her lashes as her eyes open.

And in the quiet, with only the rain bearing witness, she whispers, "Just so we're clear," her voice husky, "there's no alcohol talking this time.

You smile, heart still hammering. "Good. I was hoping you'd say that."

You lean back in for another kiss, a deeper one this time. She meets you halfway, more determined now.

Her hand rises to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone. And when your tongue brushes lightly against her bottom lip, asking permission more than anything else, she grants it, parting her lips just enough.

Just when you think you're in control, she overwhelms you. She pulls away from your lips as her hand moves down from your jaw to your chest, pushing you back so that your back is lying on the armrest.

She climbs onto you, straddling your lap as her arms wrap around your neck.

Then, the most unexpected thing comes from her. "You still need help with that assignment, don’t you?"

Not exactly a mood spoiler, but it definitely confused you. "What?"

She grins, tired droopy eyelids gone as her energy seems to have returned, that mischievous glint returning to her eyes. It’s the same one you’d seen so many times during her teasing sessions in the library while you were trying to concentrate. Except this time, she’s seated on your lap, your hands still on her waist and hers around your neck, her breath ghosting across your lips.

"You heard me. Didn’t you say you had trouble continuing that part?" She smirks, her voice back to that low and playful tone.

You'd told her about the requirements of your project, how you were supposed to write something with a heavier, mature tone, and how you were stuck at the steamy scene. "Right, but… why are you talking about it now?"

Her grin spreads wider than ever, her eyes sparkling with a mix of confidence and… seduction?

She leans in next to your ear, breath heavy, and drops an absolute bombshell on you. "Well, you write better when you improvise, don’t you? I can help with that."

You look back up at her, your eyes blown wide open.

Before you’re able to respond, she pulls you back in with her arms and kisses you again. This time, it’s bolder, hungrier, as if she found her confidence and was now projecting it onto you. You have no choice but to respond with equal passion, your tongues meeting in a slow, steady rhythm. Her hands travel all over your hair, pulling you in closer in bunches, making it hurt in a good way.

Your hands travel down from her waist, slipping below the waistband of her sweatpants. She doesn’t object, so you grab a handful of her ass and give it a light squeeze, eliciting a muffled moan, an exhale that just feels so damn good with her lips against yours.

It’s heated, it's passionate, and it’s going way too fast, probably a release of the months of tension since meeting each other.

Her hands leave the mess that your hair is, a mess that she created, and they move down and slip under your shirt. She starts caressing your abs, her touch sending jolts throughout your entire body that even the thunderstorm couldn’t bring out of you.

You decide to just slip out of your shirt completely, and Yoon-Ah follows suit, taking off her crop top, and her perky breasts drop with a bounce. They're small, but to you they're perfect. You take her left nipple into your mouth and she yelps in response, throwing her head back. It only fuels you more, her reaction. You slide her sweatpants off, leaving her clad in her panties.

Regretfully, your mouth leaves her breasts as you take her by the waist, carrying her off your lap, and you lay her down on the couch. You start worshipping every inch of her body, her toned yet soft midriff, her breathy moans and sighs growing in frequency as her body trembled beneath you at your every touch.

Seeing her in this state, your member hardens even further, as you now contemplate moving down further. You leave a trail of kisses down to the elastic waistband of her panties, before looking up at her, more for permission than anything.

"P-please… don’t stop.."

That’s all the confirmation you need. You slip her panties down, revealing her slick opening, wet from all the teasing.

"God, you’re dripping for me already." You slip a finger in her slick folds, more to tease than anything. She shudders, moans getting higher pitched. "Oh, fuck…"

You try putting another finger in, this time with greater difficulty. "Holy shit, how are you this tight?" You marvel at it as your fingers circle her clit with purpose.

"I—oh god—it’s my first time." She tries to bring her knees up, as if overwhelmed by the stimulation.

"I recall someone saying they 'had fun' with Jiwoo before," you say in a playful tone, before focusing on thrusting in and out of her warm folds as your fingers become coated with her juices.

"My first time with a guy, asshole… oh shit, don’t stop, please…" She grabs the cushion, tight, her eyes shut, focusing purely on the pleasure.

"I wasn't planning to," you smirk, fingers thrusting harder. She seems to enjoy the added intensity as she starts to grind her hips against your hand, trying to stimulate it further for her. She’s sweating somehow, even with the AC blasting cold air.

"Wait-please…I need… more," she begs, her hips moving harder. It's the ultimate ego boost for you as you take your fingers out.

She whimpers, actually whimpers, and moves her hands down to pleasure herself with the absence of yours. You move your lips to kiss the inside of her thighs, just beside her dripping opening, drawing a long, breathy moan from her.

You kiss the other side, before finally settling in on her pink folds, watching how her body is writhing with pleasure. Her hands rub harder, just above her clitoral hood, and you watch how her pussy glistens in the light of the dorm.

"Spread further for me, Yoon-Ah," you say as you move in closer to her core. She obeys with little hesitation, mind too preoccupied by the want — no, the need to feel good. Her legs part slowly, exposing even more of herself to you, and you nearly break right then and there.

You decide to reward her, pressing a soft kiss against her pussy, the musky, honey-like scent almost overrides your brain. She breathes heavily, tilting her head back further as she pulls her hand away. Your hand moves to grab the back of her thighs, allowing you to pull your tongue even deeper into her slit as you take a longer lick, tasting the sweetness directly from the source.

"Oh, fuck. Don't stop, please, don’t you ever stop," her voice shakes, trembling with pleasure.

Hearing her in this state only spurs you on even further. You focus on her clit as you mix kisses in with darts of your tongue, circling it with dedication.

You take in the whispers and moans, the ohmygods.They fuel your desire to continue, to make her feel even better, to make her come.

Your tongue flicks across her clit, and you involve your hand in, rubbing the nub just above where your tongue was working. It seems to work wonders as she starts gushing, her slick juices coating your mouth and chin.

"Don't stop, please, god… I’m so close…" she sighs, as if her brain had completely given up on trying to overcome the pleasure. Her body jerks every time your tongue tastes her clit, her body quivers with every rub of your fingers.

"That's it, Yoon-Ah. Just come for me," you murmur against her pussy. She tries to use her hands to bring herself closer to orgasm, the left one pulling you in closer by your hair, the right one rubbing her nipples, stimulating herself further.

With every lick across her folds, she grabs your hair tighter, pulling your head even closer. Her breathlessness and occasional low groan only make your cock throb in pain against your boxers even more.

"Wait… please, I'm almost there, fuck," she bites her lips, hard enough to draw blood, hands travelling all over your hair. You start rubbing the area just above her pussy harder, tasting her folds with renewed vigour, set on making her come.

"Oh, that’s it — oh fuck!" Her legs wrap around you, her thighs clamping around your head as she comes undone. She comes gushing like a waterfall as she tugs on your hair even harder, almost hard enough to pluck it out.

You taste her slick goodness, a mixture of sweet honey and tanginess. "Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to pull that hard," she says in between gasps, body still shuddering. "God, that was… Jiwoo definitely didn't make me cum like that."

You chuckle, "I'm not that experienced either, but I'm glad to be of service."

She lets out an airy laugh, still trying to catch her breath. "It's my turn now, right?"

You glance at her in careful anticipation, "You don't have to if you don’t feel like it."

She shakes her head with a grin on her face, "How could I not after you made me cum like that? We're not done with our improvisation yet, anyway."

You exhale audibly, your cock growing harder against the waistband of your boxers in excitement.

She notices the growing bulge in your pants before palming your member, her soft touch eliciting a low groan from you as your body shudders.

She pushes you back lightly, allowing you to rest your head on the couch, before pulling your shorts down and taking your cock out.

It throbs in reaction to hitting the cold air, before her warm, dainty fingers wrap around it. It jerks involuntarily against her hands, and she giggles.

"He's excited, isn’t he?" She teasingly rubs the tip, her fingers stroking the cock head, before pressing a kiss on it.

The irony of the complete 180 from before, when she was surrendered to your touch, isn't lost on you as she now completely took control over your pleasure.

You let out a low growl, "You fucking tease."

She smiles up at you, a sly look etched on her face, highlighted by the rectangular frames of her glasses. "Consider it payback for that Jiwoo comment just now."

Then, she takes you in her mouth, and it’s just pure heaven.

For someone's first time giving a blowjob, she almost seemed like an expert. Her cheeks hollow as she takes you deeper, almost reaching the base of your cock, occasionally taking you out of her mouth and pressing wet, sloppy kisses along the slide of your shaft.

It's too overwhelming, seeing her head bob up and down, working on your cock. You lie on the couch with one hand resting beneath your head, the other pushing her head further down your shaft.

"Fuck, you’re sure this is your first time?" Your voice drops low, almost like a growl, as you take in all the pleasure. She doesn’t respond; instead, she focuses solely on sucking your cock.

And whenever she pulls back up for air, a trail of spit follows her mouth. Then she licks your tip, tasting it like a lollipop, and when her eyes make contact with yours, that innocent, pouty look etched across her face, you almost come right there and then.

"Fuck, I’m so close, Yoon-Ah. Don’t stop, keep going for me, baby. You’re sucking my cock so good."

She seems to relish your praise as she starts to work the underside of your shaft with her tongue, whilst throating almost your entire length at the same time.

It doesn't take long before you feel like you’re about to burst, and you signal to Yoon-Ah, "Fucking hell, I’m gonna come..."

At that, she gets down from the couch, takes you out of her mouth and strokes you while on her knees. She slightly (adorably) tries to push up he breasts with her other arm.

It’s a sight to behold.

"Come all over me, I want it everywhere," she sticks her tongue out, eyes fluttering in anticipation.

Your cock twitches and jerks with her strokes, and that's when you know you’re about to burst.

"Ohh, fuck…"

Thick, heavy spurts shoot out from your cock, painting the frame of her glasses and her cheeks in white.

The next few spurts land on her breasts, coating her chest in thick globs. She spreads it all the way up to her collarbone and down to her stomach, her whole upper body now glistening in your sticky release, a sight that makes your cock twitch in her hands as she's still jerking you off.

The last few weak dribbles make their way down to her exposed mouth, and she tastes you with a few smacks of her lips.

You're left speechless at the sight of her, and she has the audacity to smile sheepishly back at you.

"Holy shit, that was —,"

The lock clicks.

You both freeze, unable to register what was going on. It’s not the soft kind of hesitation. It’s that primal, heart-stopping, full-body paralysis — the kind where your blood goes cold before your brain catches up.

Yoon-Ah comes to her senses first. "Fuck, is Jiwoo back early?"

You turn to look at her, genuinely horrified.

The door creaks open. A suitcase wheels across the threshold.

"...I'm back early!" Jiwoo calls cheerfully. "You guys will not believe what happened in Jeju—"

Her suitcase falls to the ground with a plop.

“Oh my god. Are you two—?”

END

Apologies, I meant to release this 3 days ago but it took a little longer than expected. The first few thousand words had already been written long ago; the smut was what I struggled with. The small details, as well, like figuring out the Korean university system, or how their national service worked. (I researched, and apparently it's the norm to enrol in university first before enlisting, and they don't even get to book out during NS. Weird huh, @sinswithpleasure @co-reborn).

I was also torn between making this a full-fledged fluff fic or smut fic, but in the end I decided to go for a build-up to light smut. It's not your typical "one-theme" one-shot, but there'll be more of those in future. This is just a fic that I really wanted to try writing and publishing.

I know there's an unsatisfying ending, but if you want a part 2 with Jiwoo, please vote above. Also, my smut writing needs work, that much I know. Hopefully, with my future stories exploring more themes and kinks, I'll be able to flesh it out more.

Anyways, feel free to leave a comment and ask about anything, that'd be greatly appreciated :)

Planted and spread by Moss 🌱

[yuyuyukiii]

Two Charms, One Promise ⛐

Summary: Long before the podiums, the titles, and the fame, he was just a boy in a treehouse. She was the girl who promised to stay. She didn’t break that promise. Someone else did it for her.

Content: Childhood heartbreak, missing letters, mistaken goodbyes, unresolved feelings, and one very symbolic bracelet.

Author’s Note 🏎️:

This story is purely fictional and not based on real events. Some timelines, career paths, and personal details have been adjusted or reimagined to fit the narrative. It’s all for the sake of the story, so please don’t take anything here as factual. Just vibes, emotions, and a lot of imagination. Thank you for reading. I hope it makes you feel something 🫶🏻

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

The day Y/N moved in, Max Verstappen was already sitting in the treehouse, legs dangling off the edge, half-listening to the wind and trying to ignore the distant sound of car doors slamming. It was unusually noisy for their sleepy neighborhood, which usually had more dogs than people outside at any given hour.

He was up there because Jos had yelled again that morning, something about focus, about wasting time. So Max went where he always went when things got too loud, up in the treehouse, tucked between thick branches and scratched wood that smelled like old pine and dried glue.

Down below, a moving truck pulled up, rattling and coughing, followed by a car that barely rolled to a stop before someone burst out of the backseat. A girl.

She was dragging a suitcase with one hand and waving frantically at someone inside the house with the other. Max was just about to look away when she turned suddenly and looked straight up. Straight at him.

Then she pointed.

A few minutes later, she was standing at the base of the treehouse ladder, squinting up at him through the leaves.

“Hi!” she called, like they’d met before.

Max didn’t answer right away. He didn’t know her. He didn’t talk to new people if he could help it.

“You live here, right?” she asked again.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Y/N,” she said. “We just moved in.”

He just stared.

“Can I come up?”

That caught him off guard. No one ever asked to come up. Not even the neighbor kids who sometimes wandered too close.

He shrugged. “If you want.”

And that was how it started.

She climbed up with the confidence of someone who had never fallen out of a tree in her life, then plopped down next to him and looked around like she belonged there. Like it was already hers too.

They played cards using a half-broken deck he kept in a tin box. She asked him questions, what grade he was in, how fast his kart was, what he wanted to be when he grew up. She answered all of her own questions without waiting for him to respond.

When she finally left, she said, “I’ll come back tomorrow. You better not lose.”

He didn’t say anything, but when she was gone, he smiled to himself.

And she did come back. Every day after that.

The treehouse became theirs. It wasn’t official, but it didn’t need to be. They carved their initials into the floorboard. They stored candy in a metal lunchbox. They taped leaves and wrappers and even a movie ticket stub to the wall. They shared stories. Secrets. Fears.

Sometimes Max would sit in silence and she would do all the talking, but somehow, she always knew when to stop and just let him exist beside her.

He liked that.

One rainy afternoon, sprawled out on their backs staring at the wooden ceiling, she turned to him and said, “I’m going to be your engineer one day.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your engineer. I’ll be the one building your car. Telling you what to fix. Then we’ll win everything. You and me.”

Max laughed. Not because it was silly, but because it made something flutter in his chest. “You’re serious?”

“Obviously.”

“What if you work for someone else?”

“No way. I’m loyal,” she said, proudly. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Promise?”

She held up her pinky. “Promise.”

He curled his pinky around hers. It felt important, like something more than just a joke. Something real.

That night, she gave him a bracelet. It had a single charm on it, her initial. He wore it every day after that. The next day, he added one for himself too.

He didn’t have a name for how he felt about her. He just knew he always wanted to see her first after a win. He wanted her to see how fast he was. He wanted her to stay.

He didn’t know that wanting someone to stay didn’t mean they would.

A few years later, everything fell apart.

Y/N’s parents told her the news over dinner. Her dad was calm, practical. Her mom looked sorry before the words even left her mouth.

“We’re moving to Japan.”

Y/N stared at her plate. “What?”

Her dad sighed. “They need me there. The company’s expanding. It’s a big opportunity.”

Her mom tried to soften the blow. “We leave this weekend. It’s fast, I know, but we didn’t want to worry you unless it was certain.”

Y/N didn’t cry. She just asked, “Can I say goodbye to Max?”

Her parents exchanged a look, then nodded.

They gave her a small box the next morning.

It was a phone.

“So you two can keep in touch,” her mom said gently. “You’ve been friends a long time.”

Y/N packed a smaller box later that night. It had a new charm for Max’s bracelet, a tiny silver steering wheel, and a long letter. She told him everything. She told him she was sorry. She wrote her number, her new address, everything. She told him she’d be back one day, and that he better not forget her.

The morning of their flight, she begged her dad to stop at Max’s house. She was bouncing on her toes, hands fidgeting and heart pounding, as she approached the door. The house looked the same as always, warm and familiar in the sun, but something about it felt heavier today. Her footsteps slowed. After a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open, not to reveal Max, but his father.

Jos Verstappen’s expression immediately soured.

“You again?” he said flatly. “You’re always looking for Max. No wonder he’s been distracted in his races.”

Y/N lowered her head, gripping the small wrapped box tighter. Her voice came out small, but steady.

“I’m sorry. I just really need to talk to Max… just for a while…” Her voice trailed off, then she mumbled under her breath, “For the last time.”

Jos squinted. “What did you say?”

She looked up at him, eyes earnest. “We’re moving. Today, actually. I just wanted to say goodbye, give him this, and… I left my contact info inside, so we can still keep in touch.”

Jos paused. For a brief second, his eyes lit up, but he quickly masked it with a sigh and a feigned frown.

“I’m sorry for being harsh on your friendship, kid,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I only ever wanted the best for Max.”

Y/N nodded, hesitating. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

“He’s out,” Jos said quickly. “Training.”

Her face fell.

“But maybe I can give it to him for you?” he added, extending his hand with a soft smile.

Y/N stared at him, uncertain. “You’d really do that for me?”

“Of course, kid.”

Something about it felt off, but she pushed it down. With a quiet “thank you,” she hugged him gently, placing the gift in his hand.

“Please make sure he gets it. It’s really important.”

Jos nodded. “Safe travels, Y/N. I’ll give it to him right away.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Verstappen.”

She turned and walked away, holding in tears the entire time. Jos watched her until she turned the corner, then let out a quiet chuckle.

“Finally. No more distractions,” he muttered, stepping back inside. He headed straight to his office, opened a drawer, and carelessly tossed in the gift and envelope, unopened, unread. The letter inside, carefully written, held her contact information, a hand-drawn sketch of their favorite memory, and a heartfelt message she stayed up all night to finish. All of it, hidden.

—

Meanwhile, Y/N returned to the car, where her parents were already waiting inside. Her mother glanced up as she approached.

“Did you get to say goodbye to Max, dear?”

She looked down and shook her head. “No. He wasn’t around. But I gave Mr. Verstappen my gift and letter that had everything inside.”

Her parents exchanged a look.

“You’re sure, honey?” her father asked gently. “Why not give it to someone else? Maybe his mom, or a neighbor?”

“It’s okay, Mommy. I had a backup plan.” Y/N smiled proudly. “I left the same letter and gift in our treehouse. Max always goes there after naps.”

Her father gave a relieved laugh and ruffled her hair. “That’s our girl. Smart as ever.”

She beamed.

None of them knew that as soon as Y/N left, Jos made his way to the treehouse. Right after hiding the box she had asked him to give Max, he took everything else, every drawing, every note, every small thing that might remind Max of her, and hid alongside the box.

—

Max stirred awake after his nap, blinking at the time. The sun was already dipping lower in the sky. He sat up, stretching, then smiled. It was that time again. Y/N always came over after lunch, and they’d spend the afternoon at their treehouse, playing games, eating ice cream, making plans that reached far into the future.

He jumped out of bed, got dressed, and rushed over to the L/N residence. But as soon as he arrived, something felt… wrong.

There were no cars in the driveway.

No sound from inside.

No curtains drawn.

He knocked once. Then twice. He called out.

“Y/N?”

Nothing.

His knocking turned louder. “Mrs. L/N? Mr. L/N? Hello?”

Still nothing.

A tightness started forming in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. Maybe something happened. Maybe they were just asleep. He began pounding on the door now, calling out Y/N’s name over and over.

Then a voice cut through the silence.

“Hey, kid. Could you calm down a bit?”

Max turned. A neighbor stood on the other side of the fence, frowning.

“Sorry, sir,” Max said quickly. “Do you know where the L/N family is? Are they at the mall or something?”

The man blinked. “The L/Ns? Oh… they left.”

Max’s stomach dropped. “Left?”

“Yeah. Left the country, I heard. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Max stared at him, stunned. “No… no. That’s not possible.”

“Pretty sure they don’t plan on coming back,” the man added casually before going back inside.

Max stood frozen. For several seconds, everything around him went quiet. Then he took off running.

“No, no, no,” he whispered between breaths, feet pounding against the pavement. “This isn’t real, this isn’t happening.”

He didn’t even notice the tears until he reached the treehouse. He climbed up, desperate. His hands shook as he pulled open the wooden hatch.

Erased. Everything about her had been erased.

The drawings they made together. The little gifts. Their shared journals. Even the photo they kept of the day they built the treehouse, all gone. It looked just like it did before she came into his life, like how it was when Max was the only one using it.

Like she had never been there at all.

Like she wanted him to forget her.

His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the floor, tears pouring freely now. His heart felt like it was splitting open. He curled up and sobbed, flashes of memory overwhelming him.

The first time they met in this treehouse.

How she always stood between him and a group of bullies, tiny but fierce, shouting that they were cowards for picking on someone just because he didn’t have a “nice dad.”

The way she cheered for him after every race, even the bad ones.

The way she always knew what to say to make things better.

The time he was sick and afraid to sleep, scared he would wake up and she’d be gone. She stayed beside him all night, pinky-promising she would never leave him.

“Forever,” she had said.

He pulled his bracelet from his pocket. It was silver and a little scratched, with only two charms so far, one with her initials, and one with his.

They were supposed to fill it together.

Max stared at it, eyes red and swollen. He clenched it tightly in his fist and whispered into the empty air.

“She lied to me.”

Then louder.

“You lied to me.”

His voice cracked.

What he didn’t know was that Jos had lied. Didn’t know the letters existed. Didn’t know Y/N had tried.

All he knew was the pain.

And all he had left was the bracelet.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Y/N sat by the window, fiddling with the little charm on her bracelet. Her fingers kept tracing the edge of the tiny silver star until her mom gently nudged her arm.

“Are you nervous?” her mother asked.

Y/N glanced outside, where clouds floated past the plane wing. “Yeah. I didn’t grow up in Japan. I don’t really know anyone.”

Her mom gave her a soft smile. “Honey, even if you didn’t grow up there, you were born there. And besides,” she added, brushing a strand of hair behind Y/N’s ear, “Yuki will be there.”

Y/N turned her head. “Yuki?”

“Yes. He was your playmate until you two were around five. I was told he’s very excited to see you again.”

Y/N blinked. Her mind scrambled to find a face to match the name. She couldn’t remember much. Just blurry memories of swings, warm afternoons, and someone always running ahead of her.

The thought settled her a little. Not completely, but enough.

Maybe she was nervous because of Max.

What if he was mad at her?

But then again, even if he was, it probably wouldn’t last long. They had phones now. They could talk.

Things would be okay. They had to be.

—

By the time they landed and arrived at their new home in Japan, it was already late afternoon. The street was lined with people, neighbors, family friends, and curious kids with wide eyes. Everyone seemed excited. The warmth in their greetings made Y/N pause. It felt different here. In Belgium, people kept to themselves. Here, it was like the whole street had come to welcome her home.

She stepped out of the car just as someone threw their arms around her.

“Yatta! Omae ga modotte kita! Ore no saisho no tomodachi da!!” (Yay! You're back! My first friend!) the voice shouted with joy.

Y/N blinked in surprise, momentarily frozen. Then she gently returned the hug and pulled back with a polite but confused smile.

“Konnichiwa… tomodachi yo.?” she said cautiously. “Gomen ne, chotto oboete nai no…” (Hello… friend? Sorry, I’m having a hard time remembering…)

The boy laughed, clearly not offended at all. “Is me, Yuki! You… you no remember? We race shopping cart! Down driveway! You crash into mailbox. I laugh so hard, my mama scold me.”

Her eyes widened. “No way. That was you? Oh my god, I thought you were just a dream!”

He nodded eagerly. “Yes yes! You cry, but only little. Then we eat snack. You bring chocolate.”

She covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Oh my god. I thought I dreamed that.”

Yuki pointed at himself proudly. “Not dream. Real! I real! You come back. We bestest friend again, okay?”

They laughed, slipping into conversation like no time had passed. When Yuki stumbled over his next sentence, Y/N gently switched to Japanese. She didn’t want him to struggle. His eyes lit up with relief, and from then on, they spoke easily in their shared language.

“I have a feeling we’re going to be the beeeestest of friends,” he said confidently, bumping her shoulder.

Y/N laughed. “We already are.”

That day, one friendship was rekindled.

And somewhere else, without her even knowing, another was quietly breaking.

—

Time passed quickly after Y/N moved back to Japan.

She and Yuki became inseparable, just like when they were little. Every morning, he would wait outside her house with two juice boxes and a huge smile, waving at her like it had been years since they last saw each other. They did everything together. They walked to school, snuck snacks into class, and raced paper boats in the gutters after a storm. If there was a school activity, a family trip, or even just a lazy afternoon, you could count on them being side by side.

It was like they grew up as twins, bonded not by blood but by something even stronger: timing, trust, and the track. They both loved racing. Yuki would talk endlessly about engines and tires, while Y/N would try to predict strategies like a seasoned engineer. Eventually, she stopped just listening and started helping. They made a perfect team. If Yuki had a karting competition, Y/N would be there by the side, clipboard in hand, shouting feedback louder than anyone else. And if Y/N had something on her mind, Yuki would sense it before she even said a word.

Just like during that first week Y/N was back in Japan, before everything had settled, she couldn’t help but feel like something was off.

(Flashback)

She sat on her bed, bracelet clutched tightly in her palm. It had been days, but her phone stayed silent. Max hadn’t contacted her. Not even once.

Yuki noticed her quiet mood during lunch one afternoon and nudged her with a cookie.

“You look sad. Is school too hard?” he asked, mouth full.

Y/N shook her head.

“Then what?” he pressed. “Tell me. I fix it.”

She looked down at her tray. “I just thought someone would’ve messaged me by now.”

“Who?”

“…My best friend. From Belgium. Max.”

Yuki frowned. “No message? Why not?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“A bad friend,” Yuki declared with a pout. “Very bad. He made you cry. You forget him. I be your best friend now. Bestest in the whole wide world.”

Y/N smiled a little at that, leaning her shoulder on his. “Okay. But just so you know… Max is really important to me.”

“I am important now,” Yuki said with a proud nod.

(End)

And he really did try. Over time, Y/N stopped checking her phone so much. She still thought of Max often, especially during races or when the wind reminded her of Belgium, but she let herself grow close to Yuki without guilt. Together, they grew up cheering each other on, yelling advice across karting tracks and making silly bets with ice cream as the prize.

But in Belgium, Max Verstappen’s world had become silent again.

Without Y/N, everything felt dull. He’d always known the sport was hard, but now it felt cold. No one was there to throw their arms around him after a bad race. No one sat next to him on the swing set when the other kids said he was weird. No one brought him mango juice or cheered even when he came in last. He stopped hearing kind words altogether.

Even the treehouse had changed.

The place that once held laughter and secrets now sat in silence. The candy wrappers were gone. The tin lunchbox was empty. The walls, once decorated with stickers and scribbled messages, had faded in the sun. The tree itself started to look different. The leaves grew thinner. The branches drooped. It hadn’t been watered or cared for in years, and it showed. What was once their shared paradise had become Max’s hiding spot when Jos was mad again. It didn’t comfort him the way it used to.

Years passed.

Max’s career began to take off. He was preparing to leave Belgium to chase the big leagues. Teams. Tracks. Pressure. Fame. It was everything he had worked for, but something about it didn’t feel right.

He loaded the last box into the back of the car. Jos slammed the trunk and said, “Ready?”

Max paused. “Wait. I forgot something.”

He jogged back through the overgrown yard and climbed up the creaky steps of the treehouse one last time. Dust danced in the light. The wood groaned under his weight.

He sat down in the same corner he used to sit in as a kid and looked around. His eyes landed on one of the old drawings he had carved into the wall with a pocket knife.

A stickman version of himself stood on a podium, arms raised. Above it, the word champion was scrawled in crooked letters.

Right below it was another tiny stick figure. This one had long hair and was clapping with little stars around her head.

Max reached out and traced the line he had written beneath it.

Max wins the world championship. Y/N is his engineer.

He closed his eyes.

“I really thought we’d do this together,” he whispered.

Then he climbed back down the ladder, looked up at the treehouse, and said softly, “This is it.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Yuki was the first to leave.

It felt strange, the morning he rolled his suitcase to the airport check-in. His usual loud energy was quieter, replaced by a shaky smile and nervous fingers tapping against his hoodie sleeve. Y/N stood beside him, blinking away the weight pressing behind her eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he said quickly, voice cracking despite the smile. “You cry, I cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she sniffed, poking his arm. “It’s just the weather.”

“Inside the airport?” he teased.

They stood in silence for a second longer before she hugged him tightly. Neither wanted to let go.

“When we see each other again,” Yuki said, stepping back, “we’ll be big names. You, engineer girl genius. Me, fastest driver.”

She grinned. “Deal.”

“But no goodbye,” he added, wagging a finger. “Only see you soon.”

“See you soon, Yuki.”

With one last wave, he disappeared through the crowd.

—

And then… life moved forward.

Y/N buried herself in her studies. She got into one of the best engineering universities in Tokyo. Her days blurred together: late-night lectures, stacks of notes, greasy cafeteria food, and way too much caffeine. There were moments when it felt like too much, but every time she looked at her worn-out bracelet or passed a go-kart track, she remembered why she started.

She graduated near the top of her class, surrounded by cheering classmates and flashing cameras. Not long after, she aced the licensing exams, officially earning the title she had worked so hard for.

Dream one: complete.

She’s finally an engineer. It still feels a little unreal, but it’s hers.

—

Yuki’s first year abroad wasn’t as easy.

At first, he struggled. English was hard, the food was weird, and no one seemed to get his jokes. He missed Japan. Missed the rhythm of his life back home. Missed Y/N’s easy laughter during long karting weekends.

But he worked. Hard.

Every bad qualifying session, every miscommunication with his team, every lonely hotel night, he turned it into fuel. Slowly, the results came. So did the friends. He learned how to express himself even when the words weren’t perfect. He smiled more. Fought harder.

Years later, sitting on a balcony with his helmet on the table beside him, Yuki stared at the headline on his phone:

Tsunoda Confirmed as F1’s Newest Driver.

His hands trembled. He laughed. Then he called Y/N and shouted, “WE DID IT!”

Dream two: complete.

He was in Formula 1.

—

Max, meanwhile, was clawing his way up on his own.

His F3 days were brutal. He was fast, but raw. Emotional. Other drivers whispered. Some avoided him altogether. He was “the kid with too much fire and no brakes.”

But Max didn’t care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t.

He carried the weight of everything: the expectations, the lonely nights, the dream that once belonged to two people. There were nights when he’d sit by himself after races, staring at the sky, wondering if she’d be proud. Wondering if she remembered.

Eventually, his talent was undeniable.

F1 came calling.

And even then, it wasn’t easy. He was young. Aggressive. Often misunderstood. The media called him reckless. Teammates didn’t always trust him. Older drivers were cold. But Max kept showing up. Kept proving them wrong. Over time, respect followed.

Now, as he stood on the podium once again, the anthem playing, a crowd roaring below, Max looked down at the bracelet tucked beneath his suit cuff.

two charms still dangled from it.

Dream three: ongoing.

He had made it.

But a piece of him still felt unfinished.

Because the one person who promised to be by his side wasn’t there.

Not yet.

—

Y/N couldn’t figure out why she felt so nervous.

She’d been to races before. But this one felt… heavier.

Yuki had pleaded with her to be there for his debut. “Just this once,” he had said. “It would mean everything.” And of course, she said yes. She always did, especially when it came to him.

But the weight in her chest didn’t feel like nerves for Yuki. Not really. It felt like something else. Like someone else. Someone from back then.

Yuki never asked who Max really was. And she never offered more than a first name.

So naturally, he never really talked about Max in F1 either, because in his mind, Max was just someone from her childhood. A classmate. A neighbor. A boy from another lifetime. It never even crossed his mind that they could be the same person.

He never made the connection.

The moment they landed, Yuki was waiting at the gate, practically bouncing in place. He held a piece of paper that said “FOR MY FAVORITE ENGINEER” in giant block letters, with two messy hearts in the corners.

Y/N laughed and ran into him, nearly knocking the sign out of his hands.

“You’re actually here,” he said, hugging her like he hadn’t seen her in years.

“I told you I would be.”

He toured her around the hotel, pointing out which floors the team was on, where she could sneak snacks, and who to avoid. Then he dropped the bomb.

“I applied for you,” he said. “To F1’s development program. You got in.”

She blinked. “You did what?”

“You’re gonna be trained and mentored by real engineers, and then you can apply to any team you want. This is the start.”

“Yuki—”

“We promised, remember? I’m racing, and you’re beside me. Always.”

The next day was chaos.

It was race day.

Fans screamed from the grandstands. Teams rushed through the paddock like bees in a hive. Yuki looked impossibly small in his suit, helmet under one arm, but his grin stretched ear to ear.

Y/N stayed just outside the restricted zone, watching him get into the car. He pointed at her once before the lights changed, and then he was off.

She barely noticed the rest.

Until something, someone, brushed past her.

A driver, walking quickly. Suit zipped, helmet gripped tight. She only saw him from behind, the dark racing colors streaked with sponsor patches. She didn’t know why, but her chest suddenly felt tight. Like she should have known him. Like there was something right on the edge of her memory.

But she didn’t see his face.

She didn’t stop him.

He disappeared into the pit lane crowd, swallowed up by noise and motion.

—

Max had already finished the final checks. Helmet under his arm, mind focused, jaw clenched.

But as he made his way through the paddock, something pulled at him. He turned his head slightly, just for a second, eyes scanning the crowd beyond the barricade.

There, a girl.

He couldn’t see her face, only the back of her head, the way her hair caught in the breeze, the way she stood like she belonged but didn’t want to be seen. Her posture. Her stillness.

It wasn’t unusual.

And yet.

Something inside him paused. A flicker of memory he couldn’t name. A dream from long ago.

He stared just long enough for his engineer to call his name again. He blinked it away, shook his head, and kept walking.

Whoever she was, it didn’t matter.

Not today.

END (C.1)

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[darkbluekies]

One by one

Yandere!mafia oc x reader

Summary: it was too easy to run away ... maybe because Silas has a plan to get you to come back by yourself ....

Warnings: yandere, feelings of isolation, mention of murder, anesthesia, everything in the oneshot is a bit more on the darker side, so prepare for that

Word count: 4.3k

It had been too easy, you realise in retrospect. It had been harder before. If none of Silas’s men or security alarm had caught you, Otto would have—the 90 pound male Doberman—but this time, you almost walked out the front door with ease.

You lean your chin in your hand. Something's wrong. Terribly wrong.

You glance down at your hands, trembling as you remove the wedding ring from your finger and putting it in your pocket. The moon above you seems to stare right at you. The playground is empty, which probably is for the best. You haven't been able to breathe inside, but going outside is dangerous.

“Here, I got you a soda”, your friend says as she returns from the corner shop.

You take it in your hands, mumbling a “thank you”. Your friend sits down beside you on the bench, glancing at you from time to time.

“Are you thinking about him?” 

You nod.

“It'll be okay”, your friend says. “Somehow.”

“He'll be furious”, you mumble. “He always gets mad. But … something is different. I shouldn't have been able to leave that easy.”

“Don't think too much about it. It'll only make things worse.”

You've been home for a few days and with every day that passes, you're scared it'll be your last with your family. It always feels like someone's watching … because there is.

“Boss”, SIC says into his phone. “They removed their wedding ring.”

He's hidden by shadows, standing too far away for you to see. But he sees. Oh, how he sees you.

“What?” Silas asks, anger growing in his throat. 

“Should I go over there?” SIC asks.

“No. Don't. Come back.”

 “Uh, are you sure? They might not be here long.”

“Then hurry. I have another idea.”

SIC gives you one last glance before stepping onto his motorcycle. Silas waits for him outside his house, Otto by his side.

“Shouldn't someone watch them?” SIC asks. 

“I’m going to send them a message”, Silas says.

“A message? Won't that hurt them?”

Silas rolls his eyes and holds up a note. “Not one of the messages. I'll put this in Otto's collar and you'll take him with you and go back. Send Otto forward, stay hidden. Y/N will recognise him and then understand that I am watching. If they follow what's on the note, go get them. If they decide not to, simply walk over and get Otto, but don’t say a word to them.”

“What? Why?”

“I'm not going to chase them this time. I'm going to bring them to me by removing what they left me for … and I'll start with that friend of theirs sitting beside them. One by one, until Y/N comes crawling begging for forgiveness.”

SIC smirks. “Gotcha.”

You’ve barely touched your soda when you hear the sound of panting. 

“Oh, where did that come from?” your friend asks. 

You turn your eyes up and feel how every nerve in your body snaps, like cords being cut. You could recognise that dog among hundreds. 

“What the fuck”, you breathe out and on instinct crawl higher on the bench. “No, no, no no—”

“What is it?” your friend asks. 

Otto wags his tail, more than happy to see you after a few days of being apart. He barks happily. Your eyes scan the horizon with blurry vision, panicky searching for him. He has found you. He’s here to take you back. 

“You know this dog?” your friend asks with furrowed brows. “He seems to know you…”

“It’s … uh, it’s his dog.” 

Your voice trembles more than it should. Your breath hitches as you sit down normally again, hands shakingly reaching out to pet Otto. He’s ecstatic, licking your hands and barking as if you’ve been apart for months. You can’t see Silas anywhere and decide to turn your eyes onto Otto. 

“If you’re here … someone else is too”, you whisper shakingly. 

“Should we leave?” your friend asks. 

“No use … Otto runs faster than we do.”

“Does he bite?”

“If he’s instructed to.”

You notice a paper locked onto his collar and pull it out, almost drop it when you try to open it. The handwriting is intensely familiar. To your surprise, there’s only one sentence.

“Put your wedding ring back on your finger.”

You hesitate. That son of a bitch. He basically releases you, psyches you for days ,making you absolutely paranoid, and then sends forward the only thing in that damn household you like with a demand? Who does he think he is?

You crumpled the paper and throw it. If he wants to get you, he’ll have to come get you himself. You’re not a doll for him to play around with. Not the butt of his joke. He must stand somewhere in the shadows and watch you with that grin on his face. It’s all a joke to him, isn’t it? That’s why he let you leave. He’s toying with you. But you won’t entertain him. 

Someone comes walking out of the shadows of the other side of the playground. Your entire body tenses, eyes widening. You expect it to be him, but it’s SIC. You’re not sure if that’s better. 

“Here, boy”, SIC says and pats his thigh. 

Your heart stops. Eyes never leaving him. Otto turns and runs to SIC, getting into work mode. Your friend seems less scared than you. She doesn’t know who this is. Or what he does. Doesn’t know how close to death she is right now. You wonder what she’d say if she knew that she was face to face with the right hand man of the country’s most dangerous man. 

You meet SIC’s dark eyes for a second, before they flicker to your friend, then back. 

“If that’s how you want it”, he says calmly. “You had a choice and you declined it.”

Wait what?

He turns and walks, Otto following him. 

You’re not sure why, but you fly up from the bench, hurrying after. 

“What are you talking about?” Your words come out way too quick. “What is he going to do?”

SIC doesn’t seem to notice you. Or he doesn’t care. Otto doesn’t look at you either. 

“SIC!” you say, louder than intended. Your voice trembles. “Stop doing this! I’m fucking scared, don’t do that! I don’t want to play your game, I just want to be left alone!”

SIC looks at you, still walking. 

“How hard can it be to put on a little ring?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “Hm? You’re selfish and you’re childish. You think Silas will come running after you again? You don’t think he has better things to do than to chase after you like a goddamn toddler every fifteen minutes?”

“Fine, I’ll put on the ring! I’ll wear it.”

“Cute, but I don’t ask twice. You’ve made your choice.” He stops and turns to you. “We both know it wasn’t actually about the ring, right? And if that’s the case … why didn’t you put it on? Why be so selfish and let other people take your punishment?”

“SIC … please …”

“It's not me you have to beg.”

With that said, he leaves. You watch him disappear into the shadows, hear his car's engine tone out.

You realise you haven’t breathed in over a minute. On heavy legs you drag yourself back to the bench. The soda is since long forgotten. Your breathing comes out hectic, rushed. Frantic. 

“Y/N, breathe”, your friend reminds you, holding one of her hands over your chest. “Let’s go to the cops, let’s—”

“That won’t work … oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Get up. We’re moving.”

The note lays scrambled on the ground. It was a test? “You had a choice and you declined it?” What the fuck did that mean? What have you declined? And what have you, in response, opened yourself up for?

Your head is spinning. SIC has seen tour friend. Actively turned his gaze to her. That split of a second was all he needed to memorise her. 

“You have to leave.”

“Let’s go home, Y/N, you look unwell. It’s going to be okay.”

“No, I’m actually serious. You have to leave.”

Or is it better for her to stay where you can see her? 

“Should I call someone?” your friend asks.

Who can you call? The cops? You want to laugh out loud. The second you call the cops, Silas men will know, because of course he has people working for him in the police force. Besides, your phone is back at Silas’s house and your friend's could easily be tracked.

“Let's go inside, at least”, your friend says. “It's getting chilly.”

“We're not going home.”

You're sure Silas already knows where you live, but it's the principle. Your friend takes you to the corner shop she got the sodas from. The bright fluorescent light hits your eyes. But the warmth from the heaters makes you relax slightly.

“I feel so selfish”, you say as you walk around the aisles with your hands in your pockets. “You have nothing to do with this, but he'll drag you into it …just because you're connected to me. Guilty by fucking association.”

“I'm not scared”, she answers softly.

You should be.

If only your friend knew who she had been standing eye to eye with. SIC is a machine, no remorse, no conscience. He could have killed her right then and there and not have cared that you were sitting half a meter away. He's not like Silas. Compared to him, Silas is almost humble. Almost.

“Silas has two dogs”, you mutter and pretend to look at a bag of chips. “Just that one of them happens to be a thirty-six year old narcissist. You met both tonight.”

“He gave me the creeps.”

“Silas insists that he's my brother-in-law, but I only see a dog following it’s owner.”

“Should we get rid of it? The ring?”

Your eyes dart to your friend, horrified at the mere suggestion.

“Are you insane?” you breathe out. “He already knows I've taken it off and that has put me in trouble. If I get rid of it, he'll kill me.”

“Would he?”

“Well, maybe not kill, but I don't want to figure out what he figures out. I tried to put it on, I begged SIC, but … he said it’s too late.” You bite your lip. “I think I've done something really bad. Every time I try to push back he finds a way to cage me in. Wouldn't surprise me if I become the third dog.”

“I think you need to rest, Y/N. Let's buy some snacks and go to my house and watch a movie, okay?”

You think of your parents back home. You should go to them, in case Silas shows up, but maybe he won't go there if you're not there. 

You grab the bag of chips you pretended to look at and go to the counter. The woman behind smiles at you and scans the bag. 

“That'll be three dollars”, she says.

You pick out your wallet and give her three one dollar cash. All taken from Silas's wallet. Your own bank card has been cut in two and if you get a new one he can track that too. Cash is the only safe way.

“Thank you”, the woman says. 

“Have a good evening”, you mumble and grab the bag of chips.

“You too, Y/N.”

You freeze in place. Eyes widening. Suddenly the cashier's smile doesn't seem the least sweet anymore, even though it hasn't changed. You stumble backwards.

Run.

Your nails dig into your friend's arm and hurry out of the corner shop, heart hammering against your ribs.

“How did she know your name?” your friend asks.

“Fucking hell”, you hiss, running your free hand through your hand. “He's stationed them out! That woman works for him. He's put her there to keep track if I walk in! That asshole. She heard what I said about SIC!”

You hit your palm against your forehead, groaning.

“Jennifer messaged”, SIC says and walks into the office, phone in hand. “The one we put in the corner shop, you know? She messaged that Y/N and their friend walked in.”

“Well?” Silas asks and leans back. “What did they buy?”

“Chips.”

“Chips? Seriously?”

“She wrote that. Said that they're going home to the friend to watch a movie. Sour cream and onion, if you want to know the flavor. Kind of basic if you ask me but who am I to judge?”

Silas leans back in his chair. “So … Y/N both ignored my warning, crumpled the note, talked back and is now buying snacks to watch a movie? Seems to me like they're not the slightest worried. What a joke.”

“What do you want to do?”

Silas thinks for a moment, jaw burn. “They're going to their friend's house?” 

“Yes, it seems like it.”

“So their own home is free?”

“I'd guess their parents are home.”

Silas stands up, pushing the chair back. “Let's pay them a visit. Grab Otto.”

You couldn't focus on the movie and ate chips on autopilot. Couldn’t even tell what the movie was about, but now that you’re lying on the mattress in your friend’s room, turned to the side, you feel how you wish you had watched the movie, forced yourself to enjoy it, just so that you could have kept your mind occupied, because now that everything is silent and dark … the thoughts come back. You sit up slowly, glancing towards your friend before picking out the ring from your pocket, admiring it in the moonlight. The engravement on the inside makes your stomach twist. In some way, you do like Silas. A part of you can’t deny that, but you know that staying with him means giving up all of your dreams and the life you’ve studied to get. If you stay with him, all your decisions becomes his. Your life, becomes his. You’re his accessory, his. When he’s not the mafia man that comes home bloody, he’s almost normal … and you’re terrified to let that part of him take you under. 

I shouldn’t have been so naive to mess with Silas about the ring. Why was I so selfish to just … throw the note away? In front of SIC?

You know it was because of just needing to put a little stick in the wheel, just something to annoy him, to show that he can’t scare you into being his obedient little dog. A little rebellion to have something for yourself.

But you know how stupid that is. 

You rest your head into your hands, groaning. 

“Get out of my head”, you whisper pleadingly. “Please, please, please get out of my head.”

 “We both know it wasn’t actually about the ring, right?” SIC had said when you had begged him to explain. “And if that’s the case … why didn’t you put it on? Why be so selfish and let other people take your punishment?”

You know how Silas functions by now. He’s like an explorer in a jungle, cutting down branches in the way to get to their target. He’s going to use people you love to get to you. But how? Is he going to search every house until he finds you and kill every time he won’t find you? Or kill when he finds you?

Suddenly the house doesn’t feel safe anymore. You’re just waiting for him to come and get you … and that’ll put your friend in danger. You sigh and get up from the mattress, grabbing your jacket. If he gets here and finds that you’re not here … maybe your friend will be safe? Or … maybe you’re not here to protect her …

He wants you, after all. If you’re not here, he might just move on to the next and leave them be.

You give your friend a small squeeze on her shoulder before slipping out of the dark house. Your mind contradicts itself again. How are you any more safe out there in the open darkness than in there behind locked doors? You stop in the middle of the road, the streetlights shining above you, lighting you up like spotlights at a trial. Should you go back?

You’ll risk her life. Her parents life. 

Every step you take can be wrong and result in death. Tears fall down your cheeks as you run home. Your feet barely touch the ground. Every step hurts. 

The house is quiet as you enter through the back door. You stop and frown, listen for sounds … or the lack of it.

“Mom?” you ask hesitantly. “Dad?”

Their lack of answering rips your heart out of your chest. He hadn’t started with your friend, of course not, he had started here … where your most cherished loved ones live. With your heart in your throat you run up the stairs to their bedroom. Two bodies are lying in bed, above the covers, without as much as a movement. You turn on the lights and see them lay there. Your eyes search for blood, for wounds, holes … but nothing. Instead, you see a note taped on the headboard. Before grabbing it, you feel for your mother’s pulse. Alive? With confusion mixed relief, you grab the paper. 

“This is the second note I’m writing to you this evening. Don’t let it reach a third one. Since I love you more than I probably should at this moment, I will give you ONE last chance. Your parents are not dead—not yet, at least. Just some anesthesia … but it scared you, didn’t it? Made you think they were dead? How did that feel, Y/N? Was it worth it? Would your little adventure be worth losing both of you parents? This time, it was just a scare. Next time I WILL go through with it. And don’t think that by staying by your parents side will do any different. Your friends, your extended family, are all in my reach. You can’t protect everyone at the same time, can you? If you want all of this to stop, you know what you need to do — S.”

New sobs escape you. You crumple the paper and throw it to the side before shaking your mom and dad, pleading with them to wake up. When they don’t, you continue to sit at the bedside, filled with nothing. Emptiness had never felt so large, so filling, before. 

“I knew something was up the second I left”, you say out into the room, almost as if you expect either mom or dad to answer. “I should have realised … but I’m pretty good at acting first and thinking later. I just wanted to get away, I never meant for anyone to get hurt … I just wanted to be free. We live one life … why should mine be wasted just because that man has decided that I should be his spouse? It’s not fair. It’s not fair that I have to be responsible for everyone around me. Their life shouldn’t have to be in danger because of me. I know I’m not technically responsible, that it’s Silas, but … somehow it feels like my fault. And I hate it …” Tears roll down your cheeks and you don’t try to stop them. “I hate that I have become dangerous and I hate that people can’t look at me without thinking of him. I just wanted to get away … go home … be the old me again … and I thought that if I remove his ring, I would be my old self again … stupid. It’s all so stupid!”

You rise from the bed, glaring towards the hallway, almost expecting to see someone standing there. 

“If I don’t want anyone I love to die, I need to crawl back to him”, you hiss. “Be a good little doggy. I need to sacrifice my entire soul for everyone. The trolley problem, right? But fine. I’ll come crawling on my knees. I’ll do what it takes because I can’t let him hurt any of you. If the only power I have is to keep you safe … then I guess I’ll do it. My only resistance that I can’t be punished for.”

You tuck a blanket over your parents and quietly leave the house. You wrap your arms around your body and walk on heavy legs through the night once again. This time, you don’t stop at the end of the city. You keep on walking and walking and walking. It never ends. 

Until you see his house. Black and modern, with lights in the windows. He’s still up. Waiting for you. 

You’re not sure if you should knock or walk right in. You’re way too tired. Way too painful. Your hand trembles as you open the front door and stumble in. Head turning directly to your left, to the door to his office. Closed. Light shines beneath it. You walk over and knock, heart sinking down to your stomach. 

“Yes?” Silas voice asks. 

“I’m … I’m back”, you whisper. 

You can hear his lips turn into a smile. 

“Come in, little thing.”

You open the door, heavy eyes setting on him where he sits on the couch by the window. Not by his desk. He hasn’t been working. Only waiting. Expecting. 

“Look at you”, he chuckles, leaning his head back against the wall, legs spread. “Quicker than I thought.”

You want to sit down. Your legs can’t hold you anymore. He can see the way your eyelids flutter in exhaustion and defeat and stands up, strolling over to you. His hand creeps up to your cheek, cupping it. 

“Such a good little thing you are, aren’t you?” he mumbles. “You gathered all those brain cells in your head and came back.”

“Stop fucking saying that …”, you breathe out, shaking your head in exhaustion, anger flaring back into your bones. “Stop making it into a joke … it’s anything but …”

He caresses your cheek, voice becoming gentler. “I know. I know.”

He catches your tear with his finger before it reaches your skin. 

“Now that we don't have to fight anymore, you should go to bed—”

“Fight?” you questioned. “Is that how you view this?”

“How else? You were mad at me and left and I got mad at you when you removed your ring. Show me your hand.”

You lift both hands. He touches the golden ring on your ring finger. 

“Good”, he said. “That was all I wanted. If you’d have put on that ring, I wouldn’t have had to let you see that side of me … but you’re stubborn, aren’t you?”

“So I should just let you dictate my life as you please then?” you hiss without looking at him. “As long as I do what you say, I don’t have to worry you’re going to murder my loved ones?”

Silas’s black eyes hardened slightly. 

“Do you even acknowledge how lucky you are being able to speak to me like that and still not get killed?” he asks. 

“If you hurt any of them you knew I'd never forgive you. That's why you didn't. Because you wouldn't want to admit you did wrong, so you'd rather have it look like a kind gesture. It wasn't. None of it."

“Really? How about you stop staring into the wall and at least look at me when you're accusing me so I might believe you're actually serious.”

You look at him. He scans your face for a few seconds before scoffing. He takes a step closer, until he can reach down and whisper in your ear. You stand perfectly still.

“You pretend to hate me”, he whispers, breath fanning your ear. “But we both know that's not true.”

“I hate this. Whatever you're doing now.”

“That's fine with me, because you're not supposed to see this side. As long as you behave … you don't have to.”

Behave. The words make you scoff. 

“Let’s get you to bed now”, Silas says. “We will talk more in the morning … and while you sleep, I’ll figure out appropriate consequences for this dumb act.”

Before you can protest, he bends down and lifts you over his shoulder. You don’t even bother fighting back. Why should you give him the delight of your struggle? You’ve already lost. You’re exhausted.

He might have won the battle, but you will win the war. Somehow.

Otto comes out of the dining room and barks happily at the sight of you. His tail wags and he hurries after you and Silas up the stairs to the second floor, jumps into the bed when you’re placed down. You lay still, staring to your side, refusing to acknowledge him. Silas removes your shoes, throwing them to the side and tucks you in, still in the same clothes you’ve been running around in.

“Rest”, he orders, his hand resting on your ankle for a moment. “You’re home now. Where you should be. No more running around or I will cuff you to the bed with Otto’s leash. You’re mine.”

The Doberman jumps up on the bed. Silas pets him once.

“Otto will make sure you’re still here when I come back. Now that I don’t have to wait for you anymore, I will get some actual work done. Sleep well, little thing, don’t ever do this shit again. I miss you too much, you know, and you’re not safe out there alone.”

He leans down and kisses your forehead before alkig over to the door.

"Oh, and next time you compare my best friend to a dog ...", Silas says, smirking slightly, "... maybe you want to make sure no one listens."

With that said, he chuckles and leaves the room. Otto lays down beside you and licks your face. You reach your hand to pet his fur. With a sigh, you rest your head back on the pillows, cursing quietly with your arms crossed over your chest. Next time you’ll succeed. Next time.

[cece693]

TAMARANEAN TROUBLE (AND A JEALOUS BIRD)

pairing: nightwing x male reader synopsis: Meeting your boyfriend’s ex was never easy, especially when she’s a literal goddess. But turns out she’s way more charming than you anticipated—and your new friendship with her starts to drive Dick a little nuts.

You had expected to feel a little awkward meeting his ex. After all, how often does someone casually meet the woman who used to date the guy you’re currently in love with—especially when that woman was the embodiment of alien royalty, radiant warmth, and god-tier beauty?

What you hadn’t expected was how nice she was.

“So you are Y/N,” Starfire said, floating slightly off the ground as she smiled at you with a kind of sunshine-bright sincerity that made it impossible to dislike her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the one who makes Grumpy-Wing less grumpy.”

You laughed a little. “I—uh—thanks? It’s great to meet you too.”

And it was. But damn, she was...everything. Kind, smart, powerful, beautiful. You'd seen the pictures of her and Dick back in their early days—smiling, shoulder to shoulder, picture-perfect in ways that belonged on magazine covers and cheesy soap operas. Even now, years later, they moved around each other like they still shared an orbit. Not romantic—not anymore—but familiar.

And as the three of you moved through the Titan Tower that weekend, helping out with some team reconvening for a threat that thankfully didn’t escalate, you couldn’t help the thought that rooted in your head like poison ivy.

Why did you guys even break up?

They had chemistry. A history. Years of shared battles, shared glances, and emotional highs and lows. And you? You were just the guy Dick dated now. The guy who sometimes stumbled through fight choreography, who needed more coffee than sleep, and who couldn’t fly—unless you counted being thrown by a meta.

You didn’t voice it.

Of course not.

You smiled and teased, joined in the banter. But the seed had been planted. Every time she touched his arm affectionately or burst into laughter at something he said, it watered itself.

And Starfire? She was always so genuine with you.

“You are most humorous,” she beamed after you cracked a joke. “Dick never laughs that way. It is endearing.”

You blinked. “Thanks. I think.”

One afternoon, while Nightwing was busy coordinating with Cyborg, you and Kory found yourselves lounging on a terrace overlooking the bay, bathed in sunset light and quiet.

“You seem troubled,” she said gently, sipping something fizzy from a glass she probably made sparkle with her fingers.

“Nope,” you said. Then: “...Okay, maybe.”

She tilted her head. “Is it the comparison?”

You froze. She was looking at you with those big green eyes, not with judgment, but understanding. That made it worse somehow.

“I—what?” you asked, a bit too fast.

She smiled. “It is a natural thing. I have known Richard since he was very young, but that is no threat to what you share. If anything…” she leaned in a little, voice low, mischievous. “You and he are very hot together. It makes me wish I had taste in better timing.”

You stared.

“I mean it,” she went on, her smile widening as she leaned back. “Your dynamic is delightful. You challenge him. He softens around you in ways he never did before. And aesthetically? Glorious. Your hair alone could inspire three songs.”

You snorted. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I am complimenting,” she said innocently. “Unless you are open to being flirted with. In which case, yes.”

That was how you and Kory became best friends and when Dick began to act funny. Not in the ha-ha kind of way—no, you’d take goofy knock-knock jokes over what he was doing now.

First it was subtle. He started appearing in rooms he had no business being in. You’d be lounging in the common room, scrolling through Kory’s latest intergalactic memes, and suddenly Dick would appear with a clipboard, muttering something about “inventory checks.”

“In the living room?” you’d ask, raising a brow.

“Important living room supplies,” he’d mutter, shuffling cushions and trying very hard not to glare at your legs draped across Kory’s lap.

Then it escalated.

If Kory threw an arm over your shoulders in the hallway, Dick would suddenly need to “discuss patrol assignments.” If you so much as laughed too long at her joke, he’d swing by like a vulture in a domino mask, kissing your temple in a move so obviously territorial, it practically growled.

Kory noticed. Of course she did. She was a warrior, a princess, and now, your best friend. She took great delight in making your boyfriend squirm.

“Hello, Dick,” she would purr every time he showed up mid-conversation. “We were just discussing how your partner’s biceps have grown. He is becoming so sturdy.”

Dick’s eye would twitch. “Great. Love that. Very…sturdy.”

You tried to hide your smirk. Tried.

It all came to a head one evening while you and Kory were testing out her new “Earth-style fashion experiment.” Somehow, this translated into you wearing a sleeveless mesh top and Kory bedazzling your boots while perched upside down on the couch.

Dick walked in.

Paused.

Looked at you.

Then said, “Cool. When’s the drag show?”

You and Kory wheeze with laughter.

“Oh come on,” Dick huffed, folding his arms. “You two are literally one hair braid away from running off together.”

Kory beamed. “Do you give us your blessing?”

“I—what?! No—that’s not—” He pointed at you, then her, then back again. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You stood up, sauntered over, and poked his chest. “Doing what, Grayson? Having fun without you?”

“You’re flirting.”

“She started it,” you said.

“And he is adorably receptive,” Kory added.

Dick groaned. “Unbelievable. My boyfriend and my ex-girlfriend are best friends and now they’ve unionized against me.”

You grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Hey. I’m still yours, y’know.”

He tried to stay mad. Really, he did. But the tips of his ears turned red, and his lips twitched upward despite himself. “Yeah. I know.”

Kory stood as well, looping an arm around each of your shoulders. “Do not worry. I will not steal your sparkly boyfriend.” She paused. “Unless you break his heart. In which case I will destroy you and then marry him on a moon garden beneath three suns.”

Dick stared. “That’s…oddly specific.”

“She’s been planning it,” you said, nodding seriously.

Kory winked. “I have the dress picked out.”

[ihavenoideahowtodream]

HE KEEPS HIS EXS IN GLASS BOXES

Like i really dont think that is talked about enough!

How well they made him look so cartoonishly evil. like thats some doofenshmirtz type shit. But its also so SO fucking psychotic! Entirely unredeemable. No excuse for him and he never gives them one.

And that is the running theme of the movie

the cough Israelis/Russians vs Ukrainian/Palestinians cough conflict is a bunch of over armored guys with guns and tanks vs a bunch of farmers with sticks in a soccer field. like thats the most down scaled conflict possible, but it still got the point across of how ridiculously out matched our current genocides are without making it too gorey to stomach for any age group.

It straight up says "I invented this conflict inorder to have a reason to destroy you!" Whether anyone believes 9/11 was an inside job or not the reality is that the Afghan and Iraqi wars invasions were fabricated from that event for profit and god knows what else.

Superman is cartoonishly good cause he saves squirrels and dogs and w/e almost to the point that he really just handles the peripheral casualty mediation. Hell he doesnt even get involved with the giant glowing eyeball, cause if you notice, it wasnt near any civilians. He was using the glow from the fight as mood lighting to tell Lois he loved her ffs. He feels unrealistically good because he kinda is. He doesnt do anything a normal person can do the whole movie except his emotional capacity. All the other realistically accomplishable goals are done by people who are normal or is hawkgirl or Mal Reynolds with a green lantern ring. Mr. Terrific is a normal person who is the guy Iron Man thought he was.

Everything is blown to an extreme and abnormal proportion to show that the Alien isnt the point. The big tanks and evil dictator and creep with a glass block prison and a chip on his shoulder arent the point.

Its that there are corporations who own private prisons. And those corporations are staffed by people who arent the evil supervillain and they enjoy their jobs making them complicit in the evil ICE. its that caring for nature is important. Its a woman with a crappy car is worth helping in a way she feels safe regardless who she is. Its that kids have come to america every goddamn day for 300 years with no control of the fact that they are here cause there is a chance they may have a better life here than where their parents grew up. Its that families are being rooted from their homes and countries every day for decades now with no help in sight but the regular person can help somehow even if its just calling your senator or donating or passing along ways others can do it. And this movie says it in a way that makes sense to every age group.

The kid with the flag prays for superman. Superman doesnt come. Superman is fixing a ridiculous issue that would never happen in the real world. Who shows up are his friends. People who are all very different and have arguments with each other but show up for superman cause he tries with all of them. Superman is nice to all the people he meets and only freaks out when Krypto gets hurt. and even then he just does property damage. There is a quote from Parks and Rec that has stuck with me for years now: "Leslie knope gets every favor she asks for because she only uses those favors to help people and never herself" Green Lantern is an ass. Hawkgirl likes her job but is bored at best and over her coworkers. Mr Terrific has the patience of a saint while also kinda being a dick himself. All of them rally behind Superman because they think hes worth it even if they wont say so. You can do good even if it isnt exactly how youd want the task to go. A soup kitchen is a soup kitchen no matter who staffs it if every person there knows the point is to get people fed.

Lex Luthor is all the evil in the world

Superman is all the good in the world

one has people who work for him the other people who work with him. Superman wins because people decide the good in the world is worth working towards even though there is a black hole eating the earth because they have hope in the good.

everybody say "thank you superman 2025 for bringing truly irredeemable villains back with lex luther!"

he is a cold blooded killer. he has pathetic tantrums and throws pens on the floor. he only wears black. he delivers a fantasically evil villain monologue. he cries pathetically when beaten. his motivation is not related to some tragic backstory, but is simply jealousy twisted into something so deplorably evil. he is bald.

this movie really is All That™️ and then some.

[luvingjeanie]

What’s that on your neck? | f.m. x fem!reader

Synopsis: Nobara and Yuuji see something on Megumi’s neck.

Warnings: nothing. this is just probably shit and not proof read bc i wanna get something out lol

“Fushiguro?…” Yuuji drawled out, a growing smile on his face. He reached out to poke Megumi’s cheek, but his hand was swiftly swatted away as Megumi did nothing but grumble incoherently.

“Stop trying to poke people.” Nobara quipped with an exasperated sigh to Yuuji, manicured nails clacking away on the screen of her phone, not even looking at the two boys.

However, Yuuji had spotted something. Something good. Something interesting, something Nobara would definitely want in on. So, with his grin unusually sly, he leaned over Megumi, only irritating the boy more, to speak to Nobara. “Look at him from my side!” He urged.

Finally, Nobara raised her head, eyes drooping with exhaustion from Yuuji’s usual antics, “What? So I can see his scowl from a different angle?”

“Why are you getting her to look at me anyway?” Megumi deadpanned, leaned back on the bench of the shopping strip with an annoyed brow cocked.

Yuuji ignored him, still yapping to Nobara. “Kugisaki, I’m serious! C’mon, look! Look!” He whined, his eyes similar to that of s child trying to convince his parents to buy him an expensive toy.

Huffing, Nobara stood up, quite quickly, and rounded the bench to sit by Yuuji’s side. Her eyes shot to the spot on Megumi’s neck that Yuuji had been eyeing with mischievous glee.

Lipstick. Faint, a little worn off, but still visible. Rounded and puckered in a kiss, leaving a dark red, almost black, stain on the pale, smooth expanse of skin on Megumi’s neck; right under his jawline. Intimate. Romantic. All the words that neither of his friends had even ever thought to associate with Megumi.

“No fucking way-“ She choked out, reduced to what could be called a cackle. Absolutely hysterical as Yuuji shook Megumi’s shoulders, bombarding him with childish, curious questions.

“You have a girlfriend? And for how long?! Why didn’t you tell us? Is she hot?” He cried, nearly throttling Megumi with the sheer force he was unintentionally using to shake his shoulders. “Why’s her lipstick so dark?” Then Yuuji gasped, “Ohhhh, is she like an emo? Or a goth? Which one?!”

Fighting back, Megumi finally succeeded in ripping Yuuji’s hands off of him as Nobara gasped, trying to collect herself as fat tears of laughter risked ruining her makeup. “What the fuck- What are you talking about? Lipstick?”

“That.” Yuuji and Nobara pointed in unison, speaking eerily synchronously.

Scrunching his nose up, he raised a brow. “I can’t look at down at my own neck. What is it?” He droned.

With her hysterics reduced to stifled giggles, Nobara fished for a compact from her pocket. A small, black mirror, and handed it to Megumi, “See for yourself.”

In the same manner as a child, he snatched the compact from her, expecting them to be losing their minds over nothing particularly funny as usual. Maybe there was a stain on his shirt he didn’t realise was there, or maybe somehow toothpaste had gotten onto his neck. So, flipping the compact open, he brought it to his neck. It took him a few different angles to find what the pair had been laughing so hard at, but eventually, he saw it.

Oh.

You and your fucking lipstick.

A little something you had accidentally— or knowing you, absolutely on purpose— left on his neck before he went to meet up with his friends who had demanded he join them for the day.

He clamped a hand over his neck. “Here.” He muttered, jaw tensed and his gaze averted to the ground as he reached over Yuuji to shove the mirror back into Nobara’s hands.

“You’re not gonna explain?” Yuuji sounded absolutely bewildered, betrayed that Megumi would withhold this information from them; completely forgetting the fact that Megumi was most likely emotionally constipated. Not at all known for being open about his feelings, about himself or towards others. No shit he hadn’t told them he has a girlfriend yet.

Leaning forward so that Megumi could see her over Yuuji’s wider and larger frame, Nobara added, “How long have you even had a girlfriend? I mean, I get not telling Yuuji but c’mon-“

“Hey- Whadd’ya mean you get not telling me?!” Yuuji interrupted, turning his attention to Nobara, once again looking utterly baffled and hurt.

“You know exactly what I mean-“ She began to retort, meanwhile, Megumi took this chance to escape.

Waiting a few seconds to estimate how long the two would spend bickering, he soon alowly rose from the bench, quietly slipping away. And he made a good go of it. Quickly walking away, hands in his pockets as he looked over his shoulder every second of the way, no clue where he was going, but almost fearful the interrogation would continue.

“Hey, wait-“

“Fushiguro, c’mon!-“

He began to walk quicker.

[fairydustttx]

Not Fair.

Johnny Storm x reader

“How you keep make me falling in love, it’s just not fair”

A/N: Johnny is a girl dad because I say so (anyone I write about is automatically a girl dad idc).

Warnings: Implied smut? Domestic bliss? Mention of pregnancy. Not proofread.

Word count: 2594

Summary: You and Johnny learns that raising a fiery little girl takes more than superpowers — it takes heart, patience, and a whole lot of love.

You didn’t expect to meet a man on fire the day you were stationed in Midtown. Like literally on fire.

You were a field medic assigned to a civilian rescue team. Your job was triage and trauma kits, not chasing glowing men out of the sky — but that day, Johnny dropped into your chaos like a meteor, golden flames curling around his broad shoulders, looking infuriatingly casual. Like he did it everyday.

“Need a hand, Doc?” he asked, strolling up like he wasn’t smoking slightly.

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between a little impressed and slightly confused. “Is… that even safe?”

He gave you a roguish grin. “The Human Torch, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t back away. “Well, unless you’ve got some water in those pockets, I suggest helping by not catching my patients on fire please.”

Johnny gave a laugh that was louder than it needed to be — like he didn’t expect you to keep up. Like he was charmed.

“I’m Johnny.”

“Yeah,” you said, smiling faintly. “I know who you are, Johnny.”

He tilted his head, cocky and curious. “And you are?”

“Still treating burns. So unless you’re here to be useful—”

He held up his hands. “Got it. Prove my worth. Challenge accepted.”

Somehow, he kept showing up. Sometimes because the Foundation sent him. Sometimes because he “just happened to be flying by.” He flirted, yes — shamelessly. But he also carried stretchers, cracked jokes for scared kids, and stayed late helping with supply runs.

And you… let him.

Because behind the flame and the flash, Johnny was kind. He was present. And even though you knew he had a reputation for being reckless and loud, he never made you feel small or brushed off. In fact, he listened. More than most.

One late evening after a mission, you found him on the roof of the Baxter Building, legs dangling over the ledge, pizza box open beside him.

He looked over as you approached. “I knew you’d come.”

You sat beside him. “You left the comms open. I heard you say ‘pepperoni and please.’”

He smirked. “So… mercy dinner?”

You nudged his shoulder. “Victory dinner. You actually followed orders today.”

He chuckled, quiet for once. “You ever think about what comes after all this?”

You glanced at him. “Like… after the superhero gig?”

“Yeah.”

You thought for a moment. “Maybe something quieter. Maybe not.”

He nodded, eyes on the skyline. “I used to think I’d burn out young. Like, go out mid-flight. Big explosion. Headlines.”

You bumped your knee against his. “And now?”

His voice dropped a little. “Now I think I want something that… lasts.”

You looked at him — not the flame, not the show — just the man beneath it.

And then, finally, you kissed him.

The pregnancy wasn’t planned. But the moment you told him, Johnny didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t panic, didn’t deflect, didn’t make a joke.

He just reached for you, took your shaking hands in his, and said, “We’re doing this. Together.”

And he meant it.

Johnny was a whirlwind through the whole thing — equal parts chaos and devotion. He read parenting blogs at 2 a.m. like they were mission briefings, highlighted baby books and scribbled fireproof notes in the margins. He bugged Sue relentlessly for tips, and even asked Reed to help install a climate-stabilized crib in case she ran hot — literally.

And when your daughter was born — loud, glowing faintly under the hospital lights, her body radiating a soft pulse of warmth even before her first breath — Johnny fell apart in the best way.

“She’s… wow,” he whispered, blinking hard as he touched her tiny cheek. “She’s warm.”

You smiled through your tears, exhausted and overwhelmed. “Just like you.”

“No,” he said, eyes still locked on her like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “She’s already way cooler.”

She didn’t ignite right away. For the first few weeks, she was just… warm. Always snuggled into you or Johnny like a little ember. But one night, at just over three months old, you walked in to find her bassinet glowing. Not her nightlight.

Her.

Tiny curls backlit with golden light, a soft flickering ember hovering above her little belly like a heartbeat made visible.

Johnny froze, staring at her like he was afraid to move — like if he breathed wrong, she might vanish or explode.

“She’s okay,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “It’s just… her first flare.”

“She doesn’t even cry when it happens,” he whispered back, breathless. “She’s not scared.”

Of course she wasn’t because you had kept her safe.

Because Johnny had made sure she’d never have to fear the heat inside her the way he once had.

So when she came home from preschool one day with teary eyes and smoke clinging to her curls, Johnny’s reaction wasn’t dramatic. It was personal.

Because someone had made his little girl feel ashamed of something she was born to do.

And nothing in all his training had ever made him feel this furious — or this determined to protect.

The Baxter Foundation trained the Fantastic Four to manage catastrophic energy surges, alien invasions, and interdimensional threats. What they didn’t prepare Johnny Storm for… was preschool.

You felt it before you saw it. The door slammed harder than usual, and the air inside the apartment carried a charge — not heat, exactly. But tension. That unmistakable, pre-flare tightness you’d come to recognize in Johnny over the years.

"Johnny?" you called from the kitchen, drying your hands on a towel.

No answer.

He walked in, jaw tight, arms wrapped protectively around your daughter. Her cheek was buried in his shoulder, and she clutched the back of his jacket in two tiny fists.

He didn't say anything until they were both seated on the couch and she still hadn't looked up.

“She got upset,” Johnny said tightly, brushing her curls out of her face. “There was… a spark.”

Your stomach dropped. “At school?”

He nodded once. “Some kid grabbed her drawing. She got scared. It flared out.”

“She didn’t hurt anyone—?”

“No,” Johnny cut in quickly. “Nothing like that. But it spooked the teacher. And then—” His voice went sharp, rough. “Some little brat called her a freak.”

You dropped to your knees in front of them, hand instinctively reaching for your daughter’s back.

“Baby?” you asked gently. “Can you tell Mommy what happened?”

Her voice was so soft you almost missed it. “I got mad. And I got warm. And then they looked scared.”

You met Johnny’s eyes. He was struggling — barely containing the fire you knew wanted to lash out in defense.

“She thinks she’s bad,” he said, jaw clenched. “Because she got mad.”

You pulled her into your arms now. Johnny let her go, reluctantly.

“You are not bad,” you whispered. “You are learning. You’re allowed to feel things — and you’re allowed to mess up sometimes while you figure out how to control it.”

She sniffled. “But fire hurts people.”

You looked at Johnny.

“Fire protects people too,” he said softly, scooting closer. “You think I didn’t mess up when I got my powers? I once turned an entire beach umbrella stand into charcoal. Accidentally lit Uncle Reed’s eyebrows on fire. Twice.”

That got a small smile.

“But I practiced,” he continued. “I learned. And now I help people. And you can too. You just need a little help.”

Your daughter glanced up at him, tentative. “You’ll teach me?”

He grinned. “You bet your flame I will.”

The local park was nearly empty, just the way you liked it.

Tucked in a quiet, shaded corner behind a cluster of tall oaks, the three of you had claimed a patch of grass away from the paths, benches, and other families.

Johnny had done a discreet thermal scan before even letting your daughter take off her shoes — no one too close, no cameras in sight. Just peace, trees, and a wide-open patch of space to burn.

Safely.

“Okay, sweet flame,” Johnny crouched beside her in the grass, grinning. “Remember: warm, not hot. We’re melting chocolate, not metal.”

You leaned against a tree trunk a few feet away, arms crossed, watching them both with a fond smile.

Your daughter — all curls, dimples, and determined concentration nodded solemnly, like she was about to cast a sacred spell.

She inhaled. Focused. Then slowly, carefully… opened her tiny palm.

A small, flickering flame curled into existence.

Steady. Gentle. A soft golden glow that danced like a candle in the wind, casting light over her wide-eyed grin.

“Look at that!” Johnny said, his voice catching with pride. “That’s perfect. Controlled ignition.”

She giggled, and the flame pulsed brighter. Johnny gently took her hand, steadying her wrist, and let out a slow, cooling breath over her skin.

“Excitement spikes it,” he told her softly. “Happens to the best of us.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside her in the grass. “That was beautiful, baby. You’re getting better.”

“Daddy says I’m a fire princess,” she said proudly, puffing her chest out.

“Princess Pyro,” Johnny added, with a dramatic bow. “Queen of flame. Ruler of all marshmallows.”

You laughed, brushing a leaf from her curls. “You two are a disaster waiting to happen.”

“The best kind,” Johnny said, wrapping his arms around both of you in a side hug that made your daughter squeal.

After a few more rounds of sparking, giggling, and a very small scorched leaf pile (that Johnny quickly buried under dirt), you called it.

“Okay baby,” you said, brushing grass off your jeans. “Time to wrap it up.”

“But I was being careful!”

“You were amazing,” Johnny said, lifting her onto his shoulders. “And what do amazing flame princesses get when they finish practice?”

Her eyes lit up. “Ice cream!”

“Ding ding ding!” he said, already walking toward the car.

You fell in step beside them, smiling as her tiny hands clutched Johnny’s hair for balance, her legs swinging. The evening sun filtered through the trees, casting golden rays across the path ahead. Warm, soft, peaceful.

Later, she sat on a bench with chocolate chip cookie dough melting down her chin, feet kicking, cheeks glowing — in more ways than one.

Johnny nudged your shoulder as you both watched her devour her cone like it was a medal.

“She’s got your focus,” he said. “But all the chaos? That’s on me.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “It’s a good balance.”

And in that moment — sweet air, sticky fingers, happy squeals — you believed it.

By the early evening, your daughter was out cold. Arms sprawled, face soft with sleep, a faint golden glow pulsing beneath the covers like the last flicker of a dying campfire.

Her favorite stuffed bear — flameproofed, courtesy of Uncle Reed — was tucked tight under her arm. Her lashes fluttered every few seconds, little sparks of dreamlight dancing across her cheekbones.

You adjusted the blanket over her shoulder, just enough to shield the curl of heat still rising gently from her skin.

Then you turned the monitor volume down and stepped quietly into the hallway.

Johnny was waiting.

Leaning against the bedroom doorframe like he’d been standing there the whole time — arms crossed, shirt rumpled from the wind at the park, hair still smelling faintly of bonfire smoke and marshmallow sugar. That signature cocky grin had faded hours ago, replaced by something quieter.

Softer.

The kind of look he only ever wore when he was watching her… or you.

You arched an eyebrow. “You standing guard?”

“Waiting for you.”

You moved past him — or at least tried to. His arm slipped around your waist, warm and steady, anchoring you in place like gravity.

“She’s safe,” you murmured, resting your hand over his. “Thanks to you.”

Johnny’s lips brushed the shell of your ear. “You were the one who calmed her. Who made her feel like she wasn’t broken.”

“You protected her,” you said, turning in his arms. “And you held it together. Even when you wanted to burn the place down.”

His mouth twitched — half smile, half wince. “You saw that, huh?”

“I always see you.”

He exhaled, pressing his forehead to yours, his fingers curling around your wrist like he didn’t want to let go. “Watching you today… the way you knelt beside her, the way you listened like her feelings were the only thing that mattered—”

“They are,” you said simply.

Johnny’s voice cracked slightly. “You make it look easy. Loving her. Loving… me.”

You cupped his jaw, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble there. “It’s never been easy,” you said. “But it’s always been worth it.”

His eyes held yours — full of heat, yes, but also full of something steadier. Deeper. Love, and awe, and a quiet kind of reverence you never got used to.

“I fall in love with you all over again every damn day,” he whispered.

You didn’t answer.

You kissed him instead — slow, deep, and full of everything words couldn’t carry. The years. The laughter. The fire. The fear. The family. The stubborn devotion that had seen you through every fight and flame.

There was no rush. No frenzy. Just heat — steady and sure — building between you like kindling catching light in safe hands.

You tumbled into the bed in a tangle of limbs, hushed laughs and whispers, his warmth wrapping around you like a storm you chose to walk into, again and again.

Johnny’s hands moved over you reverently, mapping familiar terrain like he was discovering it all over again — like it was sacred. Yours gasped against his, open and aching, not from urgency, but from how deeply you still felt all of this.

When his fingers grazed your ribs, you gasped softly. He paused, brushing your hair back.

“You okay?”

You nodded, voice barely there. “I just… I love you so much, it almost hurts.”

He kissed your shoulder, your throat, your chest. “Let me show you how much I love you,” he murmured. “Right here. Right now.”

And you let him.

Because there was no one else you’d ever burn for.

The room was quiet. Dim, thick with warmth. The sheets tangled around your legs, your head resting on Johnny’s chest. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath your ear, his skin still humming with that low, golden glow — not danger. Not fire.

Just comfort. Just home.

You traced lazy shapes across his ribs, smiling faintly. “Do you think she’ll remember today?”

“She might,” Johnny murmured, his fingers trailing idly up and down your spine. “But she’ll remember what mattered.”

You lifted your head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“She’ll remember that when things got scary… her mom made her feel safe. That her powers didn’t make her scary. That she was still loved.”

Your eyes burned, throat tight. “God, I hope so.”

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “She will. Because we show her. Every single day.”

You laced your fingers with his.

“I think we’re gonna be okay,” you whispered.

He even didn’t hesitate.

“We’re gonna be more than okay.”

He turned toward you, brushing your hair back from your cheek, looking at you like you were the center of his universe.

“We’re gonna raise the brightest damn flame this world’s ever seen. And she’s gonna change everything.”

And you believed him.

Because Johnny Storm didn’t just burn for the world anymore.

He burned for you.

And for her.

And for the kind of love that didn’t scorch or destroy — but warmed every part of you that had ever been cold.

[sunsetmade]

i think a rafe x shoupes daughter with her being super innocent bc she is the sheriffs daughter would be so cute! and then they would have to sneak around cause rafe just isnt able to stay away from her like he doesnt even go there with any bad intentions he just wants to see her😋 i love the idea of rafe being just a little bit more than a friend who sneaks in through readers window. also i love your writing so feel free to add stuff!!

This is so cute! 😊

The Sheriff’s Daughter

Rafe Cameron x Shoupe! Reader

Sunny’s Notes: I feel like this is kinda choppy but it’s okay :)

She wasn’t the kind of girl Rafe Cameron usually ended up thinking about at 2:00 a.m.

But she was. Somehow.

The sheriff’s daughter.

All sweetness and soft smiles, the girl who waved to everyone and said thank you like she actually meant it. The girl who wore flowy dresses to family cookouts and sat with her legs crossed politely. The girl who knew what time her dad wanted his coffee and brought it out to him every Sunday morning without him asking. The girl who shouldn’t have let Rafe Cameron into her room that first time, but did anyway.

And now… now he couldn’t stop coming back.

Even if it meant parking his motorcycle two streets over and walking barefoot across dew-wet lawns, ducking under porch lights and slipping through to break in to the the white-picket fence beside her house.

Even if it meant climbing up her siding like a damn cliché movie character just to knock gently on her window.

She always opened it. Always.

Tonight was no different.

Rafe stood beneath her window, hands stuffed into the pockets of his sweatpants, staring up at the yellow glow behind the curtains. The rest of the house was dark. Quiet. He could hear the cicadas and the occasional whip of wind through the trees, but not much else. Not even the sheriff’s snore—something Rafe had learned to listen for.

He gave the softest knock.

And she appeared. Like clockwork.

Still in her little pink pajama shorts and that oversized Camp OBX t-shirt she always wore to bed. Hair in a loose braid. Eyes wide and sleepy and confused for only a second—until she saw it was him.

The way her face lit up made something inside Rafe twist. He hated how much he liked it.

She pushed the window open and leaned out a little. “Rafe?”

“Hi sweet girl,” he whispered. “I know I shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why are you?” she asked, tilting her head, even though she was already stepping aside to let him in with a smile.

Rafe climbed in through the window with the ease of practice, landing silently on the hardwood floor. Her room smelled like vanilla and clean sheets, and everything about it was soft—pillow-soft, petal-soft, her-soft. The polar opposite of the chaos constantly roiling inside him. And maybe that’s why he just couldn’t stay away.

He looked at her as he stood straight. “I just… wanted to see you.”

She blushed and chuckled, ”well…I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah?” He smiled stepping closer and pulling her in by her waist . “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”

Her expression wavered between flattery and concern. “Did something happen?”

“No.” His voice was quiet. Too quiet for someone who was usually all sharp edges and trouble. “Nothing happened. I just—” He exhaled, glancing around. “You make it quiet. In my head.”

Her heart ached a little at that. She wasn’t used to hearing him talk like this. Not so… unguarded.

She reached for his hand resting on her hip and tugged him toward the bed, her thumb brushing over the edge of his knuckles. “Then stay a while.”

⸻

It had started weeks ago.

Her dad had invited the Camerons over for dinner—one of those awkward, community-building, keep-the-rich-families-close kind of things. She’d seen Rafe around before, obviously. Kildare was small. Everyone knew everyone. But she never thought he noticed her.

He did.

He noticed how she talked politely to his dad. How she held doors open for her mom. How she offered to help clean up even though it wasn’t her house. He noticed the way she fiddled with her charm bracelet when she was nervous and how she laughed like she was afraid to be too loud.

He noticed everything.

And even though he didn’t plan to, he started showing up more. Started running into her “accidentally” in town. Started texting her just to “check in.” Started asking questions—like what her favorite color was or whether she believed in soulmates or what song made her cry the most.

And when she’d finally giggled and said, “Why do you wanna know so much about me, Rafe?” he hadn’t had a good answer.

He just… did.

Now here he was laying on her bed, with arm draped on her across her stomach like it belonged there. And apparently it did.

She giggled and wriggled under him. “You’re heavy.”

“I’m literally just touching you,” he said, voice muffled by her pillow. “Chill.”

“You’re laying on me.”

“You’re warm.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re cute.”

That shut her up. She didn’t say anything after that. Just smiled a little too big and let her fingers graze across the back of his hand resting over her belly, heart thumping too loud in her chest.

He didn’t used to touch her like this.

Not at first. The first time he’d shown up at her window—just after a dinner at Tanneyhill—he’d knocked like he wasn’t sure she’d answer. He’d kept his hands down at his sides.

But now?

Now he threw himself onto her bed like he paid rent there. Now he stole her hair ties, poked her sides when she got dramatic, laid his head in her lap and groaned until she ran her fingers through his hair. He was clingy without meaning to be. A little needy. Always close. Always touching.

She didn’t mind.

In fact, she kind of loved it.

“You smell like outside,” she mumbled into his hoodie, rolling onto her side until her cheek was against his chest.

“You smell like vanilla,” he replied his arm coming around her middle and tugging her closer. “And safety. And pink.”

She laughed into the fabric. “How does pink smell?”

“Exactly like this,” he said, pulling her closer and burying his nose in her hair. “Sweet. Like—like strawberry milk or bubblegum or your lip balm or whatever you keep in that cute little drawer with the fuzzy socks.”

“I have like six fuzzy sock drawers,” she said proudly.

“Of course you do.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, her chin on his chest. “You always sound so surprised when you say stuff like that.”

“I’m not surprised,” Rafe said. “Just impressed. You commit to the lifestyle.”

“What lifestyle?”

“Being soft. Girly. Good.”

She rolled her eyes. “You make that sound like a costume.”

He shook his head. “Nah. I just don’t know how you’re real sometimes.”

His fingers moved slowly across her side, dipping just under the hem of her pajama shirt to trace the warm skin of her back. She shivered and he smirked, “Feel good?” He teased and she scoffed.

But she didn’t stop him.

⸻

After a while, the room was silent except for the quiet noise of the night and the occasional soft exhale from Rafe, his body warm and loose beneath hers. He’d gone quiet mid-sentence, voice trailing off like a song fading into static. She turned her head just slightly, her cheek pressed to the spot just below his collarbone, and listened.

A slow, rhythmic breath. The subtle parting of his lips.

And a tiny snore.

She bit back a laugh, smiling to herself. “Ray…” she whispered, reaching up to brush her fingers across his cheek, soft and slow. Her nails traced lightly over his jaw, her thumb gliding along the corner of his mouth where his usual smirk had gone slack in sleep.

He didn’t move.

She chuckled quietly, her chest rising against his. The sound was small, fond. A private kind of happiness. Then, carefully, she sat up, her knees on either side of his waist, legs straddling his hips as he lay stretched out beneath her like a boy who had nothing to hide.

The blanket shifted down his chest, exposing the pale gray of his t-shirt and the sliver of toned skin where it had ridden up.

“Rafe,” she tried again, her voice softer now, fingers splayed against his chest as she leaned down, letting her weight rest against him gently. Her hands flattened over the slow beat of his heart.

His lashes fluttered, brows twitching slightly as he came to.

His blue eyes cracked open, still heavy with sleep, and they landed on her with a kind of lazy contentment that made her stomach tighten.

“Mmm,” he hummed, hands coming to rest on her hips without hesitation, like they were drawn there on instinct. His fingers curled lightly into the fabric of her sleep shorts. “What’s going on, baby?”

The rasp in his voice was unfair. So was the way he looked up at her like she was some kind of daydream.

Butterflies burst to life in her belly.

“You can’t go to sleep,” she murmured, letting her head dip back down to rest over his chest again, nose pressed against the side of his neck. She breathed him in — that soft mix of laundry detergent and wind and something distinctly Rafe.

He groaned dramatically, one arm looping around her back and hugging her tighter against him like a pillow he wasn’t ready to give up. “Why not…”

“Because,” she said with a muffled laugh against his shirt, “if my dad walks in here in the morning and finds us like this… I’ll die.”

Rafe grumbled something under his breath, then shifted beneath her, bringing his other hand up to her back and sliding it beneath her shirt until his palm was pressed warm and wide against her spine. “I don’t fuckin’ care,” he mumbled as he pressed his lips to the crook of her neck. The kiss was slow, not rushed, not teasing—just honest and possessive in a sleepy, tender way.

She sighed, pulling back just enough to see his face again. “I care.”

Her voice was quiet, but firm. Her fingers found the neckline of his shirt and tugged gently. “I really like you, Rafe.”

That made him blink fully awake.

His hands stilled.

“You do?” he asked, eyes softening in a way that made her heart squeeze.

She nodded, tucking her bottom lip between her teeth for a second before releasing it. “I want to keep seeing you. Not just like this. I want more than sneaking around if we can help it.”

His mouth lifted into the faintest smile. That slow, boyish kind—the one he only ever showed her.

“She likes me,” he muttered, teasing, but it was laced with disbelief and something gentler.

“I do,” she said with a little eye roll, even as she leaned into him again. Her cheek brushed his. “And I don’t want you falling asleep and getting caught. I’m not risking you over something dumb.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. I won’t fall asleep.”

She gave him a look.

He raised a hand in surrender. “Swear. Wide awake.”

“You said that last time, and you woke up drooling on my pillow.”

“One time,” he said, voice mock offended. “You act like I make a habit of it.”

She couldn’t help but smile, the tension easing from her chest as he sat up just a little, his arms settling back around her waist. She stayed straddling his lap, her hands now on his shoulders, forehead almost touching his.

They stayed like that for a beat—forehead to forehead, breaths mingling.

Then she tilted her head, just enough to press her nose against his.

“You’re dangerous when you’re charming,” she whispered.

“And you’re dangerous when you’re in those shorts,” he muttered back, dragging his hands down over her thighs, slow and deliberate. “Do you even realize how hard you are to say no to?”

She laughed, soft and warm and not at all shy anymore. “You’re just weak.”

“No,” Rafe said, voice dropping low as he pulled her closer, “I’m completely gone for you.”

And just like that, the butterflies returned. Sharp and dizzy and unbearable in the best way.

She let her hands slide into his hair, fingers threading through the soft mess at the nape of his neck, playing with it absently. “Do you mean it?” she asked, the question barely a whisper.

He nodded, his eyes locked on hers like she was the only real thing in the room.

“Yeah,” he said. “I don’t come here for no reason. I don’t crawl through your window because I’m bored. I come here because… you feel good. Safe. You make everything else shut up.”

Her throat tightened, but she didn’t cry. She just kissed the tip of his nose.

He blinked.

“You always do that,” he said.

“What?”

“Kiss me in places that aren’t my mouth.”

She smiled. “Would you rather I kissed your mouth?”

He shrugged. “No. I like all of it. But if you did want to kiss me for real…”

She leaned in closer.

Their noses brushed again.

And then she did it — just a soft press of her lips to his, like a promise rather than a question. A kiss that didn’t try to be perfect, just honest. His lips were warm, a little parted, and he exhaled against her mouth like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

When she pulled back, he was smiling.

“I’m never sleeping again.”

She laughed. “Good. Because if you get me caught, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“You’d miss me,” he said smugly.

“I’d mourn you,” she said sweetly. “Then replace you with someone less likely to get me grounded.”

Rafe groaned and fell back dramatically onto her pillows, dragging her with him. She squealed and landed against his chest again, giggling.

“You’re the worst,” he muttered.

“Still better than drooling Rafe.”

“Oh my God—”

⸻

They didn’t sleep that night.

But they did lay there for hours.

Touching softly. Whispering. Kissing once or twice more when neither could help it.

And when the sun started to rise through the curtains, she was still on top of him, playing with the hem of his shirt, and he was still holding her like someone who couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

Like someone who knew she was his favorite secret in the world.

Taglist: (join here)

@delayeddrabbles @faithlyn444 @lilaccameronsflower @sc05 @mslvena @tudorgirl @yurmom444 @anobbs-blog @love-me-satoru @macbaetwo @tezzzzzzzz @cokewithcameron @carolinaxvz @ivy-34 @mattyskies @emmiesummers @maybankslover @mymelii @urlittlesparklejumpropequeen @lessxoxo @defnotayonna @superlegend216 @koalalafications @sousourulesthegalaxy @bebebambs @lorelai-lilith @tehems @imliterallysocoolfr @mybloggyblogblog145 @ellayahhs @emeloyy

[nomoredying]

shakespeare

history teacher!sevika x english teacher!reader

headcanons, modern!au, coworkers, mutual pining, i don’t know what to write, read more

history teacher!sevika who has a completely different teaching style than you. you don’t coddle them, not really, but you prefer being the friendly teacher type, not the intimidating tyrant one. you let them come into your classroom during recess, even if you’re not there yourself, because the thought of it being that one space they feel comfortable in out of all others makes you think you’re doing something right. meanwhile, sevika is not willing to spend any more time with students than it is necessary. “it’s because i’m the cool one, you know,” you tell her, grin on your face, but she meets you only with the mocking raise of her brow, “i hope you also enjoy the smell in your classroom after their lunch, cool teacher,” you, in fact, do not enjoy that. but hey, windows!

history teacher!sevika who gets to school barely on time. always walks in with a coffee she didn’t buy at the teacher’s lounge because, in her words, “it tastes like ass.” you’re always there at least fifteen minutes early. sometimes more. always with something baked or packed in your bag “just in case someone forgot their lunch.” she once stole your sandwich. you were furious. she claimed you were being dramatic about it. it was chicken pesto, so you were not.

history teacher!sevika who is, objectively, very good at teaching history, though she pretends not to care. you’ve heard her explain complex world war strategies like it’s a story she’s retelling from memory, like she was there. her students hang on to every word. once, you passed by her classroom and caught her passionately ranting about colonialism with a chalk in one hand and a diagram in the other, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp. you may or may not have watched for too long. you’re still denying it.

history teacher!sevika who gets really, really still when you touch her casually. like during lunch, when your fingers brush hers accidentally while reaching for the same fork. or when you adjust the collar of her shirt in the hallway. you feel the sharp inhale she takes. like she’s trying to behave. but later that day, she finds you in the storage closet getting paper and pulls you in by the waistband of your pants: “you keep touching me like that and I’m gonna forget I’m on school property,” she mutters, lips dragging down your jaw.

history teacher!sevika who always makes fun of your classroom. especially your “little literary posters”. she can’t handle being in your classroom without her snarky comments. “‘read more shakespeare’? really?” sevika stares at the poster, “yes, sevika, some of us still have hope for humanity,” even if it’s very small, “some of us have taste, that’s true,” you say that you keep it cozy for students, but honestly, it’s for yourself. your professional efficiency heavily depends on the settings around you. 

history teacher!sevika who herself does not believe in “cozy classrooms” and keeps her own cold. freezing, actually. the windows are always open. she claims it keeps everyone awake. you started bringing a warm cardigan or sweater to school just for when you have to drop something off in her class. she noticed that too. and sometimes, when you forget it, she turns off the fan without saying a word.

history teacher!sevika who’s read every book you’ve recommended. your recommendations for her come up very naturally. during the lunch break, staff meeting, it doesn’t matter. you’re in the middle of conversation and then suddenly you have a book on the topic in your mind she just must read. you found one in her desk drawer once and it physically took you everything not to tease her about it. 

history teacher!sevika who doesn’t do “silly activities” but somehow ends up being part of all your class projects because the kids drag her in. you once asked her to help judge a poetry contest out of curiosity to find out if she’d agree and because you wanted to avoid that one colleague who you knew would volunteer. she rolled her eyes so hard she nearly sprained them, then proceeded to give the most detailed, thoughtful critique of a sophomore’s work you’d ever heard.

history teacher!sevika who has this annoying habit of teasing you when you’re in serious teacher mode. like when you’re scolding someone calmly but firmly, and she walks by and mouths something like “oooh scary” from the door just to throw you off. you kicked the door shut in her face once. she laughed all the way down the hallway.

history teacher!sevika who stares. like, seriously. she stares at you mid-staff meeting across the table with this unreadable look, one arm draped lazily over the back of her chair, chewing the cap of her pen, not listening to anything. you try to focus, god, but you can feel it like heat on your skin. and then, during lunch, she walks by and says casually— “you should stop biting your lip like that when you’re nervous. you’re gonna make me think things,” thenleaves.

history teacher!sevika who jokingly calls you shakespeare when no one’s around. mostly sarcastic, sometimes affectionate, “what’s wrong, shakespeare? kids didn’t weep enough over juliet today?” but once, you’re in her classroom late after hours, flipping through test papers with music playing low in the background, and she murmurs it right against your neck, “come here, shakespeare.” and suddenly your knees are weak.

history teacher!sevika who once caught you crying in the teacher’s lounge after a rough parent meeting. didn’t say anything. just sat next to you. gave you the chocolate she kept in her desk for emergency bribes. she called it “a donation to the emotionally fragile literature cult.” you laughed, snotty and all.

history teacher!sevika who grabs your wrist gently when you pass by her classroom in the quiet afternoon. just a quick tug, then she leans in the doorway with a smirk, “you got a minute?” no matter how tempting it sounds, you try hard to say: “sevika, I have a—” but that doesn’t matter, “a minute, I said.” you end up sitting on her desk while she stands between your legs, running her hands up and down your thighs like she’s thinking about war and you in her bed.

history teacher!sevika who has a playlist she only listens to on grading nights. you discovered it by accident when she left her phone in the lounge. it’s full of mellow indie rock, sad girl ballads, and one (1) taylor swift song. you added that one to your own playlist and when you turned it on out loud while standing next to her and smiling — all smug and mischief — she almost killed you, but it was worth it.

history teacher!sevika who leaves notes in your lesson planner. she’d never admit it’s her, but they’re written in her messy, slanted writing. “I saw you wear that little necklace again. is that for me?” “you sigh too much. what’s on your mind, angel?” “you free tonight?” “thanks for the sandwich” you start keeping the notes in a drawer. 

history teacher!sevika who sometimes shows up at your place late. 9:43 p.m. on a thursday, “thought you might be grading alone,” she says, holding two coffees. you were grading alone. in a hoodie too big for you with your hair tied up and glasses crooked. sevika forgets about the coffee (and, frankly, everything else) the moment she kisses you, “you smell like paper and ink,” she whispers into your skin, “fuck, you’re pretty.”

taglist: @riotstemple29 @1i1z @lonerslug @ggutpunch @erythraeanoriana @hotmusclebabe @h2pinky @blessupblessup @em88ma @whatsupwithjinx @undercoverdesire @orinch-juice @nymanas @shxdy0ariia @em88ma (please comment if you want to be removed or added)

[y2xnjn]

off limits; c.sb — part one

— a/n: helloo, sorry this is a day late i scheduled the post wrong.. but enjoy part one! rich daddy soob does smth to me <3

✧ richdilf!soobin x babysitterfem!reader, wc: 4.6k

✧ warnings: nsfw— MDNI!, male masturbation, age gap (reader is 21 & soobin is 30), kinda pervy!soobin & pervy!reader, mentions of reader "getting around", no explicit smut in this one

— ✧ i.

There was a comfort in your solitude, a homey feeling in the slightly broken record that was playing distorted sounds from your favorite artist's vinyl, and you end up having the same realization that you do nearly every single day: you enjoy being alone today. That is, until you have another common realization that trumps your previous one every time: days are longer than twenty minutes; you start to roll your eyes and yawn at the lack of interesting activities in your shared apartment. 

Your roommate is almost never home, and you're happy for her--happy that she has a large life and lots of friends that are somehow always able to spend their time drinking or staying out so much, they wouldn't know their house was on fire until three days after it had collapsed--but that's not your ideal lifestyle. You don't think you could last two nights without the comfort of your bed, or even a bed, with the way she ends up sometimes.

You do wish you had friends though, or things to do at least. It's not like you don't have any, but with a total of three, all of whom have their hearts set on an extremely busy pathway for their life, leave you having to go out alone a lot, and catching people's eyes for that reason is not only shameful but tiring. And you have a good chance of getting a boyfriend as well, seeing as though you’re conventionally attractive and smart, and you know that, but commitment to a guy in his young twenties is something you’re not willing to rope yourself into right now, not to say that finding a good guy to commit to right now is easy anyways.

You do have your own goals in life, but yours require a lot more patience and less work, still being halfway through college and working at an unpaid internship to gain some experience in your desired field before you can get a real job. 

Ultimately, this leaves you with two qualities you would like to get rid of quickly: alone and broke.

Your parents had been paying for your rent until this point, and although they claim they do not mind, their continuous comments on the subject opened you up to the fact that you should probably consider putting your work in. 

There was a multitude of things you do to get some money, you realized after scrolling through the internet for a total of five minutes, but you decided upon babysitting. It would give you time to hone in and work on developing your skills for your chosen career, finish school work, while also making some money, and you love kids, so taking care of a kindergartner four or five times a week couldn't be too hard. Plus, kids are great company, so you definitely wouldn’t be basking in your own silence all day.

It definitely wasn't too hard finding struggling parents, most of whom were willing to pay high prices due to the length of work and hours the job market was requiring from people nowadays. Also considering the area you lived in was pretty well off, comfortable would be the right word, but there were definitely certain spots within twenty miles of you that definitely had money, as you’ve seen, driving by the mansions with your jaw dropped. 

Stumbling upon an offer that nearly made you drool just looking at the numbers, you quickly clicked on it. The family was right in your area, nearly ten minutes down the road; the perfect age of seven, an age you’re very used to after visiting your cousins so much; the hours were great, not too early but not too late, so you could still enjoy your bed every night; and best of all, it was a lot of money.

It didn’t take you long to send in your application and resume, the latter of which was detailed and professional due to the number of extracurriculars and success you had in college (which do make you think about how you don’t have a full-time job right now, but you’re working on patience). 

You're fairly certain you’d get the job simply because you meet all the requirements; even the safety regulations that make you glad you took lifeguarding and health code courses that pressured you to get all the necessary certifications, but your main concern was the preferred age of mid twenties. 

Having graduated less than a year ago, you’re definitely a few years off, but you’re hoping little Choi Minjoon's single father won’t mind, assuming it’s usually mothers who care about those kinds of things. You nearly have half a mind to send an email to the listed email address, addressing your concern and assuring him that you are still fit for the job, but you decide not to, scared to pressure him and turn him away. 

Hopefully, he sees your potential and all the good things under the lack of experience and age because you definitely have a lot to offer. 

— ✧ ii.

The house was much bigger than you expected; walking in nearly felt like a gift rather than you offering a service for the family. The door itself seemed like the same surface area as the right wall of your living room, and you felt a gust of wind brush past your figure when it opened. The first person you’re greeted with is a sweet petite lady with the attire of what looked like a housemaid. You’re almost surprised at the traditional values the family seemed to have, considering in today’s world, people hire one nanny to take care of all the concerns of the house, including the children, but taking a good look at the amount she would have to cover gives you a better understanding of the situation. 

Greeting the lady, you take notice of the echo that takes over the spacious halls, and you press down on your clothes, quickly trying to smooth them out a little more as you start to feel conscious and plain in them. She leads you up the large flight of stairs that make you feel like you have to hold onto the railing to walk up or you might suffer from some form of vertigo. Claiming the owner of the house and his kid are in his office, she makes sure you’re closely following her, most likely so you don’t get lost in the maze that this poor lady has to clean. 

She suddenly stops in front of a door, nearly making you bump into her from behind, and you assume this is the aforementioned office where your future employer is. Opening the door, you’re first met with the back of a tall man and a phone up to his ear, standing at the window and watching what looked like his front lawn. 

His kid, sat on the couch, stole your attention with a little giggle that sounded like music to your beards, and you met his starry eyes with the sweetest smile that felt warm and fuzzy in your heart. You reach your hand out to ruffle his wellkept hair; he definitely looked like he was born into wealth with his designer sweater vest, white button up, clean black dress pants, and his iPad in hand, eyes glued to the screen. 

Once your hand messes up his hair a little, he looks up at you, a stronger interaction than the glance from before, and you crouch down. The room was very quiet, the only sounds coming from his dad’s phone and the low volume of Toca Boca World on the device in his hands. You whisper a little greeting to him and start having a sweet conversation that consists of simple back and forth questions and answers, nothing more than you’d expect from a five year old. 

His voice was very gentle and soft, and you realize where he gets it from when your name is called. Looking up, you meet his father, and merely his figure has you stepping back in intimidation. 

Minjoon’s father, Choi Soobin, as he introduced himself, was a gorgeous man. Tall, fit, with a face and demeanor so attractive you start to question if he was really as old as he says he is. You watch as his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and you catch yourself staring before you push away any thoughts like that to the back of your head. 

He places his phone in his pocket, focusing all his attention on you and his son as he walks over and puts his hand out to greet you. You accept it with a slightly shocked smile until you realize what you probably look like and you regain your composure. 

“Hi, you must be the babysitter. I’m Soobin, Minjoon’s dad.” His smile was sweet, a stark contrast from his overbearing frame. His fingers were soft around your hand, and you suddenly felt the urge to stand up straight to fix your posture. You’re almost surprised at his deep tone, but his face captures you even more, and you can see just how Minjoon got so cute.

“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you.” He nods, returning the compliment before he takes a look up and down at you, his eyes contracting and darkening at the sight. Inhaling sharply, his smile falters for a second, and you almost feel a little judged, a number of questions running through your mind. Is there something wrong with your outfit? Did you sound like an idiot? How have you already fucked up and you’ve been in his house for ten minutes?

Whatever it is, you need a job, so you try your best and hope the interview goes exactly as planned.

You were pleasantly surprised when you got the call later that night; you came to the conclusion that he must have been in a hurry to find someone or maybe you were exactly what he was looking for. It was a quick interview anyways, a few questions about yourself, about your availability, and some small talk about your life. 

He was very kind about everything, and although he seemed to take all your answers well, his pure demeanor from when you first saw him shifted when he saw you and didn’t change back. You didn’t think about it too much though, seeing as you got the job, it must have been nothing to worry about. 

The first week was more difficult than you thought it would be. Minjoon was a shy kid at first, but as the days went by, he started opening up to you more, and that meant tantrums and words that you wouldn’t have expected from a preschooler.

It started with him offering to share his toys with you, a gentle smile and tiny hands pushing half of his lego collection towards you in a way that made you feel flutters inside. Slowly, it turned into him refusing to give you any and yelling and crying when you picked one up. Soobin did warn you that he could get cranky at times, but you didn’t realize it would end up with him stealing things out of your purse and throwing them at you because you wouldn’t let him have a third bowl of cereal. 

You almost wanted to complain to Soobin about his behavior, not understanding why he switched up so easily, but every time he came to you, asking if Minjoon was being good with a hopeful smile on his face and tired eyes, you couldn’t help but lie and say everything was fine to ease his mind. He seemed stressed, and you didn’t want to add to it by telling him that his precious little boy was getting on your nerves. 

You learned to deal with it after the second week though, having had eleven visits with him and hours spent observing his behavior. Coming to the realization that he must have just needed some time to get used to someone else other than his dad taking care of him, you became more understanding and patient with his actions, and he started becoming more aware as well. Of course, there were the occasional outbursts, but they toned down largely, and it lifted your spirits.

But it wasn’t just Minjoon’s behavior you were noticing. Although most of your time was occupied with taking care of him which consisted of a number of things like feeding him, playing with him, or even finishing up any summer classwork you have while letting him play by himself, your eyes couldn’t help but occasionally drift to the man of the house.

Sometimes, when he’d walk into the room either checking in, or perhaps looking for something, you’d attempt to sit up straight or correct your posture. Not that you’re a slouch, but of course, you want to look presentable in front of him. He is your boss after all. Other times, as it was nearing time for you to go, in line with the time he gets off work, you’d catch yourself with a stray eye as he unbuttons his shirt a bit, pushing the sleeves up and running his fingers back through his hair with a soft groan that makes your cheeks turn hot and your mind wander. It’s simply because you care about his well being though, as his son is your responsibility. 

And maybe when he’s on his break and steps out of his home gym after a work out session, you watch the beads of sweat down his neck, the fresh pump in his biceps, and the slight print in his sweatpants catching light. That’s when it gets hard to ignore.

You weren’t one to thirst; you’ve had your fair share of boyfriends and talking stages that have unfortunately all failed, and even now, it’s not like you’re closed off from men or anything, You’re always talking to one guy or the other, but it’s simply for your entertainment, tired of dealing with an immature male ego. It’s safe to say you get around, not enough to sacrifice your dignity and reputation but also enough to get a good fuck once in a while. 

You definitely weren’t one to thirst over guys you can’t have, whether it was someone you worked with, someone unavailable, someone not your age, or in this case, all three of the potential attributes. It’s not like you haven't acknowledged the attraction, but you choose to ignore it for not only your sake, but Soobin and little Minjoon’s as well, although the thought of his large slender fingers firmly pressing against your skin has crossed your mind more times than you’d like to admit.

— ✧ iii.

Soobin hates to admit how good you are with his son. From the moment he saw you, he was thinking things wouldn’t go well and that you would just be some pretty spoiled brat who’s only applying for this job to please her parents but couldn’t really care less about kids or anything other than herself. In fact, he was hoping it was true so he wouldn’t be able to hire you, or it would be a great fault on his part to come to the sad truth that he is attracted to his son’s babysitter.

He’s been a single parent for three years now, and while he was fighting the legal battles and dealing with the struggles and hard truths of a messy divorce, he was doing his best to be there for his son. 

After almost a year of tough meetings, fights, finding receipts, building up cases , Soobin ended up with primary physical custody of Minjoon, mainly in consideration of his financial situation and the lack of motherly characteristics his ex wife seemed to have. It was definitely difficult for him, and despite Minjoon's mom getting to keep his little boy for one weekend every month, Soobin has dedicated his life to raising him right.

Every single day in the past three years, Soobin has done everything for Minjoon, not that he should be expected of any less as a father, but as he is by himself, the responsibilities fall harder on him, and eventually, they do take a toll on not only his well being but his son tool. 

He has worked hard to provide everything he possibly can and give Minjoon the best lifestyle possible, but unfortunately, with his job requiring extra demands recently and work hours increasing, he is unable to be there for Minjoon as much. And without a doubt, he would trust a babysitter that could report back to him and that he knew to a good extent over leaving him with a mother who rarely looks his way and carries no empathy for her own child. And this led him to start searching for someone to be there in his absence. 

Soobin was a simple man, not really fazed by the small things in life like unkind people and immaturity. He had dealt with much of that in his early divorce, something he sees as a strength instead of a weakness considering how much he learned from it. He learned to be patient, emotionally mature, and how to navigate seemingly difficult situations; from his child, he learned to be caring, compassionate, and responsible. Something he didn’t learn however, was how to deal with having a thing for a young woman nearly ten years younger, and it was starting to get the better of him. 

You were a great fit for the job, a fact that comes with both pros and cons on his end. Pro: his son would be very well taken care of, and con: his mind starts to conjure up images that were greatly too impure whenever he sees you. 

It would be the simplest things as well; the way you bite your lip trying to figure out the TV remote, the cute little cotton shorts that ride up your butt as you reach for something, which in your defense, he did say you could wear whatever attire you’d like, or god forbid, you bend over to open the freezer and find yourself a popsicle. And if he caught you eating it, licking the sweet juice as it drips down your fingers, he’d have to go and lock himself in his office for at least an hour. 

Everything you did felt too good for him to be looking at, and that seemed to be the only con he could think of. Which is why he chose to keep you around, because it would be better for his son ultimately, and it’s not as if you’re tempting him on purpose, of course. 

Maybe it’s just been a while, he thinks, since he’s interacted with a lady he found truly attractive, and right now, his male instincts are taking over, nearly consuming him if he was being honest with himself. But Soobin knows better than to fall into infatuation and risk something that in every way he could think of, would not end well. 

It was around the fourth week of your new job, when you and Soobin had discussed a swimming instructor for Minjoon. You noticed he’s taken quite a liking to baths and would request to spend an extra twenty minutes every time he was in the tub; the first time you agreed, and no matter how wet your clothes got after, you continued to say yes because seeing the smile on his face was worth it. 

When you asked his dad about it, he agreed that it was around the age that he should start taking swim lessons, and it being the hot air of June, this was a great time. Less than two days later, when you showed up, you were surprised to see baby Minjoon in the pool holding a paddleboard with a man on the other end of it. You looked around for Soobin, not having seen him anywhere in the house until your eyes fell onto his figure, standing over the corner of the pool watching his son intently. 

He was dressed in swim trunks, a stark contrast to the business outfit or fully dressed gym attire that you usually see him in, and your mouth unknowingly opens due to the shock. You’re not complaining of course; you knew he was fit from the way his arms’ natural tone would appear while doing simple mundane things like carrying his office bag or picking up Minjoon, but seeing his work was more humbling than you thought.

His hair was damp at the ends, as if he just got out of the pool. His shorts hanging low on his hips, barely tied, almost begging to come off, and with the way you were drinking his sweaty abs in and ogling his enlarged biceps from how he was crossing his arms, you almost felt compelled to go and give his pants a slight tug. 

Soobin quickly takes notice of you when you walk in, dressed cutely in a summer dress that would be way too short for your place of employment if it were anywhere or anyone else, but with the view of your sunkissed thighs he's getting, he really doesn’t mind. He also doesn’t fail to notice the way you stare at him, unaware of how tempting your eyes look as you walk up to him. He quickly shakes the thought away, offering a sweet smile that completely hides the thoughts he was just thinking, and you return one yourself.

“Is he doing good so far?” You ask, retreating away from your eye candy and back to Minjoon in the pool. He nods, a simple hum coming out to affirm your question.

“We’ve been out here for just thirty minutes, and he’s already made a lot of progress,” he mentions, a proud fatherly smile on his face. Soobin’s eyes are soft and kind whenever he looks at Minjoon, unable to disguise the true affection he has for the kid, a feeling that you’re starting to get used to after taking care of him for just a few weeks. “The instructor’s here for another thirty minutes if you would like to get in the pool too.”

He looks at you, his eyes quickly darting to the way you lick your lips and look up in hesitation before you respond. “Yeah, that sounds nice. I actually brought my bathing suit today, so that’s good,” you cheer. 

Soobin offers to wait outside until you get changed, claiming he has a meeting in the office soon and he has to take a quick shower before he can leave for work, but he soon regrets it when you reenter the pool area in a pastel blue bikini, a coverup so sheer on top of it that there’s almost no use for it. 

If he really cared about being your boss, he would have had a serious discussion about what’s appropriate to wear in front of him, but seeing the way the thin fabric barely covers every curve of your figure, the strings on your shoulders so close to untying and letting your tits spill out, he doesn’t give a shit about being appropriate. 

You walk back up to him, so innocent and a smile so sweet as if you have no thoughts in the world. You have to know what you’re doing, right? The effect you have on him, how undeniably tempting you look? It must be impossible not to notice the way his eyes are wandering every inch of your skin as you lay down on the lounge chair next to him, your chest rising and falling under the burning sun. 

Suddenly remembering a question you had about Minjoon’s meal schedule, you sit up and open your mouth to ask him something before he walks through the back door of the house, slamming it behind him. Assuming he was in a rush, you pout to yourself and make a note to ask when he’s back, instead refocusing your attention and pulling out a bottle of sunscreen.

It’s becoming difficult to control himself, Soobin realizes, as he throws his head back under the hot water, letting it engulf him completely. He grips the handle, closing the glass door behind him, desperately trying to think about anything else other than how purely sinful you could be. He wants to grip the soft curve of your waist, make you moan the way you did when you sighed at your phone the other day, sneaky eyes peeking at your texts from behind you, and he groans thinking about the way that guy was talking to you—he could treat you so much better than some childish punk who won’t understand your worth until he’s ready for you to have his babies.

Why should you wait for a good man when you can have one now? When you can have him at your fingertips doing whatever you please, providing for you, taking care of you, making sure you never have to work again? He tries to breathe through it, but his hand mindlessly inches lower.

God, you make him so frustrated; you make him question himself and his morals, something he’s always taken pride in. Soobin never hesitated, never made the wrong decision, never acted out, and here he is now, self control hanging by a thread. And for what? You barely did anything, and he’s already so provoked.

His mind is racing with the most impure thoughts, cursing under his breath as he has to relieve the ache somehow. The sheer sweat on your collarbone and how good your skin would taste against his tongue, the flimsy top clinging to the swell of your breasts like it wanted to slip off. Like you wanted it to. Fuck, what if you wanted it just as badly as he did? What if you were thinking about him, touching yourself to the thought of his mouth sweetly kissing up and down your thighs, harshly tugging on his hair, moaning his name?

He leaned forward against the wall, the hot water running down the tile and catching on his forehead as he strokes himself, finally chasing the feeling of something so sinful, and the thought just edges him on further. He pumps himself, desperate to cum, remembering your delicate scent and the soft pads of your fingers as they brush against his skin, wishing they would wrap around his cock the way he is. Soobin is so fucking addicted to you, and though it took him long to realize it, the epiphany makes him pump even faster.

Throbbing, sticky, heat pooling low in his stomach, and he thinks about the lazy arch of your back, the slight sliver of stomach that you tease with a simple tank top, and now today? Revealing so much of yourself to him and not letting him have you, making his hips jerk forward in his own hands, begging and pleading your name out loud, nearly wishing you could hear how bad he wants it, you were so cruel. 

Soobin comes with a guttural groan, unable to even recognize the sound that leaves his lips, and he stands there under the water for some time, hopelessly trying to wash his release off his stomach and what’s left of you in his head. 

It doesn’t work. Instead, he quietly relives the fantasy from which he was holding back. From weeks of pretending he wasn’t so deeply corrupted, from watching you, knowing you were so close to him but still, completely off limits. 

[sharkbitten-sailor]

Hai Could we maybe get some content on the One of A Kind AU

Orrr

We could get Ghost!Reader, originally one of the first to come before the rest of the survivors, you somehow got bound to the cabin after some unknown event. Now you just chill around being the mischievous and a tad bit vengeful spirit

[forsaken] survivors x ghost!reader - headcanons .ᐟ

a/n; SORRY ANON THIS TOOK SO LONG I FORGOT THIS RQ EVEN EXISTED A

noob

- your no. 1 victim. obviously. - doesn’t enjoy your presence. surviving rounds is stressful enough, and now you. - once offered a peace treaty with boxy colas and snacks. it worked. for 3 rounds. - still can’t get used to your ghostly pranks and weirdness. - stop jumpscaring them you freak, they need an ventilator because of you.

007n7

- you startled him at first. he warmed up, kind of. still flinches when you whisper “boo” - actually enjoys your company, even if it sends shivers down his spine. - your presence scrambles his c00lgui frequency in weird but harmless ways. he doesn’t hate it, just... doesn’t want to glitch mid-tele

elliot

- most affected during his first few rounds in the realm. - more worried about real threats than ghosts like you. you’re harmless anyways. maybe. - secretly finds it funny how his food phases through you when he shares. - he sees you as a floating cooking buddy. your yap sessions are the kitchen soundtrack. -he enjoys this ghostly company.

dusekkar

- you could scare him… but where’s the fun if he never reacts? - when you go overboard messing with the crew, he casts a silencing spell to shut you down. - not only that, you have to sit through his long ass lectures. with rhythm. sorry not sorry - you’re basically on a leash whenever he’s around. - don’t touch his staff unless you want to be exorcised.

builderman

- shocked at first, got over it quickly. dude’s got deadlines. - you were here first, so he uses you as his info source. - most of your convos are just q&a, barely anything casual. - you share info willingly. even sprinkle in some lies here and there. - and when you do? that glare you feel burning into your soul? - consider it a warning.

taph

- actually likes having you around. hey twin!! he’s an anomaly himself. - talks nonstop about his traps, even if you barely understand him. - calls you “glowstick” when his tripmines fade through you. - on hot days, asks you to “preen” his wings. your chill keeps them cool.

guest 1337

- thought you were a hallucination at first. war trauma, y’know. - eventually realized you’re real. his sanity’s still on probation. - instinctively tries to punch you when you surprise him. - reluctantly asks for info. blame builderman. - your eerie vibe unsettles him and he hates your pranks. can’t blame him, really.

shedletsky

- chill as ice around you. - partners-in-prank. you two get scolded on a daily basis. - loves your yap sessions even if they’re pure nonsense. - constantly jokes about your transparency. to hide some grief behind it. - you remind him of them. just missing some ribs. - nevertheless, talking to you helps him unwind after each round.

chance

- similar to shedletsky: cool with you, but still flinches at your ghostly chill. - your pranks blur memories of someone he lost. he was never one for chaos. - dared to flirt with you once. ghost or not, it happened. *wink wink* - constantly invites you for poker or monopoly. loses every time (you definitely didn’t cheat). - wishes you could join him in rounds just to show off his sniping skills.

two time

- first time seeing you? instantly reminded them of azure. - the trauma lingers. - tried stabbing you multiple times. it did catch you off guard. - doesn’t mind your chilly touch, but your entire existence unnerves them. - you’re strangely drawn to this non-binary fella. their escape attempts amuse you. (you like to pick them up out of nowhere) - someone call godspawn. they’re running out of places to hide.

jane doe

- please for the love of god just leave her be. she’s been through hell. - of course you won’t. - much like the pumpkin guy, she barely reacts to your pranks and jokes. and when she does, it’s so painfully formal it kills any fun on arrival. - what did you expect? She can’t even get a moment of peace in this place. - still, for reasons even you don’t understand, you once brought her brownies. small win. - she actually liked them. said they helped her calm down. there, isn’t this better?

[peasack]

Hi Hi Hi!!! best writer on earth, im back! can i request something with the thunderbolts when you absent-mindedly hold onto them when you;re feeling frightened or scared like a hold that grounds you? thank you!

HI HI HI ANON!!!

this is such a soft idea I’m kicking my feet already.

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Reacting To You Clinging Onto Them When You're Scared Headcanons ✦

* ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ *

✦ John Walker

The first time you grab his arm during a loud noise or tense moment, he freezes up for a second like “whoa, are you okay?”

After that, he’s hyper-aware of it. Always walking close enough for you to grab his sleeve if needed.

Lowers his voice instantly and shifts to protective mode.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m right here, nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

Stands firm like a wall, lets you hold onto his jacket, sleeve, or even just the hem of his shirt if it calms you.

Doesn’t ask questions unless you wanna talk. Just keeps you close and steady.

✦ Bob Reynolds

You could grip his wrist mid-panic and he’d gently wrap both hands around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re safe. You’re not alone. Just hold on for as long as you need.”

His voice is the softest it’s ever been when you’re anxious, it’s practically a lullaby.

Starts to recognize your signs before you even reach for him. Will quietly extend his hand without saying a word.

If he’s sitting, he’ll pull you down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and just let the silence carry the comfort.

✦ Yelena Belova

You once grabbed her arm during a thunderclap and she immediately went “who hurt you?”

But when she realized you were scared, she softened in a heartbeat.

Loops her arm around your back protectively and whispers something sarcastic to distract you.

“It is just thunder. I promise the sky is not angry at you.”

Holds onto you too, casually but firm. Won’t let go until you do first.

Punches anyone who calls you clingy. You’re not clingy, you’re hers. Deal with it.

✦ Bucky Barnes

Goes absolutely still the moment you cling to his sleeve, but not in a bad way.

You can feel his muscles lock like “oh god they’re scared-what do I do what do I do, oh no.”

But then he adjusts his stance so you can grip more comfortably and just gently leans into you.

Doesn’t say much, but murmurs little grounding things.

“Okay. We’re breathing. You got me? I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Holds your hand if you let him. Gloved or not, it’s warm.

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Surprised the first time. Literally goes “OH. You need hold? Yes! Yes! Come here!”

Wraps you up in a bear hug immediately. He has no sense of personal space in a crisis, but somehow, it helps.

“Little warrior is safe now. I will crush any danger.”

You could hang off his arm like a koala and he’d keep walking like nothing’s wrong.

Loudly reassures you without shame, even in public.

If anyone looks too long? “You have problem?! They are SCARED. MOVE.”

✦ Ava Starr

You grip her coat in the middle of a tense situation and she doesn’t even flinch.

She’s used to needing grounding herself, so she instantly adjusts her pace, her posture, her breathing, everything to keep you steady.

Quietly turns her body so you’re between her and a wall, keeping you protected without making a show of it.

“You’re doing fine. Just keep holding on. I’ve got you.”

If someone’s causing the fear, her death glare alone could paralyze a man.

* ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ** ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ *

Giggling, kicking my feet and smiling so hard my jaw hurts.

[marioandluigigi]

ᝰ.ᐟ | Shooting lessons

ʚɞ Natalie Scatorccio x fem!reader

ʚɞ summary: in which you are having a hard time adjusting to life in the wilderness and your best friend helps you not be so useless anymore (aka Nat teaches you how to handle a rifle like a pro)

ʚɞ warnings: mentions of depression and suicidal ideation, homoerotic friendship, jealousy, reader is Travis’s D1 hater, self harm (I think?), smut—> inappropriate use of rifle (author has issues, clearly).

ʚɞ word count: 3.4k

ʚɞ Author's note: This was supposed to be cutesy I don’t know where the smut came from.

Life in the wilderness was hard. Harder than you had ever anticipated. Somehow, your monotonous day to day routine of: waking up, seeing who needs help with chores, watching Nat leave with Flex —sorry, Travis— and go to sleep to do it all over again was starting to get to you.

You feel yourself waking up as the cold creeps up your spine and the glow of the sun causes an unpleasant burning sensation in your eyes. In a futile attempt to return to the bliss of unconsciousness you pull the blanket over your head hoping to be granted a few more moments of peace when you feel it— someone lightly kicking your feet.

You roll your eyes as you feel the scuffed leather of her boot through your socks.

“Dude.” She calls out, never stopping her scrutinising kicking motion. “Up and at ‘em or something.”

You just groan and pull the blanket further over your head. Hoping that somehow this will make you invisible to Natalie.

“Cmon princess.” She urges, hitting your shoulder now with the tip of her boot.

“I’m cold.” You protest, as you try and fail to ignore her.

“No shit we’re literally all cold, winter is coming. Now stop sulking and get your ass up.”

“No.” You say, a stubborn pout adorning your sleep flushed face.

“I’m serious, get up. You wanna end up like Jackie?”

That catches your attention—Jackie, your former beloved captain. The girl everyone turned to for hope and reassurance before a big game, was beginning to become more and more ostracised by the group. You felt bad for her, you had heard the whispers, the jokes and tales of her uselessness even Shauna was beginning to distance herself from her.

You wonder if the same thing will happen to you too or if it already has. Sure, you try to help out, but you’ve never been particularly gifted with manual labour— as it was proven when the coin fell from the barrel of the gun before you even had time to point it at the target, earning a few laughs from the girls and a stubborn hint of red that covered your ears.

You know Nat would never let that happen though. For some unknown reason, the girl that before followed you around like a stray cat now protected you with the ferocity of a guard dog. Well, when she’s not in the woods doing god knows what with flex anyway.

You hear Nat sigh above you. “I’m going hunting with Travis okay?” She asks, you know it’s not really a question, more of a statement but you hum in acknowledgment anyway.

“Get your ass up, I’m serious.” And with that she leaves, but not before giving you one final kick in an useless attempt to wake you up from your slumber.

After staring at the ceiling for what felt like three hours you finally manage to get up from your spot on the floor.

You don’t bother changing clothes, opting to remain in your sleep shorts and Yellowjackets T-shirt, only putting on your trainers and jacket before heading outside to meet the others and ask what is there to do today.

You first lock eyes with Mari, who’s sitting comfortably in between Lottie and Akilah eating, what you’re assuming is breakfast.

“Look who decided to grace us with her presence today.” Mari mocks, elbow hitting Van’s. Van in their turn lets out a snort and locks eyes with Tai with a smug expression on their pale face.

You look around and don’t see Nat anywhere, and then you remember that she’s already out somewhere deep in the Canadian wilderness hunting for food— great. So you decide that the safest choice is to sit by yourself in the corner furthest away from Mari.

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Mari’s voice booms through the forest as she approaches you in three large hurried steps.

“How about getting us some more water?” She suggests, voice deceptively sweet.

You feel the metal bucket hit your lower stomach and you almost let it fall to the ground as you fumble to grab onto it.

You feel the girls judging stares on you so you just shrug and make your way to the lake.

The trek to the lake is longer than you’d like. And with the recent change in climate your worn out sneakers are starting to gather a thin layer of dust and mud at the bottom.

When you finally reach the lake, you feel the steel bucket with water, but right when you’re about to pull it up to carry it back to the cabin, you crumble under its weight and fall backwards while half of the water of the bucket falls on you wetting your shorts.

As you attempt to stand up and maybe salvage whatever dignity you have left, you hear Nat’s unmistakable laugh, it wasn’t forced or mocking, it was genuine. You turn your head in search of the sound and see her laughing with him, rifle slung over her shoulder.

Jealousy pools in your stomach, hot and ugly. You think about returning to camp with the water but it all seems too much the stares, the judgment, your wet sneakers and Nat’s cheerful laugh in your ears so you leave the half empty bucket near the lake, and make your way deeper into the forest with only one thought in your head—get away.

You can’t stop the stubborn hot tears that make their way down your cheek as you stump through the dense Canadian wilderness. Nor the ugly thoughts that fill your mind or the feeling of sheer desperation.

When you deem it’s far enough you collapse against a tree. Turns out, a slowly starving body plus no breakfast is not a good combination for a long lasting walk through the woods.

You hit your head hard against the tree as you attempt to lean against it, your nails that previously dug into your palms now digging into the dirt.

You’ve never felt more alone. The isolation from the girls and now Natalie’s growing closeness to Travis leaves you empty with nothing but a hollow feeling in your chest. You wonder what’s the point. It’s been more than two months, you're sure of it, the rescue team isn’t coming, no one's coming, because no one cares.

You look up and see the sun on top of you in the sky, you’ve never been good at telling the time by looking at the sun but you wonder if it's midday or something around it. Which would mean that the girls are already bitching that you should have been back with the water by now, your mind drifting to all of insults they’re conjuring up together as you lay in the woods alone.

You ponder going back to camp, but ultimately decide against it, not caring if you’re eaten by wolves, at least you’d serve a purpose—you think to yourself. At least you’d be useful even if only for the forest wildlife.

You don’t remember falling asleep, which is why you wake up completely startled when you hear Nat’s accent ridden voice booming through the woods as you attempt to rub the sleep from your eyes.

“Are you fucking psycho?” She yells, while she runs to you, leather boots hitting the dirt beneath her.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you?” She continues, while she sits—or rather throws herself on the ground next to you.

“Well, are you hurt?” She questions, as one of her slender fingers inspects your face.

“What— No.” You respond, but make no attempt to remove her hand from your face. The feeling of her nimble finger trailing through your face soothing you, even if only a little bit.

“What the hell are you doing here? Alone. A wolf could eat your face.” She proclaims, exasperated. Hands flying through the air as she speaks.

“Maybe they should.”

“What the— don’t say that. How can you say that?”

You just shrug and stand up ready to follow whatever command she throws at you.

“No.” She protests. “You’re gonna tell me what happened now.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Oh yeah? Then why did Mari say she sent you to get water and that you haven’t been back for hours?”

You don’t respond, the words stuck in your throat, refusing to get out.

“Well?” She presses.

When you don’t make an effort to respond she sits on the ground. Throwing the riffle in your general direction, making it land near your feet.

“Seriously dude. What the hell is going on with you?”

“What do you care?” You snap, finally. And that makes her stand up again.

“What do I— I thought we were friends.” She responds, the slight waver in her voice makes your heart sink. “But maybe that’s not true anymore, you won’t talk to me, you run away, I come back from hunting and you’re all alone avoiding me…”

“Maybe you don’t need me anymore. With flex and all that.” You bite back.

“What does Travis have to do with this?” She questions, defensiveness coating her voice.

The way she corrects you and calls him Travis just serves to piss you off more.

“Hell, I don’t know. Clearly you don’t need to keep me around anymore with him to keep you occupied.”

“Dude what the hell— You’re the one who won’t talk to me. You’re the one who just left camp without a word to any of us. Like we don’t matter to you like I don’t matter to you. And now you’re upset about Travis? Why? How does that make any fucking sense?” She yells, her accent slipping due to the pure frustration she feels.

“Like you actually give a shit.” You spat.

“Me? I just spent hours in this goddamn woods looking for your stubborn ass. Worried sick that you’d be wolf food by now and this is how you treat me? Why? What the hell did I do?”

Her voice falters slightly at the end. Like she’s holding back a sob. You and Natalie never called yourselves “best friends”, the wording seeming much too corny to her. But you were best friends in every sense of the word. And now with the way she’s looking at you, you can tell she’s scared of losing you. Even if you, yourself can’t comprehend why.

“Nat— you didn’t do anything.”

“Then what’s going on?” She takes a step closer, her eyes shinier than they should be. “Please, just tell me I’ll fix it.” She says, while looking at the ground. The wording makes your eyes sting, her sheer need to be useful tearing you up inside.

“You can’t fix it.”

“Why not?” She asks, her voice small, akin to the one of a little kid who was told their dad wouldn’t make it to the school’s play.

“Because— I’m useless Nat. And… it’s just a matter of time until you realise it and side with the rest of the girls.”

“You’re not useless. And that’s never gonna happen.” She protests.

“Yes I am. I can’t shoot a rifle, hell I can’t even bring a bucket of water to camp. And now you won’t— and now you have Travis.”

“I don’t care about Travis. I just take him with me to hunt because he’s the only one who doesn’t totally suck with the gun. You think I wouldn’t rather take you?” She asks, a glimmer of hope and something else shines in her eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I do. And… if you’re worried about those other assholes I can teach you how to handle the gun and you can come with me instead.”

That leaves you speechless and also relieved. The dread you feel gives way to hope as you imagine spending your days strutting through woods with Nat rather than cooped up in the cabin with a team of starved bitchy girls.

“I’m not good with that though…” You confess, quietly.

“Cmon.” She gets behind you. “Even flex does it, you're gonna let him win?” She says close to your ear.

“No…”

“You see, that's the spirit. Cmon, let's find something to shoot.”

She grabs the gun off the ground and grabs your arm while she leads you to a more secluded place. Her hand grips you harder than needed as if she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she clutches your skin softly.

When you two finally reach a spot she deems appropriate she passes the gun to you while patting you on the back.

“Here. Now aim.” She instructs.

“Nat I can't, I failed coach's test thing.”

“It’s just a test, it doesn't mean anything, it's not like school… Here.”

She gets behind you and helps you position the rifle correctly.

“The coin just helps you be precise, the trick is to squeeze the trigger smoothly. If you yank it you throw off your aim and then you're screwed, no deer for us.”

She places a hand on your waist, the touch of her slender fingers on the smooth expanse of your skin is making your stomach do all kinds of acrobatics, she tightens her grip ever so slightly and you feel her breath on the back of your neck as she looks ahead and helps you aim at the tree ahead of you two.

“There.” She says, you feel her short hair tickling the back of your neck. “Now shoot.”

You shoot and the bullet goes flying up.

“Okay… You see what I mean, you're pulling it too hard, be more gentle…”

You try again and again and again, Natalie’s encouraging words in your ear never falter and in your fifth attempt you manage to hit the tree.

You feel a rush of adrenaline and something akin to accomplishment run through your body as you hit the target.

“Yes!” Nat exclaims quietly in your ear. “I told you, you could do it.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine as she keeps speaking in that low tone of hers directly in your ear.

You then feel her head fall on your shoulder.

“Feel better?” She questions, her lips brushing against your neck as she speaks, which only manages to show how close you two really are.

You definitely feel something, that’s for sure.

“Yea.” You respond, attempting to mask the growing blush that coats your cheeks.

Natalie doesn’t seem to want to let go of you if anything she presses herself closer to you, her arms circling your waist while her face nuzzles against your neck. And you let her.

The two of you stay like that for a while, the growing closeness bringing you a sense of peace.

Until she kisses your neck tentatively as if she’s testing the waters or waiting to see if you’ll push her away.

When you don’t, she gets bolder. She grabs your waist with more force attempting to bring you closer so she can suck on your neck.

She leaves a particularly nasty bruise, after sucking and biting your neck like it’s her last meal, running the flat of her tongue over it right after, in an effort to sooth the angry blemish.

You feel her humping you softly, her crotch lightly rubbing against your behind while her fingers dig into your waist for support, her attack on the side of your neck never stopping.

She finally steps in front of you, grabs the rifle from your trembling hands and swings it over her shoulder. Before cradling your face with tentative fingers and brushing her lips against yours.

It’s slow at first, gentle. She runs her digits over your cheek as she attempts to memorise every corner of your mouth with her tongue.

When she pulls away she doesn’t remove her hands from your face.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long.” She confesses in a whispered tone while panting slightly.

“Why didn’t you?” You ask, equally as breathless.

“Though you didn’t like me like that.” She admits.

“Are you crazy?”

Her face then lit up. “Yea… Crazy about you.” She smirks, chuckling lowly at her own pun.

“That was the corniest thing you have ever said.” You tease.

“I know, I regretted it as soon as I said it.” She says as her mouth finds yours again.

This time she kisses you hard, all tongue and teeth. You feel her suck on your tongue before she gently bites your bottom lip, running her tongue over the mark.

She pushes you against a nearby tree. But, as she was about to slot her knee in between your legs her gun got in the way, the cool metal pressing against your center instead.

You moan as you feel the barrel of the gun pressing against you.

Nat, who was about to remove the rifle, now looks at you with a predatory gaze after hearing the sound that just escaped your mouth.

“Liked that did you?” She asks as she palms the barrel of the rifle and moves it with more intent against your clothed core.

You moan again, unable to stop yourself as you grind shamelessly against the smooth metal, panting slightly and frustrated by the lack of friction due to your pants.

Nat picks up on it and undoes your belt and pulls your pants down to your ankles. Removing her shirt as well giving you a view of her full beasts covered only by her red bra.

“Fuck.” She pants as she moves the rifle back to its original place, snug against your cunt, that’s now only covered by a thin layer of fabric.

“You’re actually enjoying this aren’t you?” She asks, while she keeps moving the barrel of the gun up and down your slit. “Little fucking freak.”

“Look who’s talking.” You counter, commenting on her obvious eagerness.

“Oh I’m enjoying it.” She says as she places another quick kiss on your cheek. Moving down to your neck. “You have no idea how much.” She confesses.

You feel your underwear dampen as Nat resumes her ministrations. Pressing snuggly against you as she shifts the rifle between your legs.

You moan when she tilts it upwards changing the angle and thrusting it through your clothed slit.

You grab a handful of her hair when it starts to get too much. Tugging slightly at her grown out roots.

She moans at the slight sting making her press the gun more firmly against you.

She removes your panties making them pool at your ankles alongside your trousers and presses the barrel of the gun against your open slit. Sliding it lazily against the opening while her index finger thumbs your clit.

The sensation of her slender finger on your sensitive bud and the taboo of the barrel of the gun pressing against your opening drive you closer to the edge.

Natalie presses her face against your neck, inhaling you in, her signature smirk painted across her face.

“Are you getting close baby?” She asks, voice sweet.

You only groan in response while you move up and down the barrel of the rifle, desperate for release. Nat notices this and moves her free hand to your waist to help you bounce on the gun.

“Do you like this? Hm?” She asks. “Using the very thing that keeps us fed to get off.

You only moan in response, which encourages her teasing.

“Still jealous of Travis?” She asks, you frown at the mention of flex. “What? You get off on the fact that he touched this thing?” You move faster. “You do. Don’t you?” She repeats. “Because now it’s yours” she presses a quick kiss to your jaw, “—and mine.”

Her words drive you over the edge as her hand remains steadily on your waist helping you bounce on her rifle as you ride out your high.

She’s still pressing sweet kisses on your jaw as you continue to move softly on the gun, coating the barrel with your juices, moving alongside its length now, in an attempt to leave it completely covered.

When the overstimulation gets too much for you, you stop and Nat lets the rifle drop to the ground.

She picks up her shirt from the ground and cleans you with it before pulling your underwear and pants up. And sitting against the tree, pulling you into her lap.

“You okay?” She ponders, as her hand moves softly over the exposed skin of your legs.

You let your head fall into the space between her neck and shoulder blades.

“Yea.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, turning her face down to look at you before pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.

You nod against her shoulder as she keeps caressing your body. All thoughts of the wilderness and the team gone from your mind while only one thought remains.

Natalie.

[yuyuyukiii]

Adopt Me, Alonso! ⛐

Summary: Y/N Alonso is the paddock’s unofficial mum. She brings snacks, gives hugs, and somehow knows when you're sad before you do. Everyone loves her. But Lance Stroll? He gets pancakes, blankets, and kisses on the helmet. The rookies aren’t having it. Suddenly they're all sick, limping, and dramatically collapsing for her attention. Fernando sees through it. And Y/N? She just wants to know why six boys are fighting over soup.

Content: Fluff, weaponized clinginess, petty rookie drama, emotional fake illnesses, pancake favoritism, soup bribery, Fernando losing the will to live, Lance thriving, and six rookies auditioning for adoption like it’s The Bachelor: Grid Mum Edition.

Author’s Note 🏎️: This story was pure chaos from start to finish and honestly... I don’t even know what happened. I just had the image of Lance eating pancakes in fuzzy socks while six rookies fake-coughed for attention and it spiraled from there.

It’s dramatic, it’s ridiculous, it’s soft and unhinged at the same time. If you’ve ever felt violently jealous over someone getting the last pancake, this one’s for you.

Thanks for reading and enabling my nonsense 💚

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Formula 1 had accepted that Y/N Alonso was more than just Fernando’s wife.

She was the paddock’s comfort person. The one who brought snacks to debriefs. The one who carried spare tissues in her bag and always noticed when someone looked tired. She once hugged Ollie after a rough quali and accidentally made him cry into her shoulder for seven whole minutes. She gave Isack a cookie during a media day meltdown and he nearly proposed.

To the rookies? She was Mother. Capital M.

If you were sick, tired, sore, dramatic, hungry, overwhelmed, underwhelmed, or just needed a hug, Y/N was there. Always warm. Always smelling like jasmine and clean laundry. Always calling you sweetheart and making you feel like you hadn’t just knocked over a $25,000 front wing in FP2.

So naturally, they clung to her like ducklings.

She wasn’t a team principal. She wasn’t even a member of the pit crew. But because she was always around Fernando and Aston Martin, and because her smile made everything feel slightly less terrifying, the rookies started hovering near their garage like moths.

Until they noticed something strange.

Lance.

Lance Stroll, the actual driver for Aston Martin, was getting… extra attention.

“Did she just tuck a blanket around him?” Franco whispered from behind a stack of tires.

“She fed him a grape,” Gabriel replied, eyes wide.

“No. I swear. She just…she just told him he was ‘so brave’ for driving in the rain.”

Ollie, hiding behind a pit board, gasped. “She’s never called me brave.”

Kimi was silent. Which was suspicious in itself, because Kimi was only ever quiet when he was either deeply focused or deeply offended.

“…did she just ruffle his hair?” Kimi asked flatly, blinking like his whole world had been a lie.

The breaking point came when they accidentally overheard something behind the team motorhome.

Y/N was crouched in front of Lance, fixing his helmet with practiced hands. “Alright, baby, go out there and show them hell, okay Lancy poo?” she said sweetly, pressing a kiss to the top of his helmet.

The rookies collectively gasped.

“Did she just call him—”

“She kissed his helmet,” Franco hissed.

“Oh my god,” Ollie whispered, stunned.

Then, somewhere inside the motorhome, someone muttered under their breath, “I’m telling you, Lance has to be their son from another life. That’s why they’re so attached.”

The silence that followed was immediate and devastating.

“We’ve been replaced,” Liam muttered.

“Lance is the golden child,” Ollie said.

“Not on my watch,” Isack declared, eyes glinting with mischief. “We fake sick. All of us.”

———

Phase One: Operation Baby Duck

It started small. A sniffle here. A quiet “I think I’m running a fever” there. Y/N was immediately concerned.

“Oh sweetheart, sit down! You look flushed. Fernando, get the thermometer!”

Fernando, halfway through his espresso, stared at Isack.“You look fine.”

Isack let out a soft, tragic cough that sounded suspiciously like a fake cat hairball.

Y/N gasped. “Don’t be mean, Nando! He’s obviously struggling.”

Struggling to hold in laughter, maybe.

The next day, Liam showed up to the paddock wrapped in a scarf, hoodie, and blanket. In Singapore.

Y/N blinked. “Honey, you’re sweating.”

“I’m battling,” Liam whispered, eyes watery. “Let me hold your hand. It helps.”

By the end of the week, the rookies were limping, coughing, sneezing, and making dramatic groaning noises every time they stood up. One of them even requested homemade soup in the middle of a press conference.

Kimi took it a step further and made Fernando help him limp down the paddock hallway like he had a war injury. When asked what happened, he said “emotional fatigue.”

Fernando had had enough.

“They were literally playing football twenty minutes ago,” he muttered, watching the group pile onto Y/N’s lap like Victorian children dying of the plague.

“No they weren’t,” she said, gently stroking Isack’s hair.

“Yes. They were. I saw it. Isack was doing bicycle kicks. Kimi slide tackled Liam.”

Behind her back, the boys made faces at him. Stuck their tongues out.

Fernando pointed violently. “That! Did you see? They’re mocking me!”

She turned.

Instantly, all five looked like they were five seconds from fainting. Isack weakly held up a tissue. Ollie moaned. Franco blinked very slowly. Kimi closed his eyes like he was awaiting death.

Y/N turned back to her husband. “Fernando. They can barely stand.”

Fernando looked like he aged ten years. “I’m going to commit a crime.”

———

Phase Two: Lance Finds Out

Lance was slow to catch on. For a while, he just thought the rookies were weirdly into heating pads and asking for foot massages.

Then he walked into the driver’s lounge and saw Gabriel curled up under his team jacket, sipping tea with extra honey.

“What… are you doing?”

“Shhh,” Gabriel whispered. “Y/N said I need rest.”

“She knit me socks,” Franco announced proudly from the couch.

“They’re faking,” Lance said, backing away.

“You would say that,” Isack muttered, turning to cough delicately into Y/N’s scarf. “Golden child.”

———

Phase Three: Annoy the fck out of Fernando

Fernando eventually reached his breaking point. Again.

He walked in on five grown boys all dramatically collapsing onto Y/N’s lap like a litter of fainting goats.

“Not this again.” Fernando sighed “This is getting out of hand.”

“They’re sick, Nando!”

“They just ate six pizzas in catering.”

“They’re growing boys.”

“They were playing Mario Kart and screaming three minutes ago!”

Kimi peeked up from under a fuzzy blanket. “That was for morale.”

Isack raised a limp hand. “I need soup.”

Fernando pinched the bridge of his nose. “You said that yesterday.”

Y/N turned to him, concerned. “Do you think I should buy more tissues?”

Behind her back, Ollie dabbed his face with a napkin and whispered, “Bless me.”

Franco fake sneezed directly at Fernando.

Kimi reached out and grabbed Fernando’s pant leg. “Tell my story.”

Fernando stared at the ceiling like it personally offended him. “First it was Max and Charles. Then Lando. Then Pierre. Even Lewis did it once. I thought we were past this.”

“They were trailblazers,” Liam said weakly.

“I’m going to burn the entire hospitality unit down,” Fernando muttered, already turning to leave. “And salt the ashes.”

And yet, the next day, Y/N arrived with six fresh thermoses of homemade soup, custom fluffy socks with their names on it, and a giant blanket shaped like a duck.

“Because you’re my babies,” she smiled.

Fernando watched as six suddenly-healthy rookies fought over who got to hold her hand first.

Lance stood beside him, arms crossed.

“They’re faking.”

“I know.” Fernando hissed.

“They’re just jealous I’m the favorite.”

Fernando sipped his coffee. “You absolutely are.”

From the corner of the room, six boys screamed, “WE HEARD THAT!”

Y/N turned, startled. “Heard what?”

Immediately, Ollie gasped. “Nothing, nothing. My ears are just really sensitive from the fever. It’s probably the... wind.”

“We’re inside,” Fernando muttered.

“I need to sit down,” Liam added, dramatically lowering himself onto the floor like a dying Shakespeare character. “My legs are trembling.”

“You just jogged here.” Lance deadpanned.

“No. That was my twin.” Liam nodded gravely. “He’s much healthier.”

Y/N gently helped him up, worried. “Oh sweetheart, maybe you should lie down.”

“I love lying down,” Ollie chimed in, flopping backwards so dramatically he knocked over a chair.

“Jesus Christ,” Fernando hissed. “It’s like watching a low-budget play.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

It started with a minor incident.

Just a casual Thursday morning at their home. Peaceful. Birds chirping. Coffee brewing. Fernando, just out of the shower, towel over his shoulder, walked into the kitchen to find…

“What is this?”

Y/N was standing at the stove. In a fluffy green robe. With her hair clipped up. Whisking pancake batter.

She looked up, cheerful. “Morning, love. I’m making Lance pancakes.”

Fernando blinked. “Lance… who is currently sleeping in our so-called guest room?” He air quoted guest room because, let’s be honest, it was basically Lance’s room at this point.

“Yes. He asked for banana chocolate chip with extra crispy edges. So I thought—”

“I thought we had a driver, not a 14-year-old on summer break.”

Y/N kissed his cheek. “He’s both.”

Just then, Lance walked in, wearing Fernando’s old shirt and Y/N’s fuzzy socks. Hair sticking up. Sleepy smile. “Mornin’.”

Fernando stared. “You’re still here?”

Lance yawned. “Yeah. I was too tired to drive after game night.”

Fernando narrowed his eyes. “You’re planning to stay here for race week again?”

“Let him,” Y/N said brightly. “He thrives here.”

Lance nodded solemnly. “Also, the Wi-Fi here’s better.”

Fernando sighed into his coffee mug.

———

It was supposed to be a quiet morning. A simple media debrief in the drivers’ room, nothing more.

And yet, here they all were: Max lounging with his feet up, Charles stealing Oscar’s coffee like it was a blood sport, Yuki arguing with Pierre over which hotel served better eggs, and Lewis humming something old-school under his breath while braiding friendship bracelets he swore weren’t for anyone specific.

All were present and accounted for.

Except one team.

“Where’s Aston Martin?” Oscar asked, looking around with a raised brow.

There was a collective shrug. The Aston Martin duo being late wasn’t new, but for some reason, this time, it had everyone's attention.

“Probably still at home,” Max said, sipping from his smoothie. “Wouldn't be surprised if Lance overslept again.”

“Or maybe,” Pierre smirked, “Lance begged for another game night. Or made them watch that weird documentary about mushrooms again.”

“Bet he asked for Y/N’s pancake recipe this morning,” Carlos added. “She always makes them for him when he’s stressed.”

“She made me chamomile tea once,” Charles sighed dreamily, completely derailing the original topic. “When I had that sore throat. Wrapped the mug in a little napkin like it was a gift.”

“I stubbed my toe before a race and she brought me an ice pack wrapped in a duck-shaped cloth,” Oscar mumbled. “I still have it. I call him Duckward.”

“She once patted my head,” Esteban said solemnly. “I had never felt peace like that.”

Lando nodded gravely. “It’s like… getting hugged by a warm Sunday.”

George walked in right then and blinked. “Are we reminiscing about Y/N again?”

“She’s literally married,” Lewis muttered, sipping his tea. “To Fernando.”

“Yeah, but she’s like… the paddock’s mum,” Nico added. “Except to Lance. He gets the deluxe treatment.”

Max grunted. “I saw her fix his hair once before qualifying. I think she licked her thumb like a real mum.”

Lando burst out laughing. “One time, I saw her pull his hoodie strings tighter because ‘he might catch a chill.’”

Someone asked. “Wait. He sleeps over?”

“Sleep over?” Ocon scoffed. “That guy basically lives with them. He has his own room”

That was it.

A small gasp came from the far side of the room. Six rookies, previously flopped like tired cats on the couch, were now upright with laser focus.

“What do you mean he lives there?” Franco said sharply.

“I thought they just liked him best because of his sad little Canadian eyes,” Liam whispered.

Kimi narrowed his eyes. “Own room?! Has his own room?!?!?”

“Wait. They got heart pancakes?” Ollie whispered.

“Strawberries?” Kimi added with the kind of betrayal usually reserved for soap operas.

Gabriel clutched his chest. “They played board games together?”

Liam clutched the arm of the couch like it had betrayed him. Gabriel blinked at the floor like he’d just discovered the meaning of life. Kimi pouted so aggressively.

“Why do you all look like kicked puppies?”

“He’s the favorite child,” Ollie declared, pointing accusingly at a wall as if Lance might be eavesdropping from behind it.

Charles blinked. “He is their only child.”

“We are too,” Franco said indignantly, like this was a known fact.

Max laughed. “You guys are just getting the kindness treatment. Believe me, we all did what you’re doing now.”

The rookies turned, six heads snapping in unison.

“We all faked it,” Pierre said. “Once I claimed I had shin splints and she massaged my legs for twenty minutes while humming a lullaby.”

“I lied about a fever and got tucked in on the motorhome couch,” George said wistfully. “Two blankets. Cinnamon tea. She kissed my forehead.”

“Kissed your—” Liam choked.

Lando leaned back smugly. “One winter test, I coughed once. Got soup, a throat spray, and got to wear her scarf for the rest of the week.”

“I once pretended I forgot how to open a water bottle,” Pierre admitted.

“I claimed I couldn’t walk straight,” Oscar added.

“I was genuinely sick once,” Yuki muttered. “Didn’t even get a text. She was too busy wrapping Lance in three blankets and calling him her baby boy.”

“He is her baby boy,” Oscar deadpanned.

“Bro,” Franco whispered. “What if… what if we’ve only scratched the surface.”

Gabriel nodded slowly. “We need to go deeper.”

Kimi suddenly gasped. “We fake amnesia.”

“No,” Liam said, deadpan. “Too far. We start with fainting.”

“I want the duck towel,” Ollie declared.

“You can’t just ask for Duckward,” Oscar said, horrified. “Duckward chooses you.”

Fernando walked past the open door just then, paused, looked inside, and slowly narrowed his eyes. “You’re all planning something.”

“No, we’re not,” the rookies said in terrifying unison.

Fernando squinted at them. “Don’t even think about it.”

“They’re sick,” Max said mockingly, nudging Charles.

“They’ll be sick if they try to touch Duckward,” Oscar muttered.

At that moment, the door opened.

Y/N walked in first, carrying a bottle of syrup, a fork, and gently guiding someone behind her with a warm hand on their back, like a proud mum dropping her kid off at school.

Then came Lance, well-rested, smiling, holding a plate of pancakes she’d clearly made for him, and wearing a knitted beanie with Lancey stitched across it in cursive.

Complaints

“There’s the pancake,” Ollie hissed.

“He has a nickname beanie,” Kimi said, near tears.

Ollie, muffled under a blanket, muttered, “I want a nickname.”

“You can be Sicky Ollie,” Max offered.

Liam stared. “She made him pancakes.”

“She made him a custom beanie?” Gabriel whispered, scandalized.

“That’s it,” Franco hissed. “Life is really unfair.”

While staring at Y/N, Who handed him the fork first. Pancakes stacked neatly, syrup already drizzled in a perfect swirl.

He beamed at her and immediately scanned the room for a spot, clearly aiming for the floor, as usual.

And just before Y/N turned to head back out and return the syrup bottle to hospitality, she paused, looked over her shoulder, and said very casually, too casually…

“Sit at the table, Lance. I refuse to have my son act like he was raised in the woods.”

As soon as Y/N left the room, chaos erupted.

The room froze.

Fernando blinked slowly. “Oh no.”

“Son?! Son?! Soooooon?!?” Franco shouted.

“You’re not even the youngest!” Kimi pointed out.

Ollie, voice trembling, whispered, “So he really is the favorite…”

“We’re not even second best,” Gabriel mumbled.

“You’re stealing our sick points!” Isack accused

“I’m her son,” Lance said through a mouthful of pancake. “Cry about it.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Fernando sighed. “She’s literally… oh, for the love of… Franco, get off the floor.”

“No. This is my villain origin arc.”

Y/N returned to see six devastated rookies staring at her like she just announced she was disowning them. Kimi looked like he might cry. Ollie clutched Liam’s sleeve.

Fernando stood in the corner like a man who had seen war. When she turned to him with raised brows, he just gestured at the chaos.

“They heard that,” Fernando muttered. “You called him your son. Now look…back to fake coughs and tragic little expressions.”

“They are sick,” Y/N scolded lightly without looking.

“They were just running down the paddock ten minutes ago.”

“They’re pale now.”

“They’re making faces at me behind your back. Again.”

Y/N turned around. The rookies, with Oscar-worthy performances, had gone limp and lifeless. One gave a weak cough. Another moaned.

Fernando stared. “You’re all little demons.”

Kimi cracked an eye open. “We prefer emotionally neglected children.”

Y/N gasped. “Fernando! Look at them. They can barely sit up straight!”

“They’re lying.”

“They’re adorable.”

“Unbelievable,” Fernando muttered as six clingy “patients” clung tighter to his wife.

Max passed Fernando a protein bar without looking up. “Told you. It’s a phase.”

“I hate this phase,” Fernando muttered. “I want a refund.”

“You got a wife and seven sons,” Charles said. “Congratulations.”

“I’m going to burn that beanie,” Franco whispered to Isack.

“Right after I get my forehead kiss,” Isack muttered back, pulling the blanket tighter.

And Fernando, surrounded by his fake-sick adopted sons, pancake-eating favorite child, and far-too-kind wife, sighed.

He was never going to win.

And thus, the hierarchy was clear.

Lance was the son. The rest were pretending not to be auditioning for adoption.

And from that day on, the fake illnesses doubled in frequency, dramatically increased in flair, and Fernando started carrying a laminated “They’re Faking” sign that he held up every time someone groaned near Y/N.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[sparklestormandsoda]

Can the next demigod fic be about Zeus or Athena please

daughter of Athena!Reader x Huntrix

It starts with a mission.

It always does.

When Athena’s children are called, they answer — with scrolls, with strategy, with discipline sharp as a spear’s edge.

That’s why you’re here. Embedded with Huntrix. Not for diplomacy. Not for friendship.

You’re here to assess the cracks in the Honmoon — the magical barrier that holds demons at bay — and to judge whether South Korea’s star-studded trio of demon-hunting pop idols is truly fit to guard it.

You don’t expect much.

And you certainly don’t expect them.

Mira greets you first. Cold eyes, tense shoulders, hands crossed like a guard. She’s skeptical. Maybe even hostile. Good. You prefer suspicion over forced smiles.

Zoey saunters in next, her laughter already filling the space before she speaks.

“You’re the nerd they sent to spy on us, huh?” she grins, flicking her short hair back. “Cute.”

You blink once. Smile never reaching your eyes.

“I’m not here to spy,” you answer. “I’m here to report.”

“Ohhh, like that’s better,” Rumi murmurs, appearing last — the mysterious one. The one who watches everything.

And she does watch you. Closely. As if you’re a code she hasn’t cracked yet.

You can already tell she’s going to be the most dangerous.

They treat demon fights like dance battles. It’s chaotic. Reckless. Drenched in music and glitter and power.

You’d scoff — if it didn’t work.

The way they move together is illogical, uncoordinated, emotional. But somehow it flows. Intuitive. Effortless. Infuriatingly effective.

You take notes. You analyze their timing. You refuse to be impressed.

Except.

Except when Mira cuts a demon down mid-air, blade of light gleaming like vengeance.

Except when Zoey throws herself between a demon’s fangs and a child, eyes wide and wild.

Except when Rumi touches your shoulder after the fight, voice low: “You alright?”

You hadn’t realized you were shaking.

A week passes. Then two.

Mira rolls her eyes when you correct her battle plans.

Zoey teases you endlessly: “What, Athena didn’t teach you how to dance?” “She taught me how to win,” you answer.

And Rumi. Rumi just waits. Silent and steady and sharp enough to notice the way you never sleep. The way you never talk about home. The way your hand trembles after close calls, only once you think no one’s watching.

She’s always watching.

And one night, under a cracked moon, she says:

“You think if you control everything, you won’t get hurt.”

Your breath catches. You hate that she’s right. You hate even more that you want her to be the one to say it.

The shift is subtle.

Mira starts trusting your plans. Spars with you. Tests your limits — and smiles when you fight back harder.

Zoey backs off the jokes. She starts bringing you snacks instead, slipping them into your bag when she thinks you won’t notice.

And Rumi? She starts standing closer. Always in your periphery. Always within reach.

You were not designed for this.

You were not built to be wanted.

The breaking point comes in the middle of a mission gone wrong.

Too many demons. Too fast. A weak spot in the Honmoon flaring red and pulsing with dread.

You’re separated.

Zoey’s bleeding. Mira’s screaming. Rumi’s gone still with fury.

And you — you move without thinking.

You throw yourself between them and the mouth of a demon. You burn through your celestial shield like it’s paper. You collapse with your back torn open, the world spinning—

And you wake up to them crying.

Mira’s hand shaking as she heals you.

Zoey curled against your side, whispering, “Don’t do that again. Don’t—don’t you dare.”

And Rumi.

Rumi just looks at you with something broken in her voice when she whispers, “You weren’t supposed to matter either.”

You freeze.

And then, finally, finally you say it:

“I don’t know how to feel this.” “Then let us teach you,” Rumi says.

They don’t kiss you. Not right away.

They sit with you instead.

They hold your hand.

They sing near you as you pretend not to be moved.

They invite you into their chaos — not to destroy your order, but to hold it. To give it space. To give you space.

And over time…

You do fall.

Strategically? No.

But perfectly.

Irrationally. Beautifully. Painfully.

Because maybe that’s what love is. Not a plan. Not a formula. Just… letting yourself lose.

So when Zoey kisses you backstage after a flawless mission — breathless and giddy — you let her.

When Mira wraps her arms around you and kisses your forehead like it’s sacred, you let her too.

And when Rumi finally, finally whispers, “You don’t have to think anymore. Just feel,”—

You don’t fight it.

And you win.

Not by logic.

Not by Athena’s wisdom.

But by letting yourself fall into the very chaos you were taught to fear.

Because maybe loving them is the smartest thing you’ve ever done.

i love this one actually

ya girls broke and living off of monster energy so anything in general helps- Buy me a coffee <3

lmk if you wanted to be added to my kpdh taglist! private message me as comments get lost in notifications

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